Byron: The Last Phase
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Title: Byron: The Last Phase
Author: Richard Edgcumbe
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BYRON: THE LAST PHASE ***
BYRON: THE LAST PHASE
BYRON: THE LAST PHASE
BY RICHARD EDGCUMBE
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
153-157 FIFTH AVENUE
1909
TO
MRS. CHARLES CALL,
DAUGHTER OF EDWARD TRELAWNY, BYRON'S
COMPANION IN GREECE,
I DEDICATE THIS WORK AS A MARK OF AFFECTION
AND ESTEEM
PREFACE
This book has no pretensions; it is merely a record of events and
impressions which nearly forty years of close study have accumulated.
There seems to be a general agreement that the closing scenes of Byron's
short life have not been adequately depicted by his biographers. From the
time of Byron's departure from Ravenna, in the autumn of 1821, his
disposition and conduct underwent a transformation so complete that it
would have been difficult to recognize, in the genial, unselfish
personality who played so effective a rôle at Missolonghi, the gloomy
misanthrope of 1811, or the reckless libertine of the following decade.
The conduct of Byron in Greece seems to have come as a revelation to his
contemporaries, and his direction of complex affairs, in peculiarly trying
circumstances, certainly deserves more attention than it has received.
Records made on the spot by men whose works are now, for the most part,
out of print have greatly simplified my task, and I hope that the
following pages may be acceptable to those who have not had an opportunity
of studying that picturesque phase of Byron's career. I should have much
preferred to preserve silence on the subject of his separation from his
wife. Unfortunately, the late Lord Lovelace, in giving his sanction to the
baseless and forgotten slanders of a bygone age, has recently assailed
the memory of Byron's half-sister, and has set a mark of infamy upon her
which cannot be erased without referring to matters which ought never to
have been mentioned.
In order to traverse statements made in 'Astarte,' it was necessary to
reveal an incident which, during Byron's lifetime, was known only by those
who were pledged to silence. With fuller knowledge of things hidden from
Byron's contemporaries, we may realize the cruelty of those futile
persecutions to which Mrs. Leigh was subjected by Lady Byron and her
advisers, under the impression that they could extract the confession of a
crime which existed only in their prurient imaginations. Mrs. Leigh, in
one of her letters to Hobhouse, says, 'I have made it a rule to be
silent--that is to say, AS LONG AS I CAN.' Although the strain must have
been almost insupportable she died with her secret unrevealed, and the
mystery which Byron declared 'too simple to be easily found out' has
hitherto remained unsolved. I regret being unable more precisely to
indicate the source of information embodied in the concluding portions of
this work. The reader may test the value of my statements by the light of
citations which seem amply to confirm them. At all events, I claim to have
shown by analogy that Lord Lovelace's accusation against Mrs. Leigh is
groundless, and therefore his contention, that Byron's memoirs were
destroyed _because they implicated Mrs. Leigh_, is absolutely untenable.
Those memoirs were destroyed, as we now know, because both Hobhouse and
Mrs. Leigh feared possible revelations concerning another person, whose
feelings and interests formed the paramount consideration of those who
were parties to the deed. Lord John Russell, who had read the memoirs,
stated in 1869 that Mrs. Leigh was _not_ implicated in them, a fact which
proves that they were not burned for the purpose of shielding _her_.
Lord Lovelace tells us that Sir Walter Scott, who had heard full
particulars from Thomas Moore, remarked, 'It is a pity, but there _was_ a
reason--_premat nox alta_.' Facts which they hoped deep oblivion would
hide have come to the surface at last, and I deeply regret that
circumstances should have imposed upon me a duty which is repugnant both
to my inclination and instincts. After all is said, the blame rightly
belongs to Lady Byron's grandson, who, heedless of consequences, stirred
the depths of a muddy pool. He tells us, in 'Astarte,' (1) that the papers
concerning Byron's marriage have been carefully preserved; (2) that they
form _a complete record of all the causes of separation_; and (3) that
they contain _full information on every part of the subject_.
In those circumstances it is strange that, with the whole of Lady Byron's
papers before him, Lord Lovelace should have published only documents of
secondary importance which do not prove his case. After saying, 'It should
be distinctly understood that no misfortunes, blunders, or malpractices,
have swept away Lady Byron's papers, or those belonging to the executors
of Lord Byron,' he leaves the essential records to the imagination of his
readers, and feeds us on hints and suggestions which are not borne out by
extracts provided as samples of the rest. It is impossible not to suspect
that Lord Lovelace, in arranging the papers committed to his charge,
discarded some that would have told in favour of Mrs. Leigh, and selected
others which colourably supported his peculiar views.
In matters of this kind everything depends upon the qualifications of the
accuser and the reliability of the witness. Lord Lovelace in a dual
capacity certainly evinced an active imagination.
As an example, 'Astarte,' which was designed to blast the fair fame of
Mrs. Leigh, was used by him to insult the memory of the late Mr. Murray
(who he admits showed him many acts of kindness), and to repudiate
promises which he undoubtedly made, to edit his grandfather's works.
Rambling statements are made with design to discredit both Mr. Gifford,
the editor of the _Quarterly_, and Mr. Murray, the friend of Lord Byron.
Even personal defects are dragged in to prejudice the reader and embitter
the venom of irrelevant abuse. It was as if Plutarch, in order to enhance
the glory of Antony, had named 'the Last of the Romans' Cassius the
Short-sighted. Fortunately, written proofs were in existence to controvert
Lord Lovelace's assertions--proofs which were used with crushing
effect--otherwise Mr. Murray might have found himself in a position quite
as helpless as that of poor Mrs. Leigh herself. So unscrupulous a use of
documents in that case suggests the possibility that a similar process may
have been adopted in reference to Mrs. Leigh. It is indeed unfortunate
that Lady Byron's papers cannot be inspected by some unprejudiced person,
for we have nothing at present beyond Lord Lovelace's vague assertions.
Were those papers thoroughly sifted they would surely acquit Mrs. Leigh of
the crime that has been so cruelly laid to her charge. Meanwhile I venture
to think that the following pages help to clear the air of much of that
mystery which surrounds the lives of Lord Byron and his sister.
In conclusion, I desire to record my personal obligation to the latest
edition of the 'Poems,' edited by Mr. Ernest Hartley Coleridge; and of the
'Letters and Journals,' edited by Mr. Rowland Prothero, volumes which
together form the most comprehensive and scholarly record of Byron's life
and poetry that has ever been issued.
R. E.
_August, 1909._
BYRON: THE LAST PHASE
PART I
'... Le cose ti fien conte,
Quando noi fermerem li nostri passi
Sulla trista riviera d' Acheronte.'
_Inferno_, Canto III., 76-78.
CHAPTER I
'A large disagreeable city, almost without inhabitants'--such was the poet
Shelley's description of Pisa in 1821. The Arno was yellow and muddy, the
streets were empty, and there was altogether an air of poverty and
wretchedness in the town. The convicts, who were very numerous, worked in
the streets in gangs, cleaning and sweeping them. They were dressed in
red, and were chained together by the leg in pairs. All day long one heard
the slow clanking of their chains, and the rumbling of the carts they were
forced to drag from place to place like so many beasts of burden. A
spectator could not but be struck by the appearance of helpless misery
stamped on their yellow cheeks and emaciated forms.
On the Lung' Arno Mediceo, east of the Ponte di Mezzo, stands the Palazzo
Lanfranchi, which is supposed to have been built by Michael Angelo. Here,
on November 2, 1821, Lord Byron arrived, with his servants, his horses,
his monkey, bulldog, mastiff, cats, peafowl, hens, and other live stock,
which he had brought with him from Ravenna. In another quarter of the city
resided Count Rugiero Gamba, his son Pietro, and his daughter Countess
Teresa Guiccioli. On the other side of the Arno, nearly opposite to
Byron's residence, lived the poet Shelley, with his wife and their friends
Edward and Jane Williams.
In the middle of November, Captain Thomas Medwin, a relative of Shelley's,
arrived at Pisa; and on January 14, 1822, came Edward John Trelawny, who
was destined to play so important a part in the last scenes of the lives
of both Shelley and Byron.
Byron was at this time in his thirty-third year. Medwin thus describes his
personal appearance:
'I saw a man of about five feet seven or eight, apparently forty years
of age. As was said of Milton, Lord Byron barely escaped being short
and thick. His face was fine, and the lower part symmetrically
moulded; for the lips and chin had that curved and definite outline
that distinguishes Grecian beauty. His forehead was high, and his
temples broad; and he had a paleness in his complexion almost to
wanness. His hair, thin and fine, had almost become grey, and waved in
natural and graceful curls over his head, that was assimilating itself
fast to the "bald first Cæsar's." He allowed it to grow longer behind
than it is accustomed to be worn, and at that time had mustachios
which were not sufficiently dark to be becoming. In criticizing his
features, it might, perhaps, be said that his eyes were placed too
near his nose, and that one was rather smaller than the other. They
were of a greyish-brown, but of a peculiar clearness, and when
animated possessed a fire which seemed to look through and penetrate
the thoughts of others, while they marked the inspirations of his own.
His teeth were small, regular, and white. I expected to discover that
he had a club-foot; but it would have been difficult to have
distinguished one from the other, either in size or in form. On the
whole, his figure was manly, and his countenance handsome and
prepossessing, and very expressive. The familiar ease of his
conversation soon made me perfectly at home in his society.'
Trelawny's description is as follows:
'In external appearance Byron realized that ideal standard with which
imagination adorns genius. He was in the prime of life, thirty-four;
of middle height, five feet eight and a half inches; regular features,
without a stain or furrow on his pallid skin; his shoulders broad,
chest open, body and limbs finely proportioned. His small
highly-finished head and curly hair had an airy and graceful
appearance from the massiveness and length of his throat; you saw his
genius in his eyes and lips.'
Trelawny could find no peculiarity in his dress, which was adapted to the
climate. Byron wore:
'a tartan jacket braided--he said it was the Gordon pattern, and that
his mother was of that race--a blue velvet cap with a gold band, and
very loose nankin trousers, strapped down so as to cover his feet. His
throat was not bare, as represented in drawings.'
Lady Blessington, who first saw Byron in April of the following year, thus
describes him:
'The impression of the first few minutes disappointed me, as I had,
both from the portraits and descriptions given, conceived a different
idea of him. I had fancied him taller, with a more dignified and
commanding air; and I looked in vain for the hero-looking sort of
person, with whom I had so long identified him in imagination. His
appearance is, however, highly prepossessing. His head is finely
shaped, and his forehead open, high, and noble; his eyes are grey and
full of expression, but one is visibly larger than the other. The nose
is large and well shaped, but, from being a little _too thick_, it
looks better in profile than in front-face; his mouth is the most
remarkable feature in his face, the upper lip of Grecian shortness,
and the corners descending; the lips full, and finely cut.
'In speaking, he shows his teeth very much, and they are white and
even; but I observed that even in his smile--and he smiles
frequently--there is something of a scornful expression in his mouth,
that is evidently natural, and not, as many suppose, affected. This
particularly struck me. His chin is large and well shaped, and
finishes well the oval of his face. He is extremely thin--indeed, so
much so that his figure has almost a boyish air. His face is
peculiarly pale, but not the paleness of ill-health, as its character
is that of fairness, the fairness of a dark-haired person; and his
hair (which is getting rapidly grey) is of a very dark brown, and
curls naturally: he uses a good deal of oil in it, which makes it look
still darker. His countenance is full of expression, and changes with
the subject of conversation; it gains on the beholder the more it is
seen, and leaves an agreeable impression.... His whole appearance is
remarkably gentlemanlike, and he owes nothing of this to his toilet,
as his coat appears to have been many years made, is much too
large--and all his garments convey the idea of having been purchased
ready-made, so ill do they fit him. There is a _gaucherie_ in his
movements, which evidently proceeds from the perpetual consciousness
of his lameness, that appears to haunt him; for he tries to conceal
his foot when seated, and when walking has a nervous rapidity in his
manner. He is very slightly lame, and the deformity of his foot is so
little remarkable, that I am not now aware which foot it is.
'His voice and accent are peculiarly agreeable, but effeminate--clear,
harmonious, and so distinct, that though his general tone in speaking
is rather low than high, not a word is lost. His manners are as unlike
my preconceived notions of them as is his appearance. I had expected
to find him a dignified, cold, reserved, and haughty person, but
nothing can be more different; for were I to point out the prominent
defect of Lord Byron, I should say it was flippancy, and a total want
of that natural self-possession and dignity, which ought to
characterize a man of birth and education.'
Medwin tells us, in his 'Journal of the Conversations of Lord Byron,' that
Byron's voice had a flexibility, a variety in its tones, a power and
pathos, beyond any he ever heard; and his countenance was capable of
expressing the tenderest as well as the strongest emotions, which would
perhaps have made him the finest actor in the world.
The Countess Guiccioli, who had a longer acquaintance with Byron than any
of those who have attempted to portray him, says:
'Lord Byron's eyes, though of a light grey, were capable of all
extremes of expression, from the most joyous hilarity to the deepest
sadness, from the very sunshine of benevolence to the most
concentrated scorn or rage. But it was in the mouth and chin that the
great beauty as well as expression of his fine countenance lay. His
head was remarkably small, so much so as to be rather out of
proportion to his face. The forehead, though a little too narrow, was
high, and appeared more so from his having his hair (to preserve it,
as he said) shaved over the temples. Still, the glossy dark brown
curls, clustering over his head, gave the finish to its beauty. When
to this is added that his nose, though handsomely, was rather thickly
shaped, that his teeth were white and regular, and his complexion
colourless, as good an idea, perhaps, as it is in the power of mere
words to convey may be conceived of his features. In height he was
five feet eight inches and a half. His hands were very white, and,
according to his own notions of the size of hands as indicating birth,
aristocratically small.... No defect existed in the formation of his
limbs; his slight infirmity was nothing but the result of weakness of
one of his ankles. His habit of ever being on horseback had brought on
the emaciation of his legs, as evinced by the post-mortem examination;
the best proof of this is the testimony of William Swift, bootmaker at
Southwell, who had the honour of working for Lord Byron from 1805 to
1807.'
It appears that Mrs. Wildman (the widow of the Colonel who had bought
Newstead from Byron) not long before her death presented to the Naturalist
Society of Nottingham several objects which had belonged to Lord Byron,
and amongst others his boot and shoe trees. These trees are about nine
inches long, narrow, and generally of a symmetrical form. They were
accompanied by the following statement:
'William Swift, bootmaker at Southwell, Nottinghamshire, having had
the honour of working for Lord Byron when residing at Southwell from
1805 to 1807, asserts that these were the trees upon which his
lordship's boots and shoes were made, and that the last pair delivered
was on the 10th May, 1807. He moreover affirms that his lordship had
not a club foot, as has been said, but that both his feet were equally
well formed, one, however, being an inch and a half shorter than the
other.[1] The defect was not in the foot, but in the ankle, which,
being weak, caused the foot to turn out too much. To remedy this, his
lordship wore a very light and thin boot, which was tightly laced just
under the sole, and, when a boy, he was made to wear a piece of iron
with a joint at the ankle, which passed behind the leg and was tied
behind the shoe. The calf of this leg was weaker than the other, and
it was the left leg.
'(Signed) WILLIAM SWIFT.'
'This, then,' says Countess Guiccioli, 'is the extent of the defect of
which so much has been said, and which has been called a deformity. As
to its being visible, all those who knew him assert that it was so
little evident, that it was even impossible to discover in which of
the legs or feet the fault existed.'
Byron's alleged sensitiveness on the subject of his lameness seems to have
been exaggerated.
'When he did show it,' continues Countess Guiccioli, 'which was never
but to a very modest extent, it was only because, physically speaking,
he suffered from it. Under the sole of the weak foot he at times
experienced a painful sensation, especially after long walks. Once,
at Genoa, Byron walked down the hill from Albaro to the seashore with
me by a rugged and rough path. When we had reached the shore he was
very well and lively. But it was an exceedingly hot day, and the
return home fatigued him greatly. When home, I told him that I thought
he looked ill. "Yes," said he, "I suffer greatly from my foot; it can
hardly be conceived how much I suffer at times from that pain;" and he
continued to speak to me about this defect with great simplicity and
indifference.'
We have been particular to set before the reader the impression which
Byron's personal appearance made upon those who saw him at this time,
because none of the busts or portraits seem to convey anything like an
accurate semblance of this extraordinary personality. Had the reader seen
Byron in his various moods, he would doubtless have exclaimed, with Sir
Walter Scott, that 'no picture is like him.'
The portrait by Saunders represents Byron with thick lips, whereas 'his
lips were harmoniously perfect,' says Countess Guiccioli. Holmes almost
gives him a large instead of his well-proportioned head. In Phillips's
picture the expression is one of haughtiness and affected dignity, which
Countess Guiccioli assures us was never visible to those who saw him in
life. The worst portrait of Lord Byron, according to Countess Guiccioli,
and which surpasses all others in ugliness, was done by Mr. West, an
American, 'an excellent man, but a very bad painter.' This portrait, which
some of Byron's American admirers requested to have taken, and which Byron
consented to sit for, was begun at Montenero, near Leghorn. Byron seems
only to have sat two or three times for it, and it was finished from
memory. Countess Guiccioli describes it as 'a frightful caricature, which
his family or friends ought to destroy.' As regards busts, she says:
'Thorwaldsen alone has, in his marble bust of Byron, been able to
blend the regular beauty of his features with the sublime expression
of his countenance.'
On January 22, 1822, Byron's mother-in-law, Lady Noel, died at the age of
seventy.
'I am distressed for poor Lady Byron,' said the poet to Medwin: 'she
must be in great affliction, for she adored her mother! The world will
think that I am pleased at this event, but they are much mistaken. I
never wished for an accession of fortune; I have enough without the
Wentworth property. I have written a letter of condolence to Lady
Byron--you may suppose in the kindest terms. If we are not reconciled,
it is not my fault.'
There is no trace of this letter, and it is ignored by Lord Lovelace in
'Astarte.' It may be well here to point out how erroneous was the belief
that Miss Milbanke was an heiress. Byron on his marriage settled £60,000
on his wife, and Miss Milbanke was to have brought £20,000 into
settlement; but the money was not paid. Sir Ralph Milbanke's property was
at that time heavily encumbered. Miss Milbanke had some expectations
through her mother and her uncle, Lord Wentworth; but those prospects were
not mentioned in the settlements. Both Lord Wentworth and Sir Ralph
Milbanke were free to leave their money as they chose. When Lord Wentworth
died, in April 1815, he left his property to Lady Milbanke for her life,
and at her death to her daughter, Lady Byron. Therefore, at Lady Noel's
death Byron inherited the whole property by right of his wife. But one of
the terms of the separation provided that this property should be divided
by arbitrators. Lord Dacre was arbitrator for Lady Byron, and Sir F.
Burdett for Byron. Under this arrangement half the income was allotted to
the wife and half to the husband. In the _London Gazette_ dated
'Whitehall, March 2, 1822,' royal licence is given to Lord Byron and his
wife that they may 'take and use the surname of Noel only, and also bear
the arms of Noel only; and that the said George Gordon, Baron Byron, may
subscribe the said surname of Noel before all titles of honour.'
Henceforward the poet signed all his letters either with the initials N.
B. or with 'Noel Byron' in full.
Byron was at this time in excellent health and spirits, and the society of
the Shelleys made life unusually pleasant to him. Ravenna, with its gloomy
forebodings, its limited social intercourse, to say nothing of its
proscriptions--for nearly all Byron's friends had been exiled--was a thing
of the past. The last phase had dawned, and Byron was about to show
another side of his character. Medwin tells us that Byron's disposition
was eminently sociable, however great the pains which he took to hide it
from the world. On Wednesdays there was always a dinner at the Palazzo
Lanfranchi, to which the _convives_ were cordially welcomed. When alone
Byron's table was frugal, not to say abstemious. But on these occasions
every sort of wine, every luxury of the season, and every English
delicacy, were displayed. Medwin says he never knew any man do the honours
of his house with greater kindness and hospitality. On one occasion, after
dinner, the conversation turned on the lyrical poetry of the day, and a
question arose as to which was the most perfect ode that had been
produced. Shelley contended for Coleridge's on Switzerland beginning, 'Ye
clouds,' etc.; others named some of Moore's 'Irish Melodies' and
Campbell's 'Hohenlinden'; and, had Lord Byron not been present, his own
Invocation to Manfred, or Ode to Napoleon, or on Prometheus, might have
been cited. 'Like Gray,' said Byron, 'Campbell smells too much of the oil:
he is never satisfied with what he does; his finest things have been
spoiled by over-polish--the sharpness of the outline is worn off. Like
paintings, poems may be too highly finished. The great art is effect, no
matter how produced.'
And then, rising from the table, he left the room, and presently returned
with a magazine, from which he read 'The Burial of Sir John Moore' with
the deepest feeling. It was at that time generally believed that Byron was
the author of these admirable stanzas; and Medwin says: 'I am corroborated
in this opinion lately (1824) by a lady, whose brother received them many
years ago from Lord Byron, in his lordship's own handwriting.'
These festive gatherings were not pleasing to Shelley, who, with his
abstemious tastes and modest, retiring disposition, disliked the glare and
surfeit of it all. But Shelley's unselfish nature overcame his antipathy,
and for the sake of others he sacrificed himself. In writing to his friend
Horace Smith, he marks his repugnance for these dinners, 'when my nerves
are generally shaken to pieces by sitting up, contemplating the rest of
the company making themselves vats of claret, etc., till three o'clock in
the morning.' Nevertheless, companionship with Byron seemed for a time, to
Shelley and Mary, to be like 'companionship with a demiurge who could
create rolling worlds at pleasure in the void of space.' Shelley's
admiration for the poetic achievements of Byron is well known:
'Space wondered less at the swift and fair creations of God when he
grew weary of vacancy, than I at the late works of this spirit of an
angel in the mortal paradise of a decaying body. So I think--let the
world envy, while it admires as it may.'[2]
And again: 'What think you of Lord Byron's last volume? In my opinion
it contains finer poetry than has appeared in England since the
publication of "Paradise Regained." "Cain" is apocalyptic; it is a
revelation not before communicated to man.'
Byron recognized Shelley's frankness, courage, and hardihood of opinion,
but was not influenced by him so much as was at that time supposed by his
friends in England. In writing to Horace Smith (April 11, 1822), Shelley
begs him to assure Moore that he had not the smallest influence over
Byron's religious opinions.
'If I had, I certainly should employ it to eradicate from his great
mind the delusions of Christianity, which, in spite of his reason,
seem perpetually to recur, and to lay in ambush for the hours of
sickness and distress. "Cain" was _conceived_ many years ago, and
begun before I saw him last year at Ravenna. How happy should I not be
to attribute to myself, however indirectly, any participation in that
immortal work!'
'Byron,' says Professor Dowden in his 'Life of Shelley,' 'on his own part
protested that his _dramatis personæ_ uttered their own opinions and
sentiments, not his.'
Byron undoubtedly had a deep-seated reverence for religion, and had a
strong leaning towards the Roman Catholic doctrines. Writing to Moore
(March 4, 1822), he says:
'I am no enemy to religion, but the contrary. As a proof, I am
educating my natural daughter a strict Catholic in a convent of
Romagna; for I think people can never have _enough_ of religion, if
they are to have any.... As to poor Shelley, who is another bug-bear
to you and the world, he is, to my knowledge, the _least_ selfish and
the mildest of men--a man who has made more sacrifices of his fortune
and feelings for others than any I ever heard of. With his speculative
opinions I have nothing in common, nor desire to have.'
Countess Guiccioli, a woman of no ordinary intuitive perceptions, with
ample opportunities for judging the characters of both Shelley and Byron,
makes a clear statement on this point:
'In Shelley's heart the dominant wish was to see society entirely
reorganized. The sight of human miseries and infirmities distressed
him to the greatest degree; but, too modest himself to believe that he
was called upon to take the initiative, and inaugurate a new era of
good government and fresh laws for the benefit of humanity, he would
have been pleased to see such a genius as Byron take the initiative in
this undertaking. Shelley therefore did his best to influence Byron.
But the latter hated discussions. He could not bear entering into
philosophical speculation at times when his soul craved the
consolations of friendship, and his mind a little rest. He was quite
insensible to reasonings, which often appear sublime because they are
clothed in words incomprehensible to those who have not sought to
understand their meaning. But he made an exception in favour of
Shelley. He knew that he could not shake his faith in a doctrine
founded upon illusions, by his incredulity; but he listened to him
with pleasure, not only on account of Shelley's good faith and
sincerity, but also because he argued upon false data, with such
talent and originality, that he was both interested and amused. Lord
Byron had examined every form of philosophy by the light of common
sense, and by the instinct of his genius. Pantheism in particular was
odious to him. He drew no distinction between absolute Pantheism which
mixes up that which is infinite with that which is finite, and that
form of Pantheism which struggles in vain to keep clear of Atheism.
Shelley's views, clothed in a veil of spiritualism, were the most
likely to interest Byron, but they did not fix him. Byron could never
consent to lose his individuality, deny his own freedom of will, or
abandon the hope of a future existence. As a matter of fact, Byron
attributed all Shelley's views to the aberrations of a mind which is
happier when it dreams than when it denies.'
'Shelley appears to me to be mad with his metaphysics,' said Byron on one
occasion to Count Gamba. 'What trash in all these systems! say what they
will, mystery for mystery, I still find that of the Creation the most
reasonable of any.'
Thus it will be seen that the opinions of Lord Byron on matters of
religion were far more catholic than those of his friend Shelley, who
could not have influenced Byron in the manner generally supposed. That a
change came over the spirit of Byron's poetry after meeting Shelley on the
Lake of Geneva is unquestionable; but the surface of the waters may be
roughened by a breeze without disturbing the depths below. Like all true
poets, Byron was highly susceptible to passing influences, and there can
be no doubt that Shelley impressed him deeply.
The evident sincerity in the life and doctrines of Shelley--his
unworldliness; the manner in which he had been treated by the world, and
even by his own family, aroused the sympathy of Byron, at a time when he
himself was for a different cause smarting under somewhat similar
treatment. Although Byron and Shelley differed fundamentally on some
subjects they concurred in the principles of others. Byron had no fixed
religious opinions--that was the string upon which Shelley played--but
there is a wide difference between doubt and denial. Gamba, after Byron's
death, wrote thus to Dr. Kennedy:
'My belief is that Byron's religious opinions were not fixed. I mean
that he was not more inclined towards one than towards another of the
Christian sects; but that his feelings were thoroughly religious, and
that he entertained the highest respect for the doctrines of Christ,
which he considered to be the source of virtue and of goodness. As for
the incomprehensible mysteries of religion, his mind floated in doubts
which he wished most earnestly to dispel, as they oppressed him, and
that is why he never avoided a conversation on the subject, as you are
well aware. I have often had an opportunity of observing him at times
when the soul involuntarily expresses its most sincere convictions; in
the midst of dangers, both at sea and on land; in the quiet
contemplation of a calm and beautiful night, in the deepest solitude.
On these occasions I remarked that Lord Byron's thoughts were always
imbued with a religious sentiment. The first time I ever had a
conversation with him on that subject was at Ravenna, my native place,
a little more than four years ago. We were riding together in the
Pineta on a beautiful spring day. "How," said Byron, "when we raise
our eyes to heaven, or direct them to the earth, can we doubt of the
existence of God? or how, turning them inwards, can we doubt that
there is something within us, more noble and more durable than the
clay of which we are formed? Those who do not hear, or are unwilling
to listen to these feelings, must necessarily be of a vile nature." I
answered him with all those reasons which the superficial philosophy
of Helvetius, his disciples and his masters, have taught. Byron
replied with very strong arguments and profound eloquence, and I
perceived that obstinate contradiction on this subject, which forced
him to reason upon it, gave him pain. This incident made a deep
impression upon me.... Last year, at Genoa, when we were preparing for
our journey to Greece, Byron used to converse with me alone for two or
three hours every evening, seated on the terrace of his residence at
Albaro in the fine evenings of spring, whence there opened a
magnificent view of the superb city and the adjoining sea. Our
conversation turned almost always on Greece, for which we were so soon
to depart, or on religious subjects. In various ways I heard him
confirm the sentiments which I have already mentioned to you. "Why,
then," said I to him, "have you earned for yourself the name of
impious, and enemy of all religious belief, from your writings?" He
answered, "They are not understood, and are wrongly interpreted by the
malevolent. My object is only to combat hypocrisy, which I abhor in
everything, and particularly in religion, and which now unfortunately
appears to me to be prevalent, and for this alone do those to whom you
allude wish to render me odious, and make me out worse than I am.'"
We have quoted only a portion of Pietro Gamba's letter, but sufficient to
show that Byron has been, like his friend Shelley, 'brutally
misunderstood.' There was no one better qualified than Count Gamba to
express an opinion on the subject, for he was in the closest intimacy with
Byron up to the time of the latter's death. There was no attempt on
Byron's part to mystify his young friend, who had no epistolary
intercourse with those credulous people in England whom Byron so loved to
'gull.' The desire to blacken his own character was reserved for those
occasions when, as he well knew, there would be most publicity. Trelawny
says:
'Byron's intimates smiled at his vaunting of his vices, but
comparative strangers stared, and noted his sayings to retail to their
friends, and that is the way many scandals got abroad.'
According to the same authority, George IV. made the sport known as
'equivocation' the fashion; the men about town were ashamed of being
thought virtuous, and bragged of their profligacy. 'In company,' says
Trelawny, 'Byron talked in Don Juan's vein; with a companion with whom he
was familiar, he thought aloud.'
Among the accusations made against Byron by those who knew him least was
that of intemperance--intemperance not in meat and drink only, but in
everything. It must be admitted that Byron was to blame for this; he
vaunted his propensity for the bottle, and even attributed his poetic
inspirations to its aid. Trelawny, who had observed him closely, says:
'Of all his vauntings, it was, luckily for him, the emptiest. From all
that I heard or witnessed of his habits abroad, he was and had been
exceedingly abstemious in eating and drinking. When alone, he drank a
glass or two of small claret or hock, and when utterly exhausted at
night, a single glass of grog; which, when I mixed it for him, I
lowered to what sailors call "water bewitched," and he never made any
remark. I once, to try him, omitted the alcohol; he then said, "Tre,
have you not forgotten the creature comfort?" I then put in two
spoonfuls, and he was satisfied. This does not look like an habitual
toper. Byron had not damaged his body by strong drinks, but his terror
of getting fat was so great that he reduced his diet to the point of
absolute starvation. He was the only human being I ever met with who
had sufficient self-restraint and resolution to resist this proneness
to fatten. He did so; and at Genoa, where he was last weighed, he was
ten stone and nine pounds, and looked much less. This was not from
vanity of his personal appearance, but from a better motive, and, as
he was always hungry, his merit was the greater. Whenever he relaxed
his vigilance he swelled apace. He would exist on biscuits and
soda-water for days together; then, to allay the eternal hunger
gnawing at his vitals, he would make up a horrid mess of cold
potatoes, rice, fish, or greens, deluged in vinegar, and swallow it
like a famished dog. Either of these unsavoury dishes, with a biscuit
and a glass or two of Rhine wine, he cared not how sour, he called
feasting sumptuously. Byron was of that soft, lymphatic temperament
which it is almost impossible to keep within a moderate compass,
particularly as in his case his lameness prevented his taking
exercise. When he added to his weight, even standing was painful, so
he resolved to keep down to eleven stone.'
While on this subject, it is not uninteresting to contrast the effects of
Byron's regimen of abstinence by the light of a record kept by the
celebrated wine-merchants, Messrs. Berry, of St. James's Street. This
register of weights has been kept on their premises for the convenience of
their customers since 1765, and contains over twenty thousand names. The
following extract was made by the present writer on November 2, 1897:[3]
Date. Stone. lbs. Age.
January 4, 1806 (boots, no hat) 13 12 18
July 8, 1807 (shoes) 10 13 19
July 23, 1807 (shoes, no hat) 11 0 19
August 13, 1807 (shoes, no hat) 10 11-1/2 19
January 13, 1808 (see Moore's 'Life') 10 7 20
May 27, 1808 (Messrs. Berry) 11 1 --
June 10, 1809 (Messrs. Berry) 11 5-3/4 21
July 15, 1811 (Messrs. Berry) 9 11-1/2 23
(_Circa_) June, 1823 (see Trelawny) 10 9 35
It will be seen at a glance that between the ages of eighteen and
thirty-five Byron had reduced his weight by three stone and three pounds.
The fluctuations between the ages of nineteen and thirty-five are not
remarkable. This record marks the consistency of a heroic self-denial
under what must often have been a strong temptation to appease the pangs
of hunger.
CHAPTER II
Byron's life at Pisa, as afterwards at Genoa, was what most people would
call a humdrum, dull existence. He rose late.
'Billiards, conversation, or reading, filled up the intervals,' says
Medwin, 'till it was time to take our evening drive, ride, and
pistol-practice. On our return, which was always in the same
direction, we frequently met the Countess Guiccioli, with whom he
stopped to converse a few minutes. He dined at half an hour after
sunset, then drove to Count Gamba's, the Countess Guiccioli's father,
passed several hours in their society, returned to his 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 fancied himself, subject.'
On Sunday, March 24, 1822, while Byron, Shelley, Trelawny, Captain Hay,
Count Pietro Gamba, and an Irish gentleman named Taaffe, were returning
from their evening ride, and had nearly reached the Porta alle Piagge at
the eastern end of the Lung' Arno, Sergeant-Major Masi, belonging to a
dragoon regiment, being apparently in a great hurry to get back to
barracks, pushed his way unceremoniously through the group of riders in
front of him, and somewhat severely jostled Mr. Taaffe. This gentleman
appealed to Byron, and the latter demanded an apology from the sergeant,
whom he at first mistook for an officer. The sergeant lost his temper, and
called out the guard at the gateway. Byron and Gamba dashed through,
however, and before the others could follow there was some 'dom'd cutting
and slashing'; Shelley was knocked off his horse, and Captain Hay received
a wound in his face. Masi in alarm fled, and on the Lung' Arno met Byron
returning to the scene of the fray: an altercation took place, and one of
Byron's servants, who thought that Masi had wounded his master, struck at
him with a pitchfork, and tumbled the poor fellow off his horse. There was
a tremendous hubbub about this, and the legal proceedings which followed
occupied two months, with much bluster, false swearing, and injustice, as
a natural consequence. The court eventually came to the conclusion that
there was no evidence for criminal proceedings against any of Byron's
domestics, but, in consideration of Giovanni Battista Falcieri--one of
Byron's servants--having a black beard, he was condemned to be escorted by
the police to the frontier and banished from the grand-duchy of Tuscany.
At the same time the Gambas (who had nothing whatever to do with the
affair) were told that their presence at Pisa was disagreeable to the
Government. In consequence of the hint, Byron and the Gambas hired the
Villa Dupuy, at Montenero, near Leghorn. Here, on June 28, 1822, a scuffle
took place in the gardens of the villa between the servants of Count Gamba
and of Byron, in which Byron's coachman and his cook took part. Knives
were drawn as usual. Byron appeared on the balcony with his pistols, and
threatened to shoot the whole party if they did not drop their knives,
and the police had to be called in to quell the disturbance. The
Government, who were anxious to be rid of Byron, took advantage of this
riot at the Villa Dupuy. Byron's courier and Gamba's valet were sent over
the frontier of the grand-duchy under police escort, and the Gambas were
warned that, unless they left the country within three days, formal
sentence of banishment would be passed upon them. As soon as Byron heard
the news, he wrote a letter to the Governor of Leghorn, and asked for a
respite for his friends. A few days grace were granted to the Gambas, and
on July 8 they took passports for Genoa, intending to go first to the
Baths of Lucca, where they hoped to obtain permission to return to Pisa.
While negotiations were proceeding Byron returned to the Palazzo
Lanfranchi.[4]
On April 20, 1822, there died at Bagnacavallo, not far from Ravenna,
Byron's natural daughter Allegra, whose mother, Claire Clairmont, had
joined the Shelleys at Pisa five days previously. The whole story is a sad
one, and shall be impartially given in these pages.
When Shelley left Ravenna in August, 1821, he understood that Byron had
determined that Allegra should not be left behind, alone and friendless,
in the Convent of Bagnacavallo, and Shelley hoped that an arrangement
would be made by which Claire might have the happiness of seeing her child
once more. When Byron arrived at Pisa in November, and Allegra was not
with him, Claire Clairmont's anxiety was so great that she wrote twice to
Byron, protesting against leaving her child in so unhealthy a place, and
entreated him to place Allegra with some respectable family in Pisa, or
Florance, or Lucca. She promised not to go near the child, if such was his
wish, nor should Mary or Shelley do so without Byron's consent. Byron, it
appears, took no notice of these letters. The Shelleys, while strongly of
opinion that Allegra should in some way be taken out of Byron's hands,
thought it prudent to temporize and watch for a favourable opportunity.
Claire held wild schemes for carrying off the child, schemes which were
under the circumstances impolitic, even if practicable. Both Mary and
Shelley did their utmost to dissuade Claire from any violent attempts, and
Mary, in a letter written at this time, assures Claire that her anxiety
for Allegra's health was to a great degree unfounded. After carefully
considering the affair she had come to the conclusion that Allegra was
well taken care of by the nuns in the convent, that she was in good
health, and would in all probability continue so.
On April 15 Claire Clairmont arrived at Pisa on a visit to the Shelleys,
and a few days later started with the Williamses for Spezzia, to search
for houses on the bay. Professor Dowden says:[5]
'They cannot have been many hours on their journey, when Shelley and
Mary received tidings of sorrowful import, which Mary chronicles in
her journal with the words "Evil news." Allegra was dead. Typhus fever
had raged in the Romagna, but no one wrote to inform her parents with
the fact.'
Lord Byron felt the loss bitterly at first.
'His conduct towards this child,' says Countess Guiccioli, 'was always
that of a fond father. He was dreadfully agitated by the first
intelligence of her illness; and when afterwards that of her death
arrived, I was obliged to fulfil the melancholy task of communicating
it to him. The memory of that frightful moment is stamped indelibly on
my mind. A mortal paleness spread itself over his face, his strength
failed him, and he sank into a seat. His look was fixed, and the
expression such that I began to fear for his reason; he did not shed a
tear; and his countenance manifested so hopeless, so profound, so
sublime a sorrow, that at the moment he appeared a being of a nature
superior to humanity. He remained immovable in the same attitude for
an hour, and no consolation which I endeavoured to afford him seemed
to reach his ears, far less his heart.'
Writing to Shelley on April 23, 1822, Byron says:
'I do not know that I have anything to reproach in my conduct, and
certainly nothing in my feelings and intentions towards the dead. But
it is a moment when we are apt to think that, if this or that had been
done, such events might have been prevented, though every day and hour
shows us that they are the most natural and inevitable. I suppose that
Time will do his usual work. Death has done his.'
Whatever may be thought of Byron's conduct in the matter of Miss Claire
Clairmont--conduct which Allegra's mother invariably painted in the
darkest colours--the fact remains as clear as day, that Byron always
behaved well and kindly towards the poor little child whose death gave him
such intense pain. The evidence of the Hoppners at Venice, of Countess
Guiccioli at Ravenna, and of the Shelleys, all point in the same
direction; and if any doubt existed, a close study of the wild and wayward
character of Claire Clairmont would show where the truth in the matter
lay. Byron was pestered by appeals from Allegra's mother, indirectly on
her own behalf, and directly on behalf of the child. Claire never
understood that, by reason of Byron's antipathy to her, the surest way of
not getting what she wanted was to ask for it; and, with appalling
persistency, she even persuaded Shelley to risk his undoubted influence
over Byron by intercessions on her behalf, until Byron's opinion of
Shelley's judgment was shaken. After making full allowance for the
maternal feeling, so strong in all women, it was exceedingly foolish of
Claire not to perceive that Byron, by taking upon himself the adoption of
the child, had shielded her from scandal; and that, having surrendered
Allegra to his care, Claire could not pretend to any claim or
responsibility in the matter. It should also be pointed out that, in
sending Allegra to the convent at Bagnacavallo, Byron had no intention of
leaving her there for any length of time. It was merely a provisional
step, and, at Hoppner's suggestion, Byron thought of sending the child to
a good institution in Switzerland. In his will he had bequeathed to the
child the sum of £5,000, which was to be paid to her either on her
marriage or on her attaining the age of twenty-one years (according as the
one or the other should happen first), with the proviso that she should
not marry with a native of Great Britain. Byron was anxious to keep her
out of England, because he thought that his natural daughter would be
under great disadvantage in that country, and would have a far better
chance abroad.
CHAPTER III
On April 26, 1822, the Shelleys left Pisa for Lerici, and on May 1 they
took up their abode in the Casa Magni, situated near the fishing-village
of San Terenzo. Towards the close of May, Byron moved to his new residence
at Montenero, near Leghorn.
Leigh Hunt's arrival, at the end of June, added considerably to Byron's
perplexities. The poet had not seen Hunt since they parted in England six
years before, and many things had happened to both of them since then.
Byron, never satisfied that his promise to contribute poetry to a joint
stock literary periodical was wise, disliked the idea more and more as
time went on, and Shelley foresaw considerable difficulties in the way of
keeping Byron up to the mark in this respect. Hunt had brought over by sea
a sick wife and several children, and opened the ball by asking Byron for
a loan of money to meet current expenses. Byron now discovered that Leigh
Hunt had ceased to be editor of the _Examiner_, and, being absolutely
without any source of income, had no prospect save the money he hoped to
get from a journal not yet in existence. He ought, of course, to have told
both Byron and Shelley that in coming to Italy with his family--a wife and
six children--he would naturally expect one or both of his friends to
provide the necessary funds. This information Hunt withheld, and although
both Byron and Shelley knew him to be in pecuniary embarrassment, and had
every wish to assist him, they were both under the impression that Hunt
had some small income from the _Examiner_. Byron was astonished to hear
that his proposed coadjutor in a literary venture had not enough money in
his pockets even for one month's current expenses. He was not inclined to
submit tamely to Hunt's arrangements for sucking money out of him.
Beginning as he meant to go on, Byron from the first showed Hunt that he
had no intention of being imposed upon, and the social intercourse between
them was, to say the least of it, somewhat strained. Byron and Shelley
between them had furnished the ground-floor of the Palazzo Lanfranchi for
the Hunt family, and had Shelley lived he would, presumably, have
impoverished himself by disbursements in their favour; but his death
placed the Hunts in a false position. Had Shelley lived, his influence
over Byron would have diminished the friction between Byron and his
tactless guest. The amount of money spent by Byron on the Hunt family was
not great, but, considering the comparative cheapness of living in Italy
at that time, and the difference in the value of money, Byron's
contribution was not niggardly. After paying for the furniture of their
rooms in his palace, and sending £200 for the cost of their voyage to
Italy, Byron gave Leigh Hunt £70 while he was at Pisa, defrayed the cost
of their journey from Pisa to Genoa, and supplied them with another £30 to
enable them to travel to Florence. There was really no occasion for Byron
to make Hunt a present of £500, which he seems to have done, except Hunt's
absolute incapacity to make both ends meet, which was his perpetual
weakness. From the manner in which Hunt treats his pecuniary transactions
with the wide-awake Byron, it is evident that the sum would have risen to
thousands if Byron had not turned a deaf ear to the 'insatiable applicant'
at his elbow.
On the first visit which Trelawny paid to Byron at the Palazzo Lanfranchi
after Hunt's arrival, he found Mrs. Hunt was confined to her room, as she
generally was, from bad health. Trelawny says:
'Hunt, too, was in delicate health--a hypochondriac; and the seven
children, untamed, the eldest a little more than ten, and the youngest
a yearling, were scattered about playing on the large marble staircase
and in the hall. Hunt's theory and practice were that children should
be unrestrained until they were of an age to be reasoned with. If they
kept out of his way he was satisfied. On my entering the poet's study,
I said to him, "The Hunts have effected a lodgment in your palace;"
and I was thinking how different must have been his emotion on the
arrival of the Hunts from that triumphant morning after the
publication of "Childe Harold" when he "awoke and found himself
famous."'
Truth told, the Hunts' lodgment in his palace must have been a terrible
infliction to the sensitive Byron. His letters to friends in England at
this time are full of allusions to the prevailing discomfort. Trelawny
tells us that
'Byron could not realize, till the actual experiment was tried, the
nuisance of having a man with a sick wife and seven disorderly
children interrupting his solitude and his ordinary
customs--especially as Hunt did not conceal that his estimate of
Byron's poetry was not exalted. At that time Hunt thought highly of
his own poetry and underestimated all other. Leigh Hunt thought that
Shelley would have made a great poet if he had written on intelligible
subjects. Shelley soared too high for him, and Byron flew too near the
ground. There was not a single subject on which Byron and Hunt could
agree.'
After Shelley and his friend Williams had established the Hunts in Lord
Byron's palace at Pisa, they returned to Leghorn, Shelley 'in a mournful
mood, depressed by a recent interview with Byron,' says Trelawny.
It was evident to all who knew Byron that he bitterly repented having
pledged himself to embark on the literary venture which, unfortunately, he
himself had initiated. At their last interview Shelley found Byron
irritable whilst talking with him on the fulfilment of his promises with
regard to Leigh Hunt. Byron, like a lion caught in a trap, could only
grind his teeth and bear it. Unfortunately, it was not in Byron's nature
to bear things becomingly; he could not restrain the exhibition of his
inner mind. On these occasions he was not at his best, and forgot the
courtesy due even to the most unwelcome guest. Williams appears to have
been much impressed by Byron's reception of Mrs. Hunt, and, writing to his
wife from Leghorn, says:
'Lord Byron's reception of Mrs. Hunt was most shameful. She came into
his house sick and exhausted, and he scarcely deigned to notice her;
was silent, and scarcely bowed. This conduct cut Hunt to the soul. But
the way in which he received our friend Roberts, at Dunn's door,[6]
shall be described when we meet: it must be acted.'
Shelley and Edward Williams, two days after that letter had been
written--on Monday, July 8, 1822, at three o'clock in the afternoon--set
sail on the _Ariel_ for their home on the Gulf of Spezzia. The story is
well known, thanks to the graphic pen of Edward Trelawny, and we need only
allude to the deaths of Shelley and Williams, and the sailor lad Charles
Vivian, in so far as it comes into our picture of Byron at this period.
Byron attended the cremation of the bodies of Shelley and Williams, and
showed his deep sympathy with Mary Shelley and Jane Williams in various
ways.
Writing to John Murray from Pisa on August 3, 1822, he says:
'I presume you have heard that Mr. Shelley and Captain Williams were
lost on the 7th ultimo in their passage from Leghorn to Spezzia, in
their own open boat. You may imagine the state of their families: I
never saw such a scene, nor wish to see another. You were all brutally
mistaken about Shelley, who was, without exception, the _best_ and
least selfish man I ever knew. I never knew one who was not a beast in
comparison.'[7]
Writing August 8, 1822, to Thomas Moore, Byron says in allusion to
Shelley's death:
'There is thus another man gone, about whom the world was
ill-naturedly, and ignorantly, and brutally mistaken. It will,
perhaps, do him justice _now_, when he can be no better for it.'
In another letter, written December 25, 1822, Byron says:
'You are all mistaken about Shelley. You do not know how mild, how
tolerant, how good he was in society; and as perfect a gentleman as
ever crossed a drawing-room, when he liked, and where he liked.'
Byron's opinion of Leigh Hunt, and his own connection with that ill-fated
venture known as _The Liberal_, is concisely given by Byron himself in a
letter to Murray. _The Liberal_, published October 15, 1822, was fiercely
attacked in the _Literary Gazette_ and other periodicals. The _Courier_
for October 26, 1822, calls it a 'scoundrel-like publication.' Byron
writes:
'I am afraid the journal is a _bad_ business, and won't do; but in it
I am sacrificing _myself_ for others--I can have no advantage in it. I
believe the brothers Hunt to be honest men; I am sure they are poor
ones. They have not a rap: they pressed me to engage in this work, and
in an evil hour I consented; still, I shall not repent, if I can do
them the least service. I have done all I can for Leigh Hunt since he
came here; but it is almost useless. His wife is ill, his six children
not very tractable, and in the affairs of the world he himself is a
child. The death of Shelley left them totally aground; and I could not
see them in such a state without using the common feelings of
humanity, and what means were in my power to set them afloat again.'
In another letter to Murray (December 25, 1822) Byron says:
'Had their [the Hunts'] journal gone on well, and I could have aided
to make it better for them, I should then have left them, after my
safe pilotage off a lee-shore, to make a prosperous voyage by
themselves. As it is, I can't, and would not if I could, leave them
amidst the breakers. As to any community of feeling, thought, or
opinion between Leigh Hunt and me, there is little or none. We meet
rarely, hardly ever; but I think him a good-principled and able man,
and must do as I would be done by. I do not know what world he has
lived in, but I have lived in three or four; and none of them like his
Keats and Kangaroo _terra incognita_. Alas! poor Shelley! how he would
have laughed had he lived, and how we used to laugh now and then, at
various things, which are grave in the Suburbs!'
It is perhaps not generally known that Shelley bequeathed a legacy of
£2,000 to Byron. Byron's renunciation of this token of friendship is
ignored by Professor Dowden in his life of Shelley. Writing to Leigh Hunt
on June 28, 1823, Byron says:
'There was something about a legacy of two thousand pounds which he
[Shelley] has left me. This, of course, I declined, and the more so
that I hear that his will is admitted valid; and I state this
distinctly that, in case of anything happening to me, my heirs may be
instructed not to claim it.'
Towards the end of September, 1822, Byron and the Countess Guiccioli left
the Palazzo Lanfranchi, and moved from Pisa to Albaro, a suburb of Genoa.
At the Villa Saluzzo, where the poet resided until his departure for
Greece, dwelt also Count Gamba and his son Pietro, who occupied one part
of that large house, while Byron occupied another part, and their
establishments were quite separate. The first number of _The Liberal_
which had been printed in London, reached Byron's hands at this time. The
birth of that unlucky publication was soon followed by its death, as
anyone knowing the circumstances attending its conception might have
foreseen. Shelley's death may be said to have destroyed the enterprise and
energy of the survivors of that small coterie, who, in the absence of that
vital force, the fine spirit that had animated and held them together,
'degenerated apace,' as Trelawny tells us. Byron 'exhausted himself in
planning, projecting, beginning, wishing, intending, postponing,
regretting, and doing nothing. The unready are fertile in excuses, and his
were inexhaustible.'
In December, 1822, Trelawny laid up Byron's yacht, _The Bolivar_, paid off
the crew, and started on horseback for Rome. _The Bolivar_ was eventually
sold by Byron to Lord Blessington for 400 guineas. Four or five years
after Byron's death this excellent little sea-boat, with Captain Roberts
(who planned her for Byron) on board, struck on the iron-bound coast of
the Adriatic and foundered. Not a plank of her was saved.
'Never,' said Captain Roberts in narrating the circumstance many years
afterwards, 'was there a better sea-boat, or one that made less
lee-way than the dear little _Bolivar_, but she could not walk in the
wind's eye. I dared not venture to put her about in that gale for fear
of getting into the trough of the sea and being swamped. To take in
sail was impossible, so all we had left for it was to luff her up in
the lulls, and trust to Providence for the rest. Night came on dark
and cold, for it was November, and as the sea boiled and foamed in her
wake, it shone through the pitchy darkness with a phosphoric
efflorescence. The last thing I heard was my companion's exclamation,
"Breakers ahead!" and almost at the same instant _The Bolivar_ struck:
the crash was awful; a watery column fell upon her bodily like an
avalanche, and all that I remember was, that I was struggling with the
waves. I am a strong swimmer, and have often contested with Byron in
his own element, so after battling long with the billows, covered with
bruises, and more dead than alive, I succeeded in scrambling up the
rocks, and found myself in the evergreen pine-forest of Ravenna, some
miles from any house. But at last I sheltered myself in a forester's
hut. Death and I had a hard struggle that bout.'[8]
On April 1, 1823, Lord and Lady Blessington called on Byron at the Casa
Saluzzo. Lady Blessington assures us that, in speaking of his wife, Byron
declared that he was totally unconscious of the cause of her leaving him.
He said that he left no means untried to effect a reconciliation, and
added with bitterness: 'A day will arrive when I shall be avenged. I feel
that I shall not live long, and when the grave has closed over me, what
must she feel!'
In speaking of his sister, Byron always spoke with strong affection, and
said that she was the most faultless person he had ever known, and that
she was his only source of consolation in his troubles during the
separation business.
'Byron,' says Lady Blessington, 'has remarkable penetration in
discovering the characters of those around him, and piques himself on
it. He also thinks that he has fathomed the recesses of his own mind;
but he is mistaken. With much that is _little_ (which he suspects) in
his character, there is much that is _great_ that he does not give
himself credit for. His first impulses are always good, but his
temper, which is impatient, prevents his acting on the cool dictates
of reason. He mistakes temper for character, and takes the ebullitions
of the first for the indications of the nature of the second.'
Lady Blessington seems to have made a most searching examination of
Byron's character, and very little escaped her vigilance during the two
months of their intimate intercourse. She tells us that Byron talked for
effect, and liked to excite astonishment. It was difficult to know when he
was serious, or when he was merely 'bamming' his aquaintances. He admitted
that he liked to _hoax_ people, in order that they might give
contradictory accounts of him and of his opinions. He spoke very highly of
Countess Guiccioli, whom he had passionately loved and deeply respected.
Lady Blessington says: 'In his praises of Madame Guiccioli it is quite
evident that he is sincere.'
Byron confessed that he was not happy, but admitted that it was his own
fault, as the Countess Guiccioli, the only object of his love, had all the
qualities to render a reasonable being happy. In speaking of Allegra,
Byron said that while she lived her existence never seemed necessary to
his happiness; but no sooner did he lose her than it appeared to him as
though he could not exist without her. It is noteworthy that, one evening,
while Byron was speaking to Lady Blessington at her hotel at Genoa, he
pointed out to her a boat at anchor in the harbour, and said: 'That is the
boat in which my friend Shelley went down--the sight of it makes me ill.
You should have known Shelley to feel how much I must regret him. He was
the most gentle, most amiable, and _least_ worldly-minded person I ever
met; full of delicacy, disinterested beyond all other men, and possessing
a degree of genius, joined to a simplicity, as rare as it is admirable. He
had formed to himself a _beau-idéal_ of all that is fine, high-minded, and
noble, and he acted up to this ideal even to the very letter. He had a
most brilliant imagination, but a total want of worldly wisdom. I have
seen nothing like him, and never shall again, I am certain.'
We may, upon the evidence before us, take it for certain that Byron only
admired two of his contemporaries--Sir Walter Scott and Shelley. He liked
Hobhouse, and they had travelled together without a serious quarrel, which
is a proof of friendship; but he felt that Hobhouse undervalued him, and,
as Byron had a good deal of the spoiled child about him, he resented the
friendly admonitions which, it seems, Hobhouse unsparingly administered
whenever they were together. Tom Moore was a 'croney'--a man to laugh and
sit through the night with--but there was nothing, either in his genius or
his conduct, which Byron could fall down and worship, as he seemed capable
of doing in the case of Shelley and Scott.
It is evident that Lady Byron occupied his thoughts continually; he
constantly mentioned her in conversation, and often spoke of the brief
period during which they lived together. He told Lady Blessington that,
though not regularly handsome, he liked her looks. He said that when he
reflected on the whole tenor of her conduct--the refusing any explanation,
never answering his letters, or holding out any hopes that in future years
their child might form a bond of union between them--he felt exasperated
against her, and vented this feeling in his writings. The mystery of Lady
Byron's silence piqued him and kept alive his interest in her. It was
evident to those who knew Byron during the last year of his life that he
anxiously desired a reconciliation with her. He seemed to think that, had
his pecuniary affairs been in a less ruinous state, his temper would not
have been excited as it constantly was, during the brief period of their
union, by demands of insolent creditors whom he was unable to satisfy, and
who drove him nearly out of his senses, until he lost all command of
himself, and so forfeited his wife's affection. Byron felt himself to
blame for such conduct, and bitterly repented of it. But he never could
divest himself of the idea that his wife still took a deep interest in
him, and said that Ada must always be a bond of union between them, though
perchance they were parted for ever.
'I am sure,' said Lady Blessington, 'that if ten individuals undertook
the task of describing Byron, no two of the ten would agree in their
verdict respecting him, or convey any portrait that resembled the
other, and yet the description of each might be correct, according to
individual opinion. The truth is, that the chameleon-like character or
manner of Byron renders it difficult to portray him; and the pleasure
he seems to take in misleading his associates in their estimation of
him increases the difficulty of the task.'
On one occasion Byron lifted the veil, and showed his inmost thoughts by
words which were carefully noted at the time. He spoke on this occasion
from the depth of his heart as follows:
'Can I reflect on my present position without bitter feelings? Exiled
from my country by a species of ostracism--the most humiliating to a
proud mind, when _daggers_ and not shells were used to ballot,
inflicting mental wounds more deadly and difficult to be healed than
all that the body could suffer. Then the notoriety that follows me
precludes the privacy I desire, and renders me an object of curiosity,
which is a continual source of irritation to my feelings. I am bound
by the indissoluble ties of marriage to _one_ who will _not_ live with
me, and live with one to whom I cannot give a legal right to be my
companion, and who, wanting that right, is placed in a position
humiliating to her and most painful to me. Were the Countess Guiccioli
and I married, we should, I am sure, be cited as an example of
conjugal happiness, and the domestic and retired life we lead would
entitle us to respect. But our union, wanting the legal and religious
part of the ceremony of marriage, draws on us both censure and blame.
She is formed to make a good wife to any man to whom she attaches
herself. She is fond of retirement, is of a most affectionate
disposition, and noble-minded and disinterested to the highest degree.
Judge then how mortifying it must be to me to be the cause of placing
her in a false position. All this is not thought of when people are
blinded by passion, but when passion is replaced by better
feelings--those of affection, friendship, and confidence--when, in
short, the _liaison_ has all of marriage but its forms, then it is
that we wish to give it the respectability of wedlock. I feel this
keenly, reckless as I appear, though there are few to whom I would
avow it, and certainly not to a man.'
There is much in this statement which it is necessary for those who wish
to understand Byron's position at the close of his life to bear in mind.
We may accept it unreservedly, for it coincides in every particular with
conclusions independently arrived at by the present writer, after a long
and patient study of all circumstances relating to the life of this
extraordinary man. At the period of which we write--the last phase in
Byron's brief career--the poet was, morally, ascending.
His character, through the fire of suffering, had been purified. Even his
pride--so assertive in public--had been humbled, and he was gradually and
insensibly preparing himself for a higher destiny, unconscious of the fact
that the hand of Death was upon him. 'Wait,' he said, 'and you will see me
one day become all that I ought to be. I have reflected seriously on all
my faults, and that is the first step towards amendment.'
CHAPTER IV
Certain it is, that in proportion to the admiration which Byron's poetic
genius excited, was the severity of the censure which his
fellow-countrymen bestowed on his defects as a man. The humour of the
situation no doubt appealed to Byron's acute sense of proportion, and
induced him to feed the calumnies against himself, by painting his own
portrait in the darkest colours. Unfortunately, the effects of such
conduct long survived him; for the world is prone to take a man at his own
valuation, and 'hypocrisy reversed' does not enter into human
calculations. It is unfortunate for the fame of Byron that his whole
conduct after the separation was a glaring blunder, for which no
subsequent act of his, no proof of his genius, could by any possibility
atone.
Truth told, the obloquy which Byron had to endure, after Lady Byron left
him, was such as might well have changed his whole nature. It must indeed
have been galling to that proud spirit, after having been humbly asked
everywhere, to be ostentatiously asked nowhere. The injustice he suffered
at the hands of those who were fed on baseless calumnies raised in his
breast a feeling of profound contempt for his fellow-creatures--a contempt
which led him into many follies; thus, instead of standing up against the
storm and meeting his detractors face to face, as he was both capable of
and justified in doing, he chose to leave England under a cloud, and, by a
system of mystification, to encourage the belief that he thoroughly
deserved the humiliation which had been cast upon him. As a consequence,
to employ the words of Macaulay,
'all those creeping things that riot in the decay of nobler natures
hastened to their repast; and they were right; they did after their
kind. It is not every day that the savage envy of aspiring dunces is
gratified by the agonies of such a spirit, and the degradation of such
a name.'
Lady Blessington tells us that Byron had an excellent heart, but that it
was running to waste for want of being allowed to expend itself on his
fellow-creatures. His heart teemed with affection, but his past
experiences had checked its course, and left it to prey on the aching void
in his breast. He could never forget his sorrows, which in a certain sense
had unhinged his mind, and caused him to deny to others the justice that
had been denied to himself. He affected to disbelieve in either love or
friendship, and yet was capable of making great sacrifices for both.
'He has an unaccountable passion for misrepresenting his own feelings
and motives, and exaggerates his defects more than an enemy could do;
and is often angry because we do not believe all he says against
himself. If Byron were not a great poet, the charlatanism of affecting
to be a Satanic character, in this our matter-of-fact nineteenth
century, would be very amusing: but when the genius of the man is
taken into account, it appears too ridiculous, and one feels mortified
that he should attempt to pass for something that all who know him
rejoice that he is not. If Byron knew his own power, he would disdain
such unworthy means of attracting attention, and trust to his merit
for commanding it.'
As Lady Blessington remarks in her 'Conversations of Lord Byron,' from
which we have largely quoted, Byron's pre-eminence as a poet gives an
interest to details which otherwise would not be worth mentioning. She
tells us, for instance, that one of the strongest anomalies in Byron was
the exquisite taste displayed in his descriptive poetry, and the total
want of it that was so apparent in his modes of life.
'Fine scenery seemed to have no effect upon him, though his
descriptions are so glowing, and the elegancies and comforts of
refined life Byron appeared to as little understand as value.'
Byron appeared to be wholly ignorant of what in his class of life
constituted its ordinary luxuries.
'I have seen him,' says Lady Blessington, 'apparently delighted with
the luxurious inventions in furniture, equipages, plate, etc., common
to all persons of a certain station or fortune, and yet after an
inquiry as to their prices--an inquiry so seldom made by persons of
his rank--shrink back alarmed at the thought of the expense, though
there was nothing alarming in it, and congratulate himself that he had
no such luxuries, or did not require them. I should say that a bad and
vulgar taste predominated in all Byron's equipments, whether in dress
or in furniture. I saw his bed at Genoa, when I passed through in
1826, and it certainly was the most vulgarly gaudy thing I ever saw;
the curtains in the worst taste, and the cornice having his family
motto of "Crede Byron" surmounted by baronial coronets. His carriages
and his liveries were in the same bad taste, having an affectation of
finery, but _mesquin_ in the details, and tawdry in the _ensemble_. It
was evident that he piqued himself on them, by the complacency with
which they were referred to.'
In one of Byron's expansive moods--and these were rare with men, though
frequent in the society of Lady Blessington--Byron, speaking of his wife,
said:
'I am certain that Lady Byron's first idea is, what is due to herself;
I mean that it is the undeviating rule of her conduct. I wish she had
thought a little more of what is due to others. Now, my besetting sin
is a want of that self-respect which she has in _excess_; and that
want has produced much unhappiness to us both. But though I accuse
Lady Byron of an excess of self-respect, I must in candour admit, that
if any person ever had an excuse for an extraordinary portion of it,
she has; as in all her thoughts, words, and deeds, she is the most
decorous woman that ever existed, and must appear a perfect and
refined gentlewoman even to her _femme-de-chambre_. This extraordinary
degree of self-command in Lady Byron produced an opposite effect on
me. When I have broken out, on slight provocations, into one of my
ungovernable fits of rage, her calmness piqued, and seemed to reproach
me; it gave her an air of superiority, that vexed and increased my
wrath. I am now older and wiser, and should know how to appreciate her
conduct as it deserved, as I look on self-command as a positive
virtue, though it is one I have not the courage to adopt.'
In speaking of his sister, shortly before his departure for Greece, Byron
maintained that he owed the little good which he could boast, to her
influence over his wayward nature. He regretted that he had not known her
earlier, as it might have influenced his destiny.
'To me she was, in the hour of need, as a tower of strength. Her
affection was my last rallying point, and is now the only bright spot
that the horizon of England offers to my view.' 'Augusta,' said Byron,
'knew all my weaknesses, but she had love enough to bear with them.
She has given me such good advice, and yet, finding me incapable of
following it, loved and pitied me the more, because I was erring.
This is true affection, and, above all, true Christian feeling.'
But we should not be writing about Byron and his foibles eighty-four years
after his death, if he had not been wholly different to other men in his
views of life. Shortly after his marriage, for no sufficient, or at least
for no apparent reason, Byron chose to immolate himself, and took a sort
of Tarpeian leap, passing the remainder of his existence in bemoaning his
bruises, and reviling the spectators who were not responsible for his
fall. One of the main results of this conduct was his separation from his
child, for whom he seems to have felt the deepest affection. We find him,
at the close of his life, constantly speaking of Ada, 'sole daughter of
his heart and house,' and prophesying the advent of a love whose
consolations he could never feel.
'I often, in imagination, pass over a long lapse of years,' said
Byron, 'and console myself for present privations, in anticipating the
time when my daughter will know me by reading my works; for, though
the hand of prejudice may conceal my portrait from her eyes,[9] it
cannot hereafter conceal my thoughts and feelings, which will talk to
her when he to whom they belonged has ceased to exist. The triumph
will then be mine; and the tears that my child will drop over
expressions wrung from me by mental agony--the certainty that she will
enter into the sentiments which dictated the various allusions to her
and to myself in my works--consoles me in many a gloomy hour.'
This prophecy was amply fulfilled. It appears that, after Ada's marriage
to Lord King, Colonel Wildman met her in London, and invited her to pay
him a visit at Newstead Abbey. One morning, while Ada was in the library,
Colonel Wildman took down a book of poems. Ada asked the name of the
author of these poems, and when shown the portrait of her
father--Phillips's well-known portrait--which hung upon the wall, Ada
remained for a moment spell-bound, and then remarked ingenuously: 'Please
do not think that it is affectation on my part when I declare to you that
I have been brought up in complete ignorance of all that concerns my
father.' Never until that moment had Ada seen the handwriting of her
father, and, as we know, even his portrait had been hidden from her. When
Byron's genius was revealed to his daughter, an enthusiasm for his memory
filled her soul. She shut herself up for hours in the rooms which Byron
had used, absorbed in all the glory of one whose tenderness for her had
been so sedulously concealed by her mother. On her death-bed she dictated
a letter to Colonel Wildman, begging that she might be buried at
Hucknall-Torkard, in the same vault as her illustrious father. And there
they sleep the long sleep side by side--separated during life, united in
death--the prophecy of 1816 fulfilled in 1852:
'Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,
I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
With desolation, and a broken claim:
Though the grave closed between us,--'twere the same,
I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain
_My_ blood from out thy being were an aim
And an attainment,--all would be in vain,--
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.'
CHAPTER V
There is no doubt that Byron had a craving for celebrity in one form or
another. In the last year of his life his thoughts turned with something
like apathy from the fame which his pen had brought him[10] towards that
wider and nobler fame which might be attained by the sword. In the spirit
of an exalted poet who has lately passed from us, if such prescience were
possible, Byron might have applied these stirring lines to himself:
'Up, then, and act! Rise up and undertake
The duties of to-day. Thy courage wake!
Spend not life's strength in idleness, for life
Should not be wasted in Care's useless strife.
No slothful doubt let work's place occupy,
But labour! Labour for posterity!
'Up, then, and sing! Rise up and bare the sword
With which to combat suffering and wrong.
Console all those that suffer with thy word,
Defend Man's heritage with sword and song!
Combat intrigue, injustice, tyranny,
And in thine efforts God will be with thee.'
'I have made as many sacrifices to liberty,' said Byron, 'as most
people of my age; and the one I am about to undertake is not the
least, though probably it will be the last; for with my broken
health, and the chances of war, Greece will most likely terminate my
career. I like Italy, its climate, its customs, and, above all, its
freedom from cant of every kind; therefore it is no slight sacrifice
of comfort to give up the tranquil life I lead here, and break through
the ties I have formed, to engage in a cause, for the successful
result of which I have no very sanguine hopes. I have a presentiment
that I shall die in Greece. I hope it may be in action, for that would
be a good finish to a very _triste_ existence, and I have a horror of
death-bed scenes; but as I have not been famous for my luck in life,
most probably I shall not have more in the manner of my death.'
It was towards the close of May, 1823, that Byron received a letter
telling him that he had been elected a member of the Committee which sat
in London to further the Greek cause. Byron willingly accepted the
appointment, and from that moment turned his thoughts towards Greece,
without exactly knowing in what manner he could best serve her cause. He
experienced alternations of confidence and despondency certainly, but he
never abandoned the notion that he might be of use, if only he could see
his way clearly through the conflicting opinions and advice which reached
him from all sides.
The presentiment that he would end his days in Greece, weighed so heavily
on his mind, that he felt a most intense desire to revisit his native
country before finally throwing in his lot with the Greeks. He seems to
have vaguely felt that all chances of reconciliation with Lady Byron were
not dead. He would have liked to say farewell to her without bitterness,
and he longed to embrace his child. But the objections to a return to
England were so formidable that he was compelled to abandon the idea. His
proud nature could not face the chance of a cold reception, and a revival
of that roar of calumny which had driven him from our shores. He told Lady
Blessington that he could laugh at those attacks with the sea between him
and his traducers; but that on the spot, and feeling the effect which each
libel produced upon the minds of his too sensitive friends, he could not
stand the strain. Byron felt sure that his enemies would misinterpret his
motives, and that no good would come of it.
After Byron had made up his mind to visit Greece in person, he does not
appear ever to have seriously thought of drawing back. On June 15, 1823,
he informed Trelawny, who was at Rome, that he was determined to go to
Greece, and asked him to join the expedition. Seven days later Byron had
hired a vessel to transport himself, his companions, his servants, and his
horses, to Cephalonia.
On July 13, Byron, with Edward Trelawny, Count Pietro Gamba, and a young
medical student,[11] with eight servants, embarked at Genoa on the English
brig _Hercules_, commanded by Captain Scott. At the last moment a passage
was offered to a Greek named Schilitzy, and to Mr. Hamilton Browne. Gamba
tells us that five horses were shipped, besides arms, ammunition, and two
one-pounder guns which had belonged to _The Bolivar_. Byron carried with
him 10,000 Spanish dollars in ready-money, with bills of exchange for
40,000 more.
Passing within sight of Elba, Corsica, the Lipari Islands (including
Stromboli,) Sicily, Italy, etc., on August 2, the _Hercules_ lay between
Zante and Cephalonia; and the next day she cast anchor in Argostoli, the
principal port of Cephalonia. The Resident, Colonel Napier, was at that
time absent from the island. Shortly after Byron's arrival, Captain
Kennedy, Colonel Napier's secretary, came on board, and informed him that
little was known of the internal affairs of Greece. The Turks appeared to
have been in force at sea, while the Greeks remained inactive at Hydra,
Spezia, and Ipsara. It was supposed that Mr. Blaquière had gone to Corfu,
while the famous Marco Botzari, to whom Byron had been especially
recommended, was at Missolonghi. Before taking any definite step, Byron
judged it best to send messengers to Corfu and Missolonghi, to collect
information as to the state of affairs in the Morea. To pass the time,
Byron and some of his companions made an excursion to Ithaca. The first
opportunity of showing his sympathy towards the victims of barbarism and
tyranny occurred at this period. Many poor families had taken refuge at
Ithaca, from Scio, Patras, and other parts of Greece. Byron handed 3,000
piastres to the Commandant for their relief, and transported a family, in
absolute poverty, to Cephalonia, where he provided them with a house and
gave them a monthly allowance.
The following narrative, written by a gentleman who was travelling in
Ithaca at that time, seems to be worthy of reproduction in these pages:
'It was in the island of Ithaca, in the month of August, 1823, that I
was shown into the dining-room of the Resident Governor, where Lord
Byron, Count Gamba, Dr. Bruno, Mr. Trelawny, and Mr. Hamilton Browne,
were seated after dinner, with some of the English officers and
principal inhabitants of the place. I had been informed of Lord
Byron's presence, but had no means of finding him out, except by
recollection of his portraits; and I am not ashamed to confess that I
was puzzled, in my examination of the various countenances before me,
where to fix upon "the man." I at one time almost settled upon
Trelawny, from the interest which he seemed to take in the schooner in
which I had just arrived; but on ascending to the drawing-room I was
most agreeably undeceived by finding myself close to the side of the
great object of my curiosity, and engaged in easy conversation with
him, without presentation or introduction of any kind.
'He was handling and remarking upon the books in some small open
shelves, and fairly spoke to me in such a manner that not to have
replied would have been boorish. "'Pope's Homer's Odyssey'--hum!--that
is well placed here, undoubtedly; 'Hume's Essays,'--'Tales of my
Landlord;' there you are, Watty! Are you recently from England, sir?"
I answered that I had not been there for two years. "Then you can
bring us no news of the Greek Committee? Here we are all waiting
orders, and no orders seem likely to come. Ha! ha!" "I have not
changed my opinion of the Greeks," he said. "I know them as well as
most people" (a favourite phrase), "but we must not look always too
closely at the men who are to benefit by our exertions in a good
cause, or God knows we shall seldom do much good in this world. There
is Trelawny thinks he has fallen in with an angel in Prince
Mavrocordato, and little Bruno would willingly sacrifice his life for
the _cause_, as he calls it. I must say he has shown some sincerity in
his devotion, in consenting to join it for the little matter he makes
of me." I ventured to say that, in all probability, the being joined
with him in any cause was inducement enough for any man of moderate
pretensions. He noticed the compliment only by an indifferent smile.
"I find but one opinion," he continued, "among all people whom I have
met since I came here, that no good is to be done for these rascally
Greeks; that I am sure to be deceived, disgusted, and all the rest of
it. It may be so; but it is chiefly to satisfy myself upon these very
points that I am going. I go prepared for anything, expecting a deal
of roguery and imposition, but hoping to do some good."
'"Have you read any of the late publications on Greece?" I asked.
'"I never read any accounts of a country to which I can myself go,"
said he. "The Committee have sent me some of their 'Crown and Anchor'
reports, but I can make nothing of them."
'The conversation continued in the same familiar flow. To my increased
amazement, he led it to his works, to Lady Byron, and to his daughter.
The former was suggested by a volume of "Childe Harold" which was on
the table; it was the ugly square little German edition, and I made
free to characterize it as execrable. He turned over the leaves, and
said:
'Yes, it was very bad; but it was better than one that he had seen in
French prose in Switzerland. "I know not what my friend Mr. Murray
will say to it all. Kinnaird writes to me that he is wroth about many
things; let them do what they like with the book--they have been
abusive enough of the author. The _Quarterly_ is trying to make
amends, however, and _Blackwood's_ people will suffer none to attack
me but themselves. Milman was, I believe, at the bottom of the
personalities, but they all sink before an American reviewer, who
describes me as a kind of fiend, and says that the deformities of my
mind are only to be equalled by those of my body; it is well that
anyone can see them, at least." Our hostess, Mrs. Knox, advanced to us
about this moment, and his lordship continued, smiling: "Does not your
Gordon blood rise at such abuse of a clansman? The gallant Gordons
'bruik nae slight.' Are you true to your name, Mrs. Knox?" The lady
was loud in her reprobation of the atrocious abuse that had recently
been heaped upon the noble lord, and joined in his assumed clannish
regard for their mutual name. "Lady Byron and you would agree," he
said, laughing, "though I could not, you are thinking; you may say so,
I assure you. I dare say it will turn out that I have been terribly in
the wrong, _but I always want to know what I did_." I had not courage
to touch upon this delicate topic, and Mrs. Knox seemed to wish it
passed over till a less public occasion. He spoke of Ada exactly as
any parent might have done of a beloved absent child, and betrayed not
the slightest confusion, or consciousness of a sore subject,
throughout the whole conversation.
'I now learnt from him that he had arrived in the island from
Cephalonia only that morning, and that it was his purpose (as it was
mine) to visit its antiquities and localities. A ride to the Fountain
of Arethusa had been planned for the next day, and I had the happiness
of being invited to join it. Pope's "Homer" was taken up for a
description of the place, and it led to the following remarks:
"Yes, the very best translation that ever was, or ever will be; there
is nothing like it in the world, be assured. It is quite delightful to
find Pope's character coming round again; I forgive Gifford everything
for that. Puritan as he is, he has too much good sense not to know
that, even if all the lies about Pope were truths, his character is
one of the best among literary men. There is nobody now like him,
except Watty,[12] and he is as nearly faultless as ever human being
was."
'The remainder of the evening was passed in arranging the plan of
proceeding on the morrow's excursion, in the course of which his
lordship occasionally interjected a facetious remark of some general
nature; but in such fascinating tones, and with such a degree of
amiability and familiarity, that, of all the libels of which I well
knew the public press to be guilty, that of describing Lord Byron as
inaccessible, morose, and repulsive in manner and language, seemed to
me the most false and atrocious. I found I was to be accommodated for
the night under the same roof with his lordship, and I retired,
satisfied in my own mind that favouring chance had that day made me
the intimate (almost confidential) friend of the greatest literary man
of modern times.
'The next morning, about nine o'clock, the party for the Fountain of
Arethusa assembled in the parlour of Captain Knox; but Lord Byron was
missing. Trelawny, who had slept in the room adjoining his lordship's,
told us that he feared he had been ill during the night, but that he
had gone out in a boat very early in the morning. At this moment I
happened to be standing at the window, and saw the object of our
anxiety in the act of landing on the beach, about ten or a dozen
yards from the house, to which he walked slowly up. I never saw and
could not conceive the possibility of such a change in the appearance
of a human being as had taken place since the previous night. He
looked like a man under sentence of death, or returning from the
funeral of all that he held dear on earth. His person seemed shrunk,
his face was pale, and his eyes languid and fixed on the ground. He
was leaning upon a stick, and had changed his dark camlet-caped
surtout of the preceding evening for a nankeen jacket embroidered like
a hussar's--an attempt at dandyism, or dash, to which the look and
demeanour of the wearer formed a sad contrast. On entering the room,
his lordship made the usual salutations; and, after some preliminary
arrangements, the party moved off, on horses and mules, to the place
of destination for the day.
'I was so struck with the difference of appearance in Lord Byron that
the determination to which I had come, to try to monopolize him, if
possible, to myself, without regard to appearances or _bienséance_,
almost entirely gave way under the terror of a freezing repulse. I
advanced to him under the influence of this feeling, but I had
scarcely received his answer when all uneasiness about my reception
vanished, and I stuck as close to him as the road permitted our
animals to go. His voice sounded timidly and quiveringly at first; but
as the conversation proceeded, it became steady and firm. The
beautiful country in which we were travelling naturally formed a
prominent topic, as well as the character of the people and of the
Government. Of the latter, I found him (to my amazement) an admirer.
"There is a deal of fine stuff about that old Maitland," he said; "he
knows the Greeks well. Do you know if it be true that he ordered one
of their brigs to be blown out of the water if she stayed ten minutes
longer in Corfu Roads?" I happened to know, and told him that it was
true. "Well, of all follies, that of daring to say what one cannot
dare to do is the least to be pitied. Do you think Sir Tom would have
really executed his threat?" I told his lordship that I believed he
certainly would, and that this knowledge of his being in earnest in
everything he said was the cause, not only of the quiet termination of
that affair, but of the order and subordination in the whole of the
countries under his government.
'The conversation again insensibly reverted to Sir Walter Scott, and
Lord Byron repeated to me the anecdote of the interview in Murray's
shop, as conclusive evidence of his being the author of the "Waverley
Novels." He was a little but not durably staggered by the equally
well-known anecdote of Sir Walter having, with some solemnity, denied
the authorship to Mr. Wilson Croker, in the presence of George IV.,
the Duke of York, and the late Lord Canterbury. He agreed that an
author wishing to conceal his authorship had a right to give _any
answer whatever_ that succeeded in convincing an inquirer that he was
wrong in his suppositions.
'When we came within sight of the object of our excursion, there
happened to be an old shepherd in the act of coming down from the
fountain. His lordship at once fixed upon him for Eumæus, and invited
him back with us to "fill up the picture." Having drunk of the
fountain, and eaten of our less classical repast of cold fowls, etc.,
his lordship again became lively, and full of pleasant conceits. To
detail the conversation (which was general and varied as the
individuals that partook of it) is now impossible, and certainly not
desirable if it were possible. I wish to observe, however, that on
this and one very similar occasion, it was very unlike the kind of
conversation which Lord Byron is described as holding with various
individuals who have written about him. Still more unlike was it to
what one would have _supposed_ his conversation to be; it was exactly
that of nine-tenths of the cultivated class of English gentlemen,
careless and unconscious of everything but the present moment. Lord
Byron ceased to be more than one of the party, and stood some sharp
jokes, practical and verbal, with more good nature than would have
done many of the ciphers whom one is doomed to tolerate in society.
'We returned as we went, but no opportunity presented itself of
introducing any subject of interest beyond that of the place and time.
His lordship seemed quite restored by the excursion, and in the
evening came to the Resident's, bearing himself towards everybody in
the same easy, gentlemanly way that rendered him the delight and
ornament of every society in which he chose to unbend himself.
'The Resident was as absolute a monarch as Ulysses, and I dare say
much more hospitable and obliging. He found quarters for the whole
Anglo-Italian party, in the best houses of the town, and received them
on the following morning at the most luxurious of breakfasts,
consisting, among other native productions, of fresh-gathered grapes,
just ripened, but which were pronounced of some danger to be eaten, as
not having had the "first rain." This is worthy of note, as having
been apparently a ground of their being taken by Lord Byron in
preference to the riper and safer figs and nectarines; but he deemed
it a fair reason for an apology to the worthy doctor of the 8th
Regiment (Dr. Scott), who had cautioned the company against the fruit.
'"I take them, doctor," said his lordship, "as I take other prohibited
things--in order to accustom myself to any and all things that a man
may be compelled to take where I am going--in the same way that I
abstain from all superfluities, even salt to my eggs or butter to my
bread; and I take tea, Mrs. Knox, without sugar or cream. But tea
itself is, really, the most superfluous of superfluities, though I am
never without it."
'I heard these observations as they were made to Dr. Scott, next to
whom I was sitting, towards the end of the table; but I could not hear
the animated conversation that was going on between his lordship and
Mrs. Knox, beyond the occasional mention of "Penelope," and, when one
of her children came in to her, "Telemachus"--names too obviously _à
propos_ of the place and persons to be omitted in any incidental
conversation in Ithaca.
'The excursion to the "School of Homer" (why so called nobody seemed
to know) was to be made by water; and the party of the preceding day,
except the lady, embarked in an elegant country boat with four rowers,
and sundry packages and jars of eatables and drinkables. As soon as we
were seated under the awning--Lord Byron in the centre seat, with his
face to the stern--Trelawny took charge of the tiller. The other
passengers being seated on the side, the usual small flying general
conversation began. Lord Byron seemed in a mood calculated to make the
company think he meant something more formal than ordinary talk. Of
course there could not be anything said in the nature of a dialogue,
which, to be honest, was the kind of conversation that I had at heart.
He began by informing us that he had just been reading, with renewed
pleasure, David Hume's Essays. He considered Hume to be by far the
most profound thinker and clearest reasoner of the many philosophers
and metaphysicians of the last century. "There is," said he, "no
refuting him, and for simplicity and clearness of style he is
unmatched, and is utterly unanswerable." He referred particularly to
the Essay on Miracles. It was remarked to him, that it had
nevertheless been specifically answered, and, some people thought,
refuted, by a Presbyterian divine, Dr. Campbell of Aberdeen. I could
not hear whether his lordship knew of the author, but the remark did
not affect his opinion; it merely turned the conversation to Aberdeen
and "poor John Scott," the most promising and most unfortunate
literary man of the day, whom he knew well, and who, said he, knew him
(Lord Byron) as a schoolboy. Scotland, Walter Scott (or, as his
lordship always called him, "Watty"), the "Waverley Novels," the
"Rejected Addresses," and the English aristocracy (which he reviled
most bitterly), were the prominent objects of nearly an hour's
conversation. It was varied, towards the end of the voyage, in this
original fashion: "But come, gentlemen, we must have some inspiration.
Here, Tita, l'Hippocrena!"
'This brought from the bows of the boat a huge Venetian gondolier,
with a musket slung diagonally across his back, a stone jar of two
gallons of what turned out to be English gin, another porous one of
water, and a quart pitcher, into which the gondolier poured the
spirit, and laid the whole, with two or three large tumblers, at the
feet of his expectant lord, who quickly uncorked the jar, and began to
pour its contents into the smaller vessel.
'"Now, gentlemen, drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring; it is
the true poetic source. I'm a rogue if I have drunk to-day. Come"
(handing tumblers round to us), "this is the way;" and he nearly half
filled a tumbler, and then poured from the height of his arm out of
the water-jar, till the tumbler sparkled in the sun like soda-water,
and drunk it off while effervescing, glorious gin-swizzle, a most
tempting beverage, of which everyone on board took his share, munching
after it a biscuit out of a huge tin case of them. This certainly
exhilarated us, till we landed within some fifty or sixty yards of the
house to which we were directed.
'On our way we learned that the Regent of the island--that is, the
native Governor, as Captain Knox was the protecting Power's Governor
(Viceroy over the King!)--had forwarded the materials of a substantial
feast to the occupant (his brother); for the _nobili Inglesi_, who
were to honour his premises. In mentioning this act of the Regent to
Lord Byron, his remark was a repetition of the satirical line in the
imitation address of the poet Fitzgerald, "God bless the Regent!" and
as I mentioned the relationship to our approaching host, he added,
with a laugh, "and the Duke of York!"
'On entering the mansion, we were received by the whole family,
commencing with the mother of the Princes--a venerable lady of at
least seventy, dressed in pure Greek costume, to whom Lord Byron went
up with some formality, and, with a slight bend of the knee, took her
hand, and kissed it reverently. We then moved into the adjoining
_sala_, or saloon, where there was a profusion of English comestibles,
in the shape of cold sirloin of beef, fowls, ham, etc., to which we
did such honour as a sea appetite generally produces. It was rather
distressing that not one of the entertainers touched any of these
luxuries, it being the Greek Second or Panagia Lent, but fed entirely
on some cold fish fried in oil, and green salad, of which last Lord
Byron, in adherence to his rule of accustoming himself to eat anything
eatable, partook, though with an obvious effort--as well as of the
various wines that were on the table, particularly Ithaca, which is
exactly port as made and drunk in the country of its growth.
'I was not antiquary enough to know to what object of antiquity our
visit was made, but I saw Lord Byron in earnest conversation with a
very antique old Greek monk in full clerical habit. He was a Bishop,
sitting oil a stone of the ruined wall close by, and he turned out to
be the _Esprit fort_ mentioned in a note at the end of the second
canto of "Childe Harold"--a freethinker, at least a freespeaker, when
he called the sacrifice of the Maso _una Coglioneria_.
'When we embarked on our return to Vathi, Lord Byron seemed moody and
sullen, but brightened up as he saw a ripple on the water, a mast and
sail raised in the cutter, and Trelawny seated in the stern with the
tiller in hand. In a few minutes we were scudding, gunwale under, in a
position infinitely more beautiful than agreeable to landsmen, and
Lord Byron obviously enjoying the not improbable idea of a swim for
life. His motions, as he sat, tended to increase the impulse of the
breeze, and tended also to sway the boat to leeward. "I don't know,"
he said, "if you all swim, gentlemen; but if you do, you will have
fifty fathoms of blue water to support you; and if you do not, you
will have it over you. But as you may not all be prepared, starboard,
Trelawny--bring her up. There! she is trim; and now let us have a
glass of grog after the gale. _Tita, i fiaschi!_" This was followed by
a reproduction of the gin-and-water jars, and a round of the immortal
swizzle. To my very great surprise, it was new to the company that the
liquor which they were enjoying was the product of Scotland, in the
shape of what is called "low-wines," or semi-distilled whisky--chiefly
from the distillery of mine ancient friend, James Haig of Lochrin; but
the communication seemed to gratify the noble drinker, and led to the
recitation by one of the company, in pure lowland Scotch, of Burns's
Petition to the House of Commons in behalf of the national liquor. The
last stanza, beginning
'"Scotland, my auld respeckit mither,"
very much pleased Lord Byron, who said that he too was more than half
a Scotchman.
'The conversation again turned on the "Waverley Novels," and on this
occasion Lord Byron spoke of "The Bride of Lammermoor," and cited the
passage where the mother of the cooper's wife tells her husband (the
cooper) that she "kent naething aboot what he might do to his wife;
but the deil a finger shall ye lay on my dochter, and _that ye may
foond upon_." Shortly afterwards, the conversation having turned upon
poetry, his lordship mentioned the famous ode on the death of Sir John
Moore as the finest piece of poetry in any language. He recited some
lines of it. One of the company, with more presumption than wisdom,
took him up, as his memory seemed to lag, by filling in the line:
'"And he looked like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him."
'Lord Byron, with a look at the interloper that spoke as if death were
in it, and no death was sufficiently cruel for him, shouted, "He
_lay_--he _lay_ like a warrior, not he _looked_." The pretender was
struck dumb, but, with reference to his lordship's laudation of the
piece, he ventured half to whisper that the "Gladiator" was superior
to it, as it is to any poetical picture ever painted in words. The
reply was a benign look, and a flattering recognition, by a little
applausive tapping of his tobacco-box on the board on which he sat.
'On arriving at Vathi, we repaired to our several rooms in the worthy
citizens' houses where we were billeted, to read and meditate, and
write and converse, as we might meet, indoors or out; and much
profound lucubration took place among us, on the characteristics and
disposition of the very eminent personage with whom we were for the
time associated. Dr. Scott, the assistant-surgeon of the 8th Foot, who
had heard of, though he may not have witnessed, any of the
peculiarities of the great poet, accounted for them, and even for the
sublimities of his poetry, by an abnormal construction or chronic
derangement of the digestive organs--a theory which experience and
observation of other people than poets afford many reasons to support:
'"Is it not strange now--ten times strange--to think,
And is it not enough one's faith to shatter,
That right or wrong direction of a drink,
A _plus_ or _minus_ of a yellow matter,
One half the world should elevate or sink
To bliss or woe (most commonly the latter)--
That human happiness is well-formed chyle,
And human misery redundant bile!"
'The next morning the accounts we heard of Lord Byron were
contradictory: Trelawny, who slept in the next room to him, stating
that he had been writing the greater part of the night, and he alleged
it was the sixteenth canto of "Don Juan"; and Dr. Bruno, who visited
him at intervals, and was many hours in personal attendance at his
bedside, asserting that he had been seriously ill, and had been saved
only by those _benedette pillule_ which so often had had that effect.
His lordship again appeared rowing in from his bath at the Lazzaretto,
a course of proceeding (bathing and boating) which caused Dr. Bruno to
wring his hands and tear his hair with alarm and vexation.
'It was, however, the day fixed for our return to Cephalonia, and,
having gladly assented to the proposition to join the suite, we all
mounted ponies to cross the island to a small harbour on the south
side, where a boat was waiting to bear us to Santa Eufemia, a
Custom-house station on the coast of Cephalonia, about half an hour's
passage from Ithaca, which we accordingly passed, and arrived at the
collector's mansion about two o'clock.
'During the journey across the smaller island, I made a bold push, and
succeeded in securing, with my small pony, the side-berth of Lord
Byron's large brown steed, and held by him in the narrow path, to the
exclusion of companions better entitled to the post. His conversation
was not merely free--it was familiar and intimate, as if we were
schoolboys meeting after a long separation. I happened to be "up" in
the "Waverley Novels," had seen several letters of Sir Walter Scott's
about his pedigree for his baronetage, could repeat almost every one
of the "Rejected Addresses," and knew something of the _London
Magazine_ contributors, who were then in the zenith of their
reputation--Hazlitt, Charles Lamb, Talfourd, Browning, Allan
Cunningham, Reynolds, Darley, etc. But his lordship pointed at the
higher game of Southey, Gifford (whom he all but worshipped), Jeffrey
of the _Edinburgh Review_, John Wilson, and other Blackwoodites. He
said they were all infidels, as every man has a right to be; that
Edinburgh was understood to be the seat of all infidelity, and he
mentioned names (Dr. Chalmers and Andrew Thomson, for examples) among
the clergy as being of the category. This I never could admit. He was
particularly bitter against Southey, sneered at Wordsworth, admired
Thomas Campbell, classing his "Battle of the Baltic" with the very
highest of lyric productions. "Nothing finer," he said, "was ever
written than--
'"There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time."
'We arrived at one of the beautiful bays that encircle the island,
like a wavy wreath of silver sand studded with gold and emerald in a
field of liquid pearl, and embarked in the collector's boat for the
opposite shore of Santa Eufemia, where, on arrival, we were received
by its courteous chief, Mr. Toole, in a sort of state--with his whole
establishment, French and English, uncovered and bowing. He had had
notice of the illustrious poet's expected arrival, and had prepared
one of the usual luxurious feasts in his honour--feasts which Lord
Byron said "played the devil" with him, for he could not abstain when
good eating was within his reach. The apartment assigned to us was
small, and the table could not accommodate the whole party. There
were, accordingly, small side or "children's tables," for such guests
as might choose to be willing to take seats at them. "Ha!" said Lord
Byron, "England all over--places for Tommy and Billy, and Lizzie and
Molly, if there were any. Mr. ----" (addressing me), "will you be my
Tommy?"--pointing to the two vacant seats at a small side-table, close
to the chair of our host. Down I sat, delighted, opposite to my
companion, and had a _tête-à-tête_ dinner apart from the head-table,
from which, as usual, we were profusely helped to the most recherché
portions. "Verily," said his lordship, "I cannot abstain." His
conversation, however, was directed chiefly to his host, from whom he
received much local information, and had his admiration of Sir Thomas
Maitland increased by some particulars of his system of government.
There were no vacant apartments within the station, but we learned
that quarters had been provided for us at a monastery on the hill of
Samos, across the bay. Thither we were all transported at twilight,
and ascended to the large venerable abode of some dozen of friars, who
were prepared for our arrival and accommodation. Outside the walls of
the building there were some open sarcophagi and some pieces of carved
frieze and fragments of pottery.
'I walked with his lordship and Count Gamba to examine them,
speculating philosophically on their quondam contents. Something to
our surprise, Lord Byron clambered over into the deepest, and lay in
the bottom at full length on his back, muttering some English lines. I
may have been wrong, or idly and unjustifiably curious, but I leaned
over to hear what the lines might be. I found they were unconnected
fragments of the scene in "Hamlet," where he moralizes with Horatio on
the skull:
'"Imperious Cæsar, dead and turned to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away;
O, that that earth, which held the world in awe,
Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw!"
'As he sprang out and rejoined us, he said: "Hamlet, as a whole, is
original; but I do not admire him to the extent of the common opinion.
More than all, he requires the very best acting. Kean did not
understand the part, and one could not look at him after having seen
John Kemble, whose squeaking voice was lost in his noble carriage and
thorough right conception of the character. Rogers told me that Kemble
used to be almost always hissed in the beginning of his career. 'The
best actor on the stage,' he said, 'is Charles Young. His Pierre was
never equalled, and never will be.'" Amid such flying desultory
conversation we entered the monastery, and took coffee for lack of
anything else, while our servants were preparing our beds. Lord Byron
retired almost immediately from the _sala_. Shortly afterwards we
were astonished and alarmed by the entry of Dr. Bruno, wringing his
hands and tearing his hair--a practice much too frequent with him--and
ejaculating: "_O Maria, santissima Maria, se non è già morto--cielo,
perchè non son morto io!_" It appeared that Lord Byron was seized with
violent spasms in the stomach and liver, and his brain was excited to
dangerous excess, so that he would not tolerate the presence of any
person in his room. He refused all medicine, and stamped and tore all
his clothes and bedding like a maniac. We could hear him rattling and
ejaculating. Poor Dr. Bruno stood lamenting in agony of mind, in
anticipation of the most dire results if immediate relief were not
obtained by powerful cathartics, but Lord Byron had expelled him from
the room by main force. He now implored one or more of the company to
go to his lordship and induce him, if possible, to save his life by
taking the necessary medicine. Trelawny at once proceeded to the room,
but soon returned, saying that it would require ten such as he to hold
his lordship for a minute, adding that Lord Byron would not leave an
unbroken article in the room. The doctor again essayed an entrance,
but without success. The monks were becoming alarmed, and so, in
truth, were all present. The doctor asked me to try to bring his
lordship to reason; "he will thank you when he is well," he said, "but
get him to take this one pill, and he will be safe." It seemed a very
easy undertaking, and I went. There being no lock on the door, entry
was obtained in spite of a barricade of chairs and a table within. His
lordship was half undressed, standing in a far corner like a hunted
animal at bay. As I looked determined to advance in spite of his
imprecations of "Back! out, out of my sight! fiends, can I have no
peace, no relief from this hell! Leave me, I say!" and he lifted the
chair nearest to him, and hurled it direct at my head; I escaped as I
best could, and returned to the _sala_. The matter was obviously
serious, and we all counselled force and such coercive measures as
might be necessary to make him swallow the curative medicine. Mr.
Hamilton Browne, one of our party, now volunteered an attempt, and the
silence that succeeded his entrance augured well for his success. He
returned much sooner than expected, telling the doctor that he might
go to sleep; Lord Byron had taken both the pills, and had lain down on
my mattress and bedding, prepared for him by my servant, the only
regular bed in the company, the others being trunks and portable
tressels, with such softening as might be procured for the occasion.
Lord Byron's beautiful and most commodious patent portmanteau bed,
with every appliance that profusion of money could provide, was mine
for the night.
'On the following morning Lord Byron was all dejection and penitence,
not expressed in words, but amply in looks and movements, till
something tending to the jocular occurred to enliven him and us.
Wandering from room to room, from porch to balcony, it so happened
that Lord Byron stumbled upon their occupants in the act of writing
accounts, journals, private letters, or memoranda. He thus came upon
me on an outer roof of a part of the building, while writing, as far
as I recollect, these very notes of his conversation and conduct. What
occurred, however, was not of much consequence--or none--and turned
upon the fact that so many people were writing, when he, the great
voluminous writer, so supposed, was not writing at all. The journey of
the day was to be over the Black Mountain to Argostoli, the capital of
Cephalonia. We set out about noon, struggling as we best could over
moor, marsh ground, and water wastes. Lord Byron revived; and, lively
on horseback, sang, at the pitch of his voice, many of Moore's
melodies and stray snatches of popular songs of the time in the common
style of the streets. There was nothing remarkable in the
conversation. On arrival at Argostoli, the party separated--Lord Byron
and Trelawny to the brig of the former, lying in the offing, the rest
to their several quarters in the town.'
CHAPTER VI
After an absence of eight days the party returned to Argostoli, and went
on board the _Hercules_. The messenger whom Byron had sent to Corfu
brought the unwelcome intelligence that Mr. Blaquière had sailed for
England, without leaving any letters for Byron's guidance. News also
reached him that the Greeks were split up into factions, and more intent
on persecuting and calumniating each other than on securing the
independence of their country. This was depressing news for a man who had
sacrificed so much, and would have damped the enthusiasm of most people in
Byron's position; but it neither deceived nor disheartened him. He was,
and had always been, prepared for the worst. He made up his mind not to
enter personally into the arena of contending factions, but to await
further developments at Cephalonia, hoping to acquire an influence which
might eventually be employed in settling their internal discords. As he
himself remarked, 'I came not here to join a faction, but a nation. I must
be circumspect.' Trelawny, in his valuable record of events at this time,
is hard on Byron. He mistook Byron's motives, and thought that he was
'shilly-shallying and doing nothing.' But Trelawny, though mistaken, was
sincere. He was in every sense of the word a man of action, and full of a
wild enthusiasm for the Greek cause. It was not in his nature to await
events, but rather to create them, and Byron's wise decision made him
restive. He determined to proceed to the Morea, and induced Hamilton
Browne to go with him. Byron gave them letters to the Greek Government, if
they could find any such authority, expressing his readiness to serve them
when they had satisfied him how he could do so.
Gamba takes a calmer view of Byron's hesitation. He says that Byron well
knew that prudence had never been in the catalogue of his virtues; that he
knew the necessity of such a virtue in his present situation, and was
determined to attain it. He carefully avoided every appearance of
ostentation, and dreaded being suspected of being a mere hunter after
adventures.
'By perseverance and discernment,' says Gamba, 'Byron hoped to assist
in the liberation of Greece. To know and to be known was consequently,
from the outset, his principal object.'
How far he succeeded we shall see later. From the time of Byron's arrival
at Argostoli until September 6 he lived on board the _Hercules_. Colonel
Napier had frequently begged him to take up his quarters with him, but
Byron declined the hospitality; mainly because he feared that he might
thereby embroil the British authorities on the island with their own
Government, whose dispositions were yet unknown. Early in September Byron
removed with Gamba to a village named Metaxata, in a healthy situation and
amidst magnificent scenery. A month later letters arrived from Edward
Trelawny, saying that things were not so bad as had been reported. It was
evident that great apathy and total disorganization prevailed among those
who had got the upper hand, but that the mass of the people--well disposed
towards the revolution--was beginning to take an interest in the war. A
general determination of never again submitting to the Turkish yoke had
taken deep root. The existing Greek Government sent pressing letters to
Byron inviting him to set out immediately, but Byron still thought it
wiser not to move; for the reasons which had governed his conduct hitherto
still prevailed. He was determined neither to waste his services nor his
money on furthering the greed of some particular chieftain, or at best of
some faction. Letters arrived from the Greek Committee in London,
informing Byron that arrangements had been made for the floating of a
Greek loan. Meanwhile Mavrocordato wrote to Byron from Hydra, whither he
had fled, inviting him to that island. Lord Byron replied that so long as
the dissensions between the factions continued he would remain a mere
spectator, as he was resolved not to be mixed up in quarrels whose effects
were so disastrous to the cause. He at the same time begged Mavrocordato
to expedite the departure of the fleet, and to send the Greek deputies to
London. The Turkish fleet meanwhile had sailed for the Dardanelles,
leaving a squadron of fourteen vessels for the blockade of Missolonghi,
and for the protection of a fortress in the gulf, which was still in the
hands of the Turks.
The gallant Marco Botzari had been killed in action, and Missolonghi was
in a state of siege. Its Governor wrote and implored Byron to come there;
but as the place was in no danger, either from famine or from assault, he
declined the proposal.
In the middle of November, 1823, Mr. Hamilton Browne and the deputies
arrived at Cephalonia. They brought letters from the Greek Government
asking Byron to advance £6,000 (30,000 dollars) for the payment of the
Greek fleet. An assurance was offered by the legislative body that, upon
payment of this money, a Greek squadron would immediately put to sea.
Byron consented to advance £4,000, and gave the deputies letters for
London. In allusion to the loan about to be raised in England, he thus
addressed them:
'Everyone believes that a loan will be the salvation of Greece, both
as to its internal disunion and external enemies. But I shall refrain
from insisting much on this point, for fear that I should be suspected
of interested views, and of wishing to repay myself the loan of money
which I have advanced to your Government.'
On December 17, 1823, while Byron was at Metaxata, awaiting definite
information as to the progress of events, he resumed his journal, which
had been abruptly discontinued in consequence of news having reached him
that his daughter was ill.
'I know not,' he wrote, 'why I resume it even now, except that,
standing at the window of my apartment in this beautiful village, the
calm though cool serenity of a beautiful and transparent moonlight,
showing the islands, the mountains, the sea, with a distant outline of
the Morea traced between the double azure of the waves and skies, has
quieted me enough to be able to write, which (however difficult it may
seem for one who has written so much publicly to refrain) is, and
always has been, to me a task, and a painful one. I could summon
testimonies were it necessary; but my handwriting is sufficient. It is
that of one who thinks much, rapidly, perhaps deeply, but rarely with
pleasure.'
The Greeks were still quarrelling among themselves, and Byron almost
despaired of being able to unite the factions in one common interest.
Mavrocordato and the squadron from Hydra, for whose coming Byron had
bargained when he advanced £4,000, had at length arrived after the
inglorious capture of a small Turkish vessel with 50,000 dollars on board.
This prize having been captured within the bounds of neutrality, on the
coast of Ithaca, Byron naturally foresaw that it would bring the Greeks
into trouble with the British authorities. Meanwhile, news from London
confirmed the accounts of an increasing interest in the Greek cause, and
gave good promise of a successful floating of the loan.
In the middle of November Colonel Leicester Stanhope arrived at
Cephalonia. He had been deputed by the London Committee to act with Lord
Byron. News also came from Greece that the Pasha of Scutari had abandoned
Anatolico, and that the Turkish army had been put to flight. But the Greek
factions, whose jealous dissensions promised to wreck the cause of Greek
independence, had come to blows in the Morea.
As Byron had been recognized as a representative of the English and German
Committees interested in the Greek cause, he was advised to write a public
remonstrance to the general Government of Greece, pointing out that their
dissensions would be fatal to the cause which it was presumed they all had
at heart. Byron disliked to take so prominent a step, but he was
eventually persuaded that such a letter might do a great deal of good.
Gamba cites the following extract from Byron's appeal to the executive and
legislative bodies of the Greek nation:
'CEPHALONIA,
'_November 30, 1823_.
'The affair of the loan, the expectation so long and vainly indulged
of the arrival of the Greek fleet, and the danger to which Missolonghi
is still exposed, have detained me here, and will still detain me till
some of them are removed. But when the money shall be advanced for the
fleet, I will start for the Morea, not knowing, however, of what use
my presence can be in the present state of things. We have heard some
rumours of new dissensions--nay, of the existence of a civil war. With
all my heart, I pray that these reports may be false or exaggerated,
for I can imagine no calamity more serious than this; and I must
frankly confess, that unless union and order are established, all
hopes of a loan will be vain. All the assistance which the Greeks
could expect from abroad--an assistance neither trifling nor
worthless--will be suspended or destroyed. And, what is worse, the
Great Powers of Europe, of whom no one is an enemy to Greece, but
seems to favour her establishment of an independent power, will be
persuaded that the Greeks are unable to govern themselves, and will,
perhaps, themselves undertake to settle your disorders in such a way
as to blast the hopes of yourselves and of 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, that the English public or English
individuals should be deceived as to the real state of Greek affairs.
The rest, gentlemen, depends on you. You have fought gloriously; act
honourably towards your fellow-citizens and towards the world. Then it
will no more be said, as it has been said for two thousand years, with
the Roman historian, that Philopoemen was the last of the Grecians.
Let not calumny itself (and it is difficult, I own, to guard against
it in so arduous a struggle) compare the patriot Greek, when resting
from his labours, to the Turkish Pacha, whom his victories have
exterminated.
'I pray you to accept these my sentiments as a sincere proof of my
attachment to your real interests; and to believe that I am, and
always shall be,
'Your, etc.,
'NOEL BYRON.'
Byron at the same time wrote to Prince Mavrocordato, and sent the letter
by Colonel Leicester Stanhope. He tells the Prince that he is very uneasy
at the news about the dissensions among the Greek chieftains, and warns
him that Greece must prepare herself for three alternatives. She must
either reconquer her liberty by united action, or become a Dependence of
the Sovereigns of Europe; or, failing in either direction, she would
revert to her position as a mere province of Turkey. There was no other
choice open to her. Civil war was nothing short of ruin.
'If Greece desires the fate of Walachia and the Crimea,' says Byron,
'she may obtain it to-morrow; if that of Italy, the day after; but if
she wishes to become truly Greece, free and independent, she must
resolve to-day, or she will never again have the opportunity.'
Byron, in his journal dated December 17, 1823, says:
'The Turks have retired from before Missolonghi--nobody knows
why--since they left provisions and ammunition behind them in
quantities, and the garrison made no sallies, or none to any purpose.
They never invested Missolonghi this year, but bombarded Anatoliko,
near the Achelous.'
Finlay, in his 'History of Greece,' states that the Turks made no effort
to capture the place, and after a harmless bombardment the siege was
raised, and the Turkish forces retired into Epirus.
The following extract from a letter, which Byron wrote to his sister[13]
conveys an unimpeachable record of his feelings and motives in coming to
Greece:
'You ask me why I came up amongst the Greeks. It was stated to me that
my doing so might tend to their advantage in some measure, in their
present struggle for independence, both as an individual and as a
member for the Committee now in England. How far this may be realized
I cannot pretend to anticipate, but I am willing to do what I can.
They have at length found leisure to quarrel amongst themselves, after
repelling their other enemies, and it is no very easy part that I may
have to play to avoid appearing partial to one or other of their
factions.... I have written to their Government at Tripolizza and
Salamis, and am waiting for instructions _where_ to proceed, for
things are in such a state amongst them, that it is difficult to
conjecture where one could be useful to them, if at all. However, I
have some hopes that they will see their own interest sufficiently not
to quarrel till they have received their national independence, and
then they can fight it out among them in a domestic manner--and
welcome. You may suppose that I have something to _think_ of at least,
for you can have no idea what an intriguing, cunning, unquiet
generation they are; and as emissaries of all parties come to me at
present, and I must act impartially, it makes me exclaim, as Julian
did at his military exercises, "Oh! Plato, what a task for a
Philosopher!'"
CHAPTER VII
It was during the time that Byron was in the neighbourhood of Cephalonia
that Dr. Kennedy, a Scottish medical man, methodistically inclined,
undertook the so-called 'conversion' of the poet. Gamba tells us that
their disputes on religious matters sometimes lasted five or six hours.
'The Bible was so familiar to Byron that he frequently corrected the
citations of the theological doctor.'
Byron, in the letter from which we have quoted, says:
'There is a clever but eccentric man here, a Dr. Kennedy, who is very
pious and tries in good earnest to make converts; but his Christianity
is a queer one, for he says that the priesthood of the Church of
England are no more Christians than "Mahound or Termagant" are.... I
like what I have seen of him. He says that the dozen shocks of an
earthquake we had the other day are a sign of his doctrine, or a
judgment on his audience, but this opinion has not acquired
proselytes.'
As disputants, Byron and Kennedy stood far as the poles asunder. The
former, while believing firmly in the existence and supreme attributes of
God, doubted, but never denied, manifestations that could not be tested or
demonstrated by positive proof. The latter, through blind unquestioning
faith, believed in everything which an inspired Bible had revealed to
mankind. Thus both were believers up to a certain point, and both were
equally well-meaning and sincere. The intensity of their faith had its
limitations. They did not agree, and never could have agreed, in their
views of religion. They moved on parallel lines that might have been
extended indefinitely, but could never meet. Kennedy discouraged the
unlimited use of reason, and preferred an absolute reliance on the
traditional teaching of his Church. To Byron the exercise of reason was an
absolute necessity. He would not admit that God had given us minds, and
had denied us the right to use them intelligently; or that the Almighty
desired us to sacrifice reason to faith. 'It is useless,' said Byron, 'to
tell me that I am to believe, and not to reason; you might as well say to
a man: "Wake not, but sleep."' While Byron profoundly disbelieved in
eternal punishments, Kennedy would have mankind kept straight by fear of
them. Kennedy, though versed in the Bible, was, as events proved, hardly a
match for Byron.
Hodgson, an old friend of Byron's, has left a record that a Bible
presented to him 'by that better angel of his life,' his beloved sister,
was among the books which Byron always kept near him. The following lines,
taken from Scott, were inserted by Byron on the fly-leaf:
'Within this awful volume lies
The Mystery of Mysteries.
Oh! happiest they of human race
To whom our God has given grace
To hear, to read, to fear, to pray,
To lift the latch, and force the way;
But better had he ne'er been born
Who reads to doubt, or reads to scorn!'[14]
During the discussions which took place, Kennedy was forced to admit that
Byron was well versed in the Bible; but he maintained that prayer was
necessary in order to understand its message. Byron said that, in his
opinion, prayer does not consist in the act of kneeling, or of repeating
certain words in a solemn manner, as devotion is the affection of the
heart.
'When I look at the marvels of the creation,' said he, 'I bow before the
Majesty of Heaven; and when I experience the delights of life, health, and
happiness, then my heart dilates in gratitude towards God for all His
blessings.'
Kennedy maintained that this was not sufficient; it must be an earnest
supplication for grace and humility. In Kennedy's opinion Byron had not
sufficient humility to understand the truths of the Gospel. At this time,
certainly, Byron was not prepared to believe implicitly in the Divinity of
Christ. He lacked the necessary faith to do so, but he did not reject the
doctrine.
'I have not the slightest desire,' he said, 'to reject a doctrine without
having investigated it. Quite the contrary; I wish to believe, because I
feel extremely unhappy in a state of uncertainty as to what I am to
believe.'
He wanted proofs--as so many others have before and since--and without it
conviction was impossible.
'Byron,' said Countess Guiccioli, 'would never have contested
absolutely the truth of any mystery, but have merely stated that, so
long as the testimony of its truth was hidden in obscurity, such a
mystery must be liable to be questioned.'
Byron had been brought up by his mother in very strict religious
principles, and in his youth had read many theological works. He told Dr.
Kennedy that he was in no sense an unbeliever who denied the Scriptures,
or was content to grope in atheism, but, on the contrary, that it was his
earnest wish to increase his belief, as half-convictions made him
wretched. He declared that, with the best will in the world, he could not
understand the Scriptures. Kennedy, on the other hand, took the Bible to
be the salvation of mankind, and was strong in his condemnation of the
Catholic Church. He objected to the Roman Communion as strongly as he
repudiated and despised Deism and Socinianism.
Byron had at this time a decided leaning towards the Roman Communion, and,
while deploring hypocrisies and superstitions, deeply respected those who
believed conscientiously, whatever that belief might be. He loathed
hypocrites of all kinds, and especially hypocrites in religion.
'I do not reject the doctrines of Christianity,' he said; 'I only ask a
few more proofs to profess them sincerely. I do not believe myself to be
the vile Christian which so many assert that I am.'
Kennedy advised Byron to put aside all difficult subjects--such as the
origin of sin, the fall of man, the nature of the Trinity, the doctrine of
predestination, and kindred mysteries--and to study Christianity by the
light of the Bible alone, which contains the only means of salvation. We
give Byron's answer in full on Dr. Kennedy's authority:
'You recommend what is very difficult; for how is it possible for one
who is acquainted with ecclesiastical history, as well as with the
writings of the most renowned theologians, with all the difficult
questions which have agitated the minds of the most learned, and who
sees the divisions and sects which abound in Christianity, and the
bitter language which is often used by the one against the other; how
is it possible, I ask, for such a one not to inquire into the nature
of the doctrines which have given rise to so much discussion? One
Council has pronounced against another; Popes have belied their
predecessors, books have been written against other books, and sects
have risen to replace other sects. The Pope has opposed the
Protestants, and the Protestants the Pope. We have heard of Arianism,
Socinianism, Methodism, Quakerism, and numberless other sects. Why
have these existed? It is a puzzle for the brain; and does it not,
after all, seem safer to say: "Let us be neutral: let those fight who
will, and when they have settled which is the best religion, then
shall we also begin to study it." I like your way of thinking, in many
respects; you make short work of decrees and Councils, you reject all
which is not in harmony with the Scriptures. You do not admit of
theological works filled with Latin and Greek, of both High and Low
Church; you would even suppress many abuses which have crept into the
Church, and you are right; but I question whether the Archbishop of
Canterbury or the Scotch Presbyterians would consider you their ally.'
Kennedy, in reply, alluded to the differences which existed in religious
opinions, and expressed regret at this, but pleaded indulgence for those
sects which do not attack the fundamental doctrines of Christianity. He
strongly condemned Arianism, Socinianism, and Swedenborgianism, which were
anathema to him.
'You seem to hate the Socinians greatly,' said Byron, 'but is this
charitable? Why exclude a Socinian, who believes honestly, from any hope
of salvation? Does he not also found his belief upon the Bible? It is a
religion which gains ground daily. Lady Byron is much in favour with its
followers. We were wont to discuss religious matters together, and many of
our misunderstandings have arisen from that. Yet, on the whole, I think
her religion and mine were much alike.'
Whether Byron was justified in this opinion or not may be seen from a
letter which Lady Byron wrote to Mr. Crabb Robinson[15] in reference to
Dr. Kennedy's book:
'Strange as it may seem, Dr. Kennedy is most faithful where you doubt
his being so. Not merely from casual expressions, but from the whole
tenor of Lord Byron's feelings, I could not but conclude he was a
believer in the inspiration of the Bible, and had the gloomiest
Calvinistic tenets. To that unhappy view of the relation of the
creature to the Creator, I have always ascribed the misery of his
life.... It is enough for me to remember, that he who thinks his
transgressions beyond _forgiveness_ (and such was his own deepest
feeling) _has_ righteousness beyond that of the self-satisfied sinner;
or, perhaps, of the half awakened. It was impossible for me to doubt,
that, could he have been at once assured of pardon, his living faith
in a moral duty and love of virtue ("I love the virtues which I cannot
claim") would have conquered every temptation. Judge, then, how I must
hate the Creed which made him see God as an Avenger, not a Father. My
own impressions were just the reverse, but could have little weight,
and it was in vain to seek to turn his thoughts for long from that
_idée fixe_, with which he connected his physical peculiarity as a
stamp. Instead of being made happier by any apparent good, he felt
convinced that every blessing would be "turned into a curse" for him.
Who, possessed of such ideas, could lead a life of love and service to
God or man? They must in a measure realize themselves. "The worst of
it is I _do_ believe," he said. I, like all connected with him, was
broken against the rock of Predestination.'
Lady Byron writes from her own personal experience of a time when tender
affection or sympathy formed no part of Byron's nature; of a time when he
had no regard for the interests or the happiness of others; when he lived
according to his own humours, and when his will was his law. Byron's
earlier poetry amply supports Lady Byron's view of so miserable a state of
mind. But there is reason to hope--nay, we might say to believe--that, in
the last years of his life, Byron began to realize that a merciful God
would be wholly incapable of such manifest injustice as to condemn His
creatures to suffer for crimes which they were powerless to resist and
predestined to commit. He believed in God and in the immortality of the
soul, and has publicly declared that all punishment which is to revenge,
rather than to correct, must be morally wrong. 'Human passions,' wrote
Byron, 'have probably disfigured the Divine doctrines here: but the whole
thing is inscrutable.'
Countess Guiccioli tells us that, whatever may have been Byron's opinions
with regard to certain points of religious doctrine, sects, and modes of
worship, in essential matters his mind never seriously doubted. Matthews
in his Cambridge days, and Shelley towards the close of life, moved him
not at all. Between the commencement of Byron's career and its close, his
mind passed successively through different phases before arriving at the
last result. Leicester Stanhope, who was at Missolonghi with Byron, and
who knew him well latterly, says:
'Most persons assume a virtuous character. Lord Byron's ambition, on
the contrary, was to make the world imagine that he was a sort of
Satan, though occasionally influenced by lofty sentiments to the
performance of great actions. Fortunately for his fame, he possessed
another quality, by which he stood completely unmasked. He was the
most ingenuous of men, and his nature, in the main good, always
triumphed over his acting.'
Parry, who stood at Byron's bedside when he died at Missolonghi, tells us
that Byron died fearless and resigned. Could there be a better proof than
these words, spoken by Byron a few hours before he passed away?--
'Eternity and space are before me; but on this subject, thank God, I
am happy and at ease. The thought of living eternally, of again
reviving, is a great pleasure. Christianity is the purest and most
liberal religion in the world; but the numerous teachers who are
eternally worrying mankind with their denunciations and their
doctrines are the greatest enemies of religion. I have read, with more
attention than half of them, the Book of Christianity, and I admire
the liberal and truly charitable principles which Christ has laid
down. There are questions connected with this subject which none but
Almighty God can solve. Time and Space, who can conceive? None but
God: on Him I rely.'
During the time that Byron lived at Metaxata, in Cephalonia, he seldom saw
anyone in the evening except Dr. Stravolemo, one of the most estimable men
in the island, who lived in that village. He had been first physician to
Ali Pacha. He was an entertaining man, and afforded Byron much amusement
by disputing with Dr. Bruno on medical questions.
'Lord Byron,' says Gamba, 'had generally three or four books lying
before him, of which he read first one, then the other, and used to
contrive to foment those friendly contentions, which, however, never
exceeded the proper bounds. Lord Byron's favourite reading consisted
of Greek history, of memoirs, and of romances. Never a day passed
without his reading some pages of Scott's novels. His admiration of
Walter Scott, both as a writer and as a companion, was unbounded.
Speaking of him to his English friends, he used to say: "You should
know Scott; you would like him so much; he is the most delightful man
in a room; no affectation, no nonsense; and, what I like above all
things, nothing of the author about him."'
One evening Colonel Napier, the British Resident, arrived at Byron's house
at a gallop, and asked for Drs. Bruno and Stravolemo. He said that a party
of peasants who were road-making had, in excavating a high bank, fallen
under a landslide and were in danger of their lives. There were at least a
dozen persons entombed. Colonel Napier happened to be passing at the
moment when the catastrophe occurred; help was urgently needed. Byron sent
Dr. Bruno to their assistance, while he and Gamba followed as soon as
their horses could be saddled.
'When we came to the place,' says Gamba, 'we saw a lamentable
spectacle indeed. A crowd of women and children were assembled round
the ruins, and filled the air with their cries. Three or four of the
peasants who had been extricated were carried before us half dead to
the neighbouring cottages; and we found Mr. Hill, a friend of Lord
Byron, and the superintendent of the works, in a state of the utmost
consternation. Although an immense crowd continued flocking to the
place, and it was thought that there were still some other workmen
under the fallen mass of earth, no one would make any further efforts.
The Greeks stood looking on without moving, as if totally indifferent
to the catastrophe, and despaired of doing any good. This enraged Lord
Byron; he seized a spade, and began to work as hard as he could; but
it was not until the peasants had been threatened with the horsewhip
that they followed his example. Some shoes and hats were found, but no
human beings. Lord Byron never could be an idle spectator of any
calamity. He was peculiarly alive to the distress of others, and was
perhaps a little too easily imposed upon by every tale of woe, however
clumsily contrived. The slightest appearance of injustice or cruelty,
not only to his own species, but to animals, roused his indignation
and compelled his interference, and personal consequences never for
one moment entered into his calculations.'
In the month of December the Greek squadron anchored off Missolonghi,
where Prince Mavrocordato was received with enthusiasm. He was given full
powers to organize Western Greece. The Turkish squadron was at this time
shut up in the Gulf of Lepanto.
Byron sent to inform Mavrocordato that the loan which he had promised to
the Government was ready, and that he was prepared either to go on board
some vessel belonging to the Greek fleet, or to come to Missolonghi and
confer with him. Mavrocordato and Colonel Leicester Stanhope wrote to beg
Byron to come as soon as possible to Missolonghi, where his presence would
be of great service to the cause. In the first place money to pay the
fleet was much wanted; the sailors were on the verge of mutiny.
Mavrocordato was in a state of anxiety, the Greek Admiral looked gloomy,
and the sailors grumbled aloud.
'It is right and necessary to tell you,' wrote Stanhope, 'that a great
deal is expected of you, both in the way of counsel and money. If the
money does not arrive soon, I expect that the remaining five ships
(the others are off) will soon make sail for Spezia. All are eager to
see you. They calculate on your aiding them with resources for their
expedition against Lepanto, and hope that you will take about 1,500
Suliotes into your pay for two or three months. Missolonghi is
swarming with soldiers, and the Government has neither quarters nor
provisions for them. I walked along the street this evening, and the
people asked me after Lord Byron. Your further delay in coming will be
attended with serious consequences.'
Byron at the same time received a letter from the Legislative Council,
begging him to co-operate with Mavrocordato in the organization of
Western Greece. It was now December 26, 1823. Byron chartered a vessel for
part of the baggage; a mistico, or light fast-sailing vessel, for himself
and his suite; and a larger vessel for the horses, baggage, and munitions
of war. The weather was unfavourable and squally, the vessels could not
get under-weigh, and the whole party were detained for two days, during
which time Byron lodged with his banker, Mr. Charles Hancock, and passed
the greater part of the day in the society of the British authorities of
the island.
We are able, through the courtesy of General Skey Muir, the son of Byron's
friend at Cephalonia, to give extracts from a letter which Mr. Charles
Hancock wrote to Dr. Muir on June 1, 1824. During Byron's residence at
Metaxata, Dr. Muir was the principal medical officer at Cephalonia, and it
was in his house that some of the conversations on religion between Dr.
Kennedy and Byron were held. Mr. Charles Hancock writes:
'The day before Byron left the island I happened to receive a copy of
"Quentin Durward," which I put into his hands, knowing that he had not
seen it, and that he wished to obtain the perusal of it. Lord Byron
was very fond of Scott's novels--you will have observed they were
always scattered about his rooms at Metaxata. He immediately shut
himself in his room, and, in his eagerness to indulge in it, refused
to dine with the officers of the 8th Regiment at their mess, or even
to join us at table, but merely came out once or twice to say how much
he was entertained, returning to his chamber with a plate of figs in
his hand. He was exceedingly delighted with "Quentin Durward"--said it
was excellent, especially the first volume and part of the second, but
that it fell off towards the conclusion, like all the more recent of
these novels: it might be, he added, owing to the extreme rapidity
with which they were written--admirably conceived, and as well
executed at the outset, but hastily finished off....
'I will close these remarks with the mention of the period when we
took our final leave of him. It was on the 29th December last that,
after a slight repast, you and I accompanied him in a boat, gay and
animated at finding himself embarked once more on the element he
loved; and we put him on board the little vessel that conveyed him to
Zante and Missolonghi. He mentioned the poetic feeling with which the
sea always inspired him, rallied you on your grave and thoughtful
looks, me on my bad steering; quizzed Dr. Bruno, but added in English
(which the doctor did not understand), "He is the most sincere Italian
I ever met with"; and laughed at Fletcher, who was getting well ducked
by the spray that broke over the bows of the boat. The vessel was
lying sheltered from the wind in the little creek that is surmounted
by the Convent of San Constantino, but it was not till she had stood
out and caught the breeze that we parted from him, to see him no
more.'
The wind becoming fair, on December 28, at 3 p.m., the vessels got under
way, Byron in the mistico, Pietro Gamba in the larger vessel. On the
morning of the 29th they were at Zante, and spent the day in transacting
business with Mr. Barff and shipping a considerable sum of money. Byron
declined the Commandant's invitation to his residence, as his time was
fully occupied with the business in hand. At about six in the evening they
sailed for Missolonghi, without the slightest suspicion that the Turkish
fleet was on the lookout for prizes. They knew that the Greek fleet was
lying before Missolonghi, and they expected to sight a convoy sent out to
meet them. Gamba says:
'We sailed together till after ten at night, with a fair wind and a
clear sky; the air was fresh but not sharp. Our sailors sang patriotic
songs, monotonous indeed, but to persons in our situation extremely
touching. We were all, Lord Byron particularly, in excellent spirits.
His vessel sailed the fastest. Then the waves parted us, and our
voices could no longer reach each other. We made signals by firing
pistols and carabines, and shouted, "To morrow we meet at
Missolonghi--to morrow!"
'Thus, full of confidence and spirit, we sailed along. At midnight we
were out of sight.'
At 6.30 a.m. the vessel which bore Gamba along gaily approached the rocks
which border the shallows of Missolonghi. They saw a large vessel bearing
down upon them, which they at first took for one of the Greek fleet; in
appearance it seemed superior to a Turkish man-of-war. But as Gamba's
vessel hoisted the Ionian flag, to their dismay the stranger hoisted the
Ottoman ensign. The Turkish commander ordered Gamba's captain to come on
board, and the poor fellow gave himself up for lost. They could think of
no excuse which would have any weight with their captors, and were in some
trepidation as to Byron's fate, he having money, arms, and some Greeks,
with him.
Writing from Missolonghi on January 5, 1824, Colonel Stanhope says:
'Count Gamba has just arrived here, with all the articles belonging to
the Committee. He was taken early in the morning by a Turkish ship.
The captain thereof ordered the master on board. The moment he came on
deck, the captain drew his dazzling sabre and placed himself in an
attitude as if to cut his head off, and at the same time asked him
where he was bound. The frightened Greek said, to Missolonghi. They
gazed at each other, and all at once the Turk recognized in his
prisoner one who, on a former occasion, had saved his life. They
embraced. Next came Count Gamba's turn. He declared--swore that he was
bound to Calamata, and that the master had told a lie through fear,
and that his bill of lading would bear him out. They were both taken
to the castle of the Morea, were well treated, and after three days
released.'
On January 5, 1824, Byron arrived at Missolonghi. He was received with
military honours and popular applause.
'He landed,' says Gamba, 'in a Speziot boat, dressed in a red uniform.
He was in excellent health, and appeared moved by the scene. I met him
as he disembarked, and in a few minutes we entered the house prepared
for him--the same in which Colonel Stanhope resided. The Colonel and
Prince Mavrocordato, with a long suite of Greek and European officers,
received him at the door. I cannot describe the emotions which such a
scene excited. Crowds of soldiery and citizens of every rank, sex, and
age, were assembled to testify their delight. Hope and content were
pictured on every countenance.'
Byron seems to have escaped from perils quite as great, though differing
in nature, from those through which Gamba had passed. His vessel passed
close to the Turkish frigate, but under favour of the night, and by
preserving complete silence, the master ran her close under the rocks of
the Scrofes, whither the Turk dared not follow her. Byron saw Gamba's
vessel taken and conducted to Patras. Byron, thinking it wiser not to make
straight for Missolonghi steered for Petala; but finding that port open
and unsafe, his vessel was taken to Dragomestri, a small town on the coast
of Acarnania. On his arrival there, Byron was visited by the Primates and
officers of the place, who offered him their good offices. From this place
Byron sent messengers both to Zante and Missolonghi. On receipt of Byron's
letter, Mavrocordato sent five gunboats and a brig-of-war to escort him to
Missolonghi. On January 4, the flotilla was caught in a violent storm,
which threw Byron's vessel in dangerous proximity to the rocks on that
inhospitable coast. The sailors at first behaved remarkably well, and got
the vessel off the rocks; but a second squall burst upon them with great
violence, and drove the Mistico into dangerous waters, causing the sailors
to lose all hope of saving her. They abandoned the vessel to her fate, and
thought only of their own safety. But Byron persuaded them to remain; and
by his firmness, and no small share of nautical skill, not only got the
crew out of danger, but also saved the vessel, several lives, and 25,000
dollars, the greater part of which was in hard cash. Byron does not seem
to have pulled off his clothes since leaving Cephalonia.
It was an adventurous voyage--appropriately so--for it was his last
journey in this world.
CHAPTER VIII
At the beginning of the war, Missolonghi consisted of about 800 scattered
houses, built close to the seaside on a muddy and most unhealthy site,
scarcely above the level of the waters, 'which a few centuries ago must
have covered the spot, as may be judged from the nature of the soil,
consisting of decomposed seaweed and dried mud.' The population was
exceedingly poor, and amounted to nearly 3,000 souls. The town had a most
uninviting appearance; the streets were narrow and badly paved. But, says
Millingen, what most revolted a stranger was the practice of having the
buildings so constructed that the most loathsome substances were emptied
into the streets. The inhabitants were so accustomed to this abominable
state of things that they ridiculed the complaints of strangers, and even
swore at people who ventured to suggest reform. Missolonghi must indeed
have been a wretched place even for a strong man in his full powers and
vitality--for Byron it was nothing short of Death! Trelawny tells us that
this place is situated on the verge of a dismal swamp. The marvel to him
was that Byron, who was always liable to fevers, should have consented to
live three months on this mud-bank, shut in by a circle of stagnant pools
'which might be called the belt of death.' When Trelawny arrived in the
early spring, he found most of the strangers suffering from gastric
fevers. He waded through the streets, 'between wind and water,' to the
house where Byron had lived--a detached building on the margin of the
shallow, slimy sea-waters.
Such, then, was the residence which was destined to be the last home of
the author of 'Childe Harold!'
Byron had scarcely reached the modest apartment which had been assigned to
him, when he was greeted by the tumultuous visits of the Primates and
chiefs. All the chieftains of Western Greece--that is to say, the
mountainous districts occupied by the Greeks--were now collected at
Missolonghi in a general assembly, together with many of the Primates of
the same districts. Mavrocordato, at that time Governor-General of the
province, was President of the Assembly, with a bodyguard of 5,000 armed
men. The first object of this assembly, says Gamba, was to organize the
military forces, the assignment of the soldiers' pay, and the
establishment of the national constitution and some regular form of
government for Western Greece. The chieftains were not all of them well
disposed towards Mavrocordato; the soldiers were badly paid--in fact,
hardly paid at all; and so great was the fear of disturbances, quarrels,
and even of a civil war, that without the influence of Prince
Mavrocordato, and the presence of Byron with his money, there could have
been no harmony.
After the departure of the Turks, who had blockaded Missolonghi, there was
a general feeling of security, and no one expected them to return before
the spring. The Peloponnesus, with exception of the castles of the Morea
and of Patras, of Modon and of Covon, was in the hands of the Greeks. The
northern shore of the Gulf of Lepanto, with the exception of the two
castles, were also in Greek hands. They swayed Boeotia and Attica,
together with the whole isthmus of Corinth.
Such was the state of affairs when Byron arrived on that dismal swamp. The
position in which he found himself required much skill and tact; for the
dissension among the various leaders in other parts of Greece was in its
bitterest phase, and public opinion everywhere was dead against the
executive body. It would have been fatal to the prestige of Byron if, in a
moment of impetuosity, he had cast in his lot with some particular
faction. It was his fixed intention, as it was clearly his best policy, to
reconcile differences, and to bring the contending factions closer
together. His influence amongst all parties was daily increasing, and
everyone believed that Byron would eventually be able to bring discordant
voices into harmony, and pave the way for the formation of a strong,
patriotic Government. He faced the situation bravely, and closed his ears
to the unworthy squabbles of ambitious cliques. He made arrangements, with
the best assistance at hand, to turn the expected loan from England to the
best account, in order to insure the freedom and independence of Greece.
The first day of his arrival at Missolonghi was signalized by an act of
grace. A Turk, who had fallen into the hands of some Greek sailors, was
released by Byron's orders, and, having been clothed and fed at his own
expense, was given quarters at Byron's house until an opportunity occurred
of sending him in freedom to Patras. About a fortnight later, hearing
that four Turkish prisoners were at Missolonghi in a state of destitution,
Byron caused them to be set at liberty, and sent them to Usouff Pacha at
Patras, with a letter which, though it has been often printed, deserves a
place in this narrative:
'HIGHNESS!
'A vessel, in which a friend and some domestics of mine were embarked,
was detained a few days ago, and released by order of your Highness. I
have now to thank you, not for liberating the vessel, which as
carrying a neutral flag, and being under British protection, no one
had a right to detain, but for having treated my friends with so much
kindness while they were in your hands.
'In the hope that it may not be altogether displeasing to your
Highness, I have requested the Governor of this place to release four
Turkish prisoners, and he has humanely consented to do so. I lose no
time, therefore, in sending them back, in order to make as early a
return as I could, for your courtesy on the late occasion. These
prisoners are liberated without any conditions; but should the
circumstance find a place in your recollection, I venture to beg that
your Highness will treat such Greeks as may henceforth fall into your
hands, with humanity; more especially as the horrors of war are
sufficiently great in themselves, without being aggravated by wanton
cruelties on either side.
'NOEL BYRON.
'MISSOLONGHI,
'_January 23, 1824_.'
This letter was the keynote of Byron's policy during the remainder of his
life. The horrors of war were sufficient in themselves without that
unnecessary cruelty so often exhibited by Eastern nations in their
treatment of prisoners of war.
The following account of an incident connected with Byron's clemency to a
prisoner pictures the state of things at Missolonghi.
'This evening,' says Gamba, 'whilst Mavrocordato was with Lord Byron,
two sailors belonging to the privateer which had taken the Turk came
into the room, demanding in an insolent tone that their prisoner
should be delivered up to them. Lord Byron refused; their importunity
became more violent, and they refused to leave the room without their
Turk (such was their expression) on which Lord Byron, presenting a
pistol at the intruders, threatened to proceed to extremities unless
they instantly retired. The sailors withdrew, but Byron complained to
Mavrocordato of his want of authority, and said to him: "If your
Government cannot protect me in my own house, I will find means to
protect myself." From that time Lord Byron retained a Suliote guard in
his house.'
During the winter preparations were being made for an expedition against
Lepanto, a fortress which, if captured by the Greeks, would facilitate the
siege of Patras. Its fortifications were constructed on the slope of a
hill, forming a triangle, the base of which was close to the sea. Its
walls were of Venetian construction, but without ditches. As portions of
its walls were commanded by a neighbouring hill, its siege would have
proved a very arduous undertaking even with regular troops; but with raw
Greek levies its reduction, except by famine, would have been almost
impossible. On January 14, 1824, Colonel Stanhope writes to Mr. Bowring in
the following terms: 'Lord Byron has taken 500 Suliotes into pay. He burns
with military ardour and chivalry, and will proceed with the expedition to
Lepanto.' Circumstances were, however, against this expedition from the
very beginning. Great hopes had been entertained by Lord Byron and by
Colonel Stanhope that the Suliotes would conform to discipline, and that
Mr. Parry, who had been sent out by the Greek Committee with stores and
ammunition, would on his arrival organize the artillery, and manufacture
Congreve rockets--a projectile of which the Turks were said to be in great
awe.
Parry arrived at Missolonghi early in February, on board the brig _Anna_,
which had been chartered by the London Greek Committee. He brought
cannons, ammunition, printing-presses, medicines, and all the apparatus
necessary for the establishment of a military laboratory. Several English
mechanics came with him, and some English, German, and Swedish gentlemen,
who wished to serve the Greek cause.
Mr. (or, as he was afterwards called) Major, Parry was a peculiar person
in every way. He had at one time served as a shipwright, then as
Firemaster in the King's service, and won favour with Byron through his
buffoonery and plain speaking--two very useful qualifications in
environments of stress and duplicity. When Byron appointed him Major in
the Artillery Brigade, the best officers in the brigade tendered their
resignations, stating that, while they would be proud to serve under Lord
Byron, neither their honour nor the interests of the service would allow
them to serve under a man who had no practical experience of military
evolutions. The German officers also, who had previously served in the
Prussian army, appealed against Parry's appointment, and offered proofs of
his ignorance of artillery. But Byron would not listen to complaints,
which he attributed partly to jealousy and partly to German notions of
etiquette, which seemed to him to be wholly out of place in a country
where merit rather than former titles should regulate such appointments.
In supporting Parry against these officers, Byron was in a measure
influenced by the recommendations of both the Greek Committee who sent him
out, and of Colonel Leicester Stanhope, who at that time considered Parry
to be an exceedingly capable officer. Perhaps, if Parry had not appeared
on parade in an apron, brandishing a hammer, and if he had not asserted
himself so extravagantly, he might possibly have passed muster. But tact
and modesty were not in Parry's line; and having boasted to the London
Committee that he was acquainted with almost every branch of military
mechanics, he bullied its members into a belief that his pretentions were
well founded. As a matter of fact, Parry proved to be unsuited for high
command, although it must be admitted that he worked indefatigably. He
made plans for the erection of a laboratory, and presided over the works.
He paved the yard of the Seraglio, repaired the batteries, instructed the
troops in musketry and gunnery; he gave lessons with the broadsword,
inspected the fortifications, and directed the operations of Cocchini, the
chief engineer. He repaired gun-carriages, and put his hand to anything
wanted, so that it appeared as if really nothing could be done without
him. In one thing only did Parry seem to fall short of general
expectation. He had boasted that he knew the composition of 'Congreve
rockets.' With this mighty instrument of mischief he prophesied that the
Greeks would be able to paralyze all the efforts of their enemy, both by
land and sea. The Turkish cavalry, the only arm against which the Greeks
were impotent, would be rendered useless, and the Turkish vessels, by the
same means, would be easily destroyed.
Unfortunately, the manufacture of these rockets was impossible without the
assistance of the English mechanics whom he had brought with him, and
these men were unable to work without materials, which were not
obtainable. Thus the principal part of Parry's 'stock-in-trade'--his
rockets, incendiary kites, and improved Grecian fires--were not
forthcoming.
For a long time the roads in the neighbourhood of Missolonghi were so
broken up by incessant rain that Byron could not ride or take any outdoor
exercise. This affected his health. His only means of getting a little
fresh air was by paddling through the murky waters in a sort of canoe.
During these expeditions, says Gamba, who always accompanied him, he spoke
often of his anxiety to begin the campaign. He had not much hope of
success, but felt that something must be done during these tedious months,
if only to employ the troops and keep them from creating disturbances in
the town.
'I am not come here in search of adventures,' said Byron, 'but to
assist the regeneration of a nation, whose very debasement makes it
more honourable to become their friend. Regular troops are certainly
necessary, but not in great numbers: regular troops alone would not
succeed in a country like Greece; and irregular troops alone are only
just better than nothing. Only let the loan be raised; and in the
meantime let us try to form a strong national Government, ready to
apply our pecuniary resources, when they arrive, to the organization
of troops, the establishment of internal civilization, and the
preparations for acting defensively now, and on the offensive next
winter. Nothing is so insupportable to me as all these minute details
and these repeated delays. But patience is indispensable, and that I
find the most difficult of all attainments.'
It was Byron's custom to spend his evenings in Colonel Stanhope's room,
with his English comrades. Sometimes the Germans would join the party,
play on their flutes, and sing their national airs to the accompaniment
of a guitar. Byron was fond of music in general, and was especially
partial to German music, particularly to their national songs.
Millingen tells us that in the evening all the English who had not, with
Colonel Stanhope, turned Odysseans assembled at Byron's house, and enjoyed
the charm of his conversation till late at night. Byron's character, says
Millingen,
'differed so much from what I had been induced to imagine from the
relations of travellers, that either their reports must have been
inaccurate, or his character must have totally changed after his
departure from Genoa. It would be difficult, indeed impossible, to
convey an idea of the pleasure his conversation afforded. Among his
works, that which may perhaps be more particularly regarded as
exhibiting the mirror of his conversation, and the spirit which
animated it, is "Don Juan." He was indeed too open, and too indiscreet
in respect to the reminiscences of his early days. Sometimes, when his
vein of humour flowed more copiously than usual, he would play tricks
on individuals. Fletcher's boundless credulity afforded him an
ever-ready fund of amusement, and he one evening planned a farce,
which was as well executed and as laughable as any ever exhibited on
the stage. Having observed how nervous Parry had been, a few days
before, during an earthquake, he felt desirous of renewing the
ludicrous sight which the fat, horror-struck figure of the Major had
exhibited on that occasion. He placed, therefore, fifty of his
Suliotes in the room above that where Parry slept, and towards
midnight ordered them to shake the house, so as to imitate that
phenomenon. He himself at the same time banged the doors, and rushed
downstairs, delighted to see the almost distracted Major imploring
tremblingly the mercy of heaven.'
Lord Byron was very much taken with Parry, whose drolleries relieved the
tedium and constant vexations incidental to the situation at Missolonghi.
The Major appears to have been an excellent mimic, and possessed a fund of
quaint expressions that made up for the deficiency of real wit. Millingen
says that he could tell, in his coarse language, a good story, and could
play Falstaff's, or the part of a clown very naturally. He ranted Richard
III.'s or Hamlet's soliloquies in a mock-tragic manner like a player at
Bartholomew Fair, which made everyone laugh, and beguiled the length of
many a rainy evening.
On January 21, 1824, Missolonghi was blockaded by the Turkish fleet. There
were neither guns nor even sailors fit to man the gunboats; the only
chance was to make a night attack upon the Turks in boats manned by the
European volunteers then residing at Missolonghi. Byron took the matter in
hand, and insisted on joining personally in the expedition. He was so
determined on this project that Mavrocordato and others, realizing the
folly of exposing so valuable a life on so desperate an enterprise,
dissuaded Byron from risking his valuable life in a business for which
there were already sufficient volunteers. As things turned out, it did not
much matter, for the Turkish fleet suddenly abandoned the blockade and
returned to the gulf.
On January 22, while Colonel Stanhope and some friends were assembled,
Byron came from his bedroom and said, with a smile: 'You were complaining
the other day that I never write any poetry now: this is my birthday, and
I have just finished something, which, I think, is better than what I
usually write.' He then produced those affecting verses on his own
birthday which were afterwards found written in his journal, with the
following introduction: 'January 22: on this day I complete my
thirty-sixth year.'
'We perceived from these lines,' says Gamba, 'as well as from his
daily conversations, that his ambition and his hope were irrevocably
fixed upon the glorious objects of his expedition to Greece, and that
he had made up his mind to "return victorious, or return no more."
Indeed, he often said to me, "Others may do as they please--they may
go--but I stay here, _that is certain_."'
This resolution was accompanied with the natural presentiment that he
should never leave Greece alive. He one day asked his faithful servant
Tita whether he thought of returning to Italy. 'Yes,' said Tita; 'if your
lordship goes, I go.' Lord Byron smiled, and said: 'No, Tita, I shall
never go back from Greece; either the Turks, or the Greeks, or the
climate, will prevent that.'
Parry tells us that Byron's mind on this point was irrevocably fixed.
'My future intentions,' he said, 'may be explained in a few words. I
will remain here in Greece till she is secure against the Turks, or
till she has fallen under her 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 income, 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 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
recognizing the Federation of Greece, as an independent State. This
done, England 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 Europe....
'The cause of Greece naturally excites our sympathy. Her people are
Christians contending against Turks, and slaves struggling to be free.
There never was a cause which had such strong claims on the sympathy
of the people of Europe, and particularly of the people of
England.'[16]
The following extract from a letter written by Mr. George Finlay in June,
1824, seems worthy of production in this place:
'I arrived at Missolonghi at the latter end of February. During my
stay there, in the forenoon I rode out with Lord Byron; and generally
Mr. Fowke and myself spent the evenings in his room.
'In our rides, the state of Greece was the usual subject of our
conversation; and at times he expressed a strong wish to revisit
Athens. I mentioned the great cheapness of property in Attica, and the
possibility of my purchasing some of the villas near the city. He said
that, if I could find any eligible property, he would have no
objections to purchase likewise, as he wished to have some real
property in Greece; and he authorized me to treat for him. I always
urged him to make Corinth his headquarters. Sometimes he appeared
inclined to do so, and remarked, that it would be a strange
coincidence if, after writing an unsuccessful defence of Corinth, he
should himself make a successful one. An event so fortunate, I said,
would leave him no more to ask from fortune, and reminded him how very
much of fame depends on mere accident. Cæsar's conquests and his works
would not have raised his fame so high, but for the manner of his
death.
'In the evenings Lord Byron was generally extremely communicative, and
talked much of his youthful scenes at Cambridge, Brighton, and London;
spoke very often of his friends, Mr. Hobhouse and Mr. Scrope B.
Davies--told many anecdotes of himself which are well known, and many
which were amusing from his narration, but which would lose their
interest from another; but what astonished me the most was the ease
with which he spoke of all those reports which were spread by his
enemies--he gave his denials and explanations with the frankness of an
unconcerned person.
'I often spoke to him about Newstead Abbey, which I had visited in
1821, a few months before leaving England. On informing him of the
repairs and improvements which were then going on, he said, if he had
been rich enough, he should have liked to have kept it as the old
abbey; but he enjoyed the excellent bargain he had made at the sale. A
solicitor sent him a very long bill, and, on his grumbling at the
amount, he said he was silenced by a letter, reminding him that he had
received £20,000 forfeit-money from the first purchaser. I mentioned
the picture of his bear in the cottage near the lodge--the
Newfoundland dog and the verses on its tomb. He said, Newfoundland
dogs had twice saved his life, and that he could not live without one.
'He spoke frequently of the time he lived at Aberdeen. Their house was
near the college. He described the place, but I have forgotten it. He
said his mother's "lassack" used to put him to bed at a very early
hour, and then go to converse with her lover; he had heard the house
was haunted, and sometimes used to get out of bed and run along the
lobby in his shirt, till he saw a light, and there remain standing
till he was so cold he was forced to go to bed again. One night the
servant returning, he grew frightened and ran towards his room; the
maid saw him, and fled more frightened than he; she declared she had
seen a ghost. Lord Byron said, he was so frightened at the maid, he
kept the secret till she was turned away; and, he added, he never
since kept a secret half so long. The first passion he ever felt was
for a young lady who was on a visit to his mother while they lived in
Scotland; he was at the time about six years old, and the young lady
about nine, yet he was almost ill on her leaving his mother's house to
return home. He told me, if I should ever meet the lady (giving me her
address), to ask her if she remembers him. On some conversation about
the "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," he gave as a reason for his
attacking many of the persons included, that he was informed, some
time before the publication of the review, that the next number was to
contain an article on his poems which had been read at Holland House.
"Judge of my fever; was it not a pleasant situation for a young
author?"
'In conversation he used to deliver very different opinions on many
authors from those contained in his works; in the one case he might be
guided more by his judgment, and in the other submit entirely to his
own particular taste. I have quoted his writings in opposition to his
words, and he replied, "Never mind what I print; that is not what I
think." He certainly did not consider much of the poetry of the
present day as "possessing buoyancy enough to float down the stream of
time." I remarked, he ought really to alter the passage in the preface
of "Marino Faliero," on living dramatic talent; he exclaimed,
laughing, "Do you mean me to erase the name of _moral me_?" In this
manner he constantly distinguished Milman, alluding to some nonsense
in the _Quarterly Review_. He was extremely amused with _Blackwood's
Magazine_, and read it whenever he could get a number; he has
frequently repeated to me passages of Ensign O'Doherty's poetry, which
I had not read, and expressed great astonishment at the ability
displayed by the author.
'On a gentleman present once asking his opinion of the works of a
female author of some note, he said, "A bad imitation of me--all pause
and start."
'On my borrowing Mitford's "History of Greece" from him, and saying I
had read it once, and intended commencing it again in Greece, he said,
"I hate the book; it makes you too well acquainted with the ancient
Greeks, and robs antiquity of all its charms. History in his hands,
has no poetry."
'I was in the habit of praising Sir William Gell's Itineraries to Lord
B., and he, on the other hand, took every opportunity of attacking his
Argolis though his attacks were chiefly directed against the drawings,
and particularly the view of the bay. He told me he was the author of
the article on Sir W. Gell's Argolis in the _Monthly Review_, and said
he had written two other articles in this work; but I have forgotten
them.[17]
'Whenever the drama was mentioned, he defended the unities most
eagerly, and usually attacked Shakspeare. A gentleman present, on
hearing his anti-Shakspearean opinions, rushed out of the room, and
afterwards entered his protest most anxiously against such doctrines.
Lord B. was quite delighted with this, and redoubled the severity of
his criticism. I had heard that Shelley once said to Lord B. in his
extraordinary way, "B., you are a most wonderful man." "How?" "You are
envious of Shakspeare." I, therefore, never expressed the smallest
astonishment at hearing Shakspeare abused; but remarked, it was
curious that Lord B. was so strangely conversant in an author of such
inferior merit, and that he should so continually have the most
melodious lines of Shakspeare in his mouth as examples of blank verse.
He said once, when we were alone, "I like to astonish Englishmen: they
come abroad full of Shakspeare, and contempt for the dramatic
literature of other nations; they think it blasphemy to find a fault
in his writings, which are full of them. People talk of the tendency
of my writings, and yet read the sonnets to Master Hughes." Lord B.
certainly did not admire the French tragedians enthusiastically. I
said to him, "There is a subject for the Drama which, I believe, has
never been touched, and which, I think, affords the greatest possible
scope for the representation of all that is sublime in human
character--but then it would require an abandonment of the
unities--the attack of Maurice of Saxony on Charles V., which saved
the Protestant religion; it is a subject of more than national
interest." He said it was certainly a fine subject; but he held that
the drama could not exist without a strict adherence to the unities;
and besides, he knew well he had failed in his dramatic attempts, and
that he intended to make no more. He said he thought "Sardanapalus"
his best tragedy.
'The memory of Lord B. was very extraordinary; it was not the mere
mechanical memory which can repeat the advertisements of a newspaper
and such nonsense; but of all the innumerable novels which he had
read, he seemed to recollect perfectly the story and every scene of
merit.
'Once I had a bet with Mr. Fowke that Maurice of Orange was not the
grandson of Maurice of Saxony, as it ran in my head that Maurice was a
son of Count Horn's sister. On applying for a decision of our bet to
Lord B., he immediately told me I was wrong, that William of Orange
was thrice married, and that he had Maurice by a daughter of Maurice
of Saxony: he repeated the names of all the children. I said, "This is
the most extraordinary instance of your memory I ever heard." He
replied, "It's not very extraordinary--I read it all a few days ago in
Watson's "Philip II.," and you will find it in a note at the bottom of
the last page but one" (I think he said) "of the second volume." He
went to his bedroom and brought the book, in which we found the note
he had repeated. It seemed to me wonderful enough that such a man
could recollect the names of William of Orange's children and their
families even for ten minutes.
'Once, on receiving some newspapers, in reading the advertisements of
new publications aloud, I read the name of Sir Aubrey de Vere Hunt;
Lord B. instantly said, "Sir Aubrey was at Harrow, I remember, but he
was younger than me. He was an excellent swimmer, and once saved a
boy's life; nobody would venture in, and the boy was nearly drowned,
when Sir Aubrey was called. The boy's name was M'Kinnon, and he went
afterwards to India." I think B. said he died there.
'"It is strange," I replied; "I heard this very circumstance from Sir
Aubrey de Vere Hunt, who inquired if I knew the boy, who must now be a
man, but said, I think, that his name was Mackenzie." "Depend upon it,
I am right," said Byron.
'Lord B. said he had kept a very exact journal of every circumstance
of his life, and many of his thoughts while young, that he had let Mr.
Hobhouse see it in Albania, and that he at last persuaded him to burn
it. He said Hobhouse had robbed the world of a treat. He used to say
that many of his acquaintances, particularly his female ones, while
he was in London, did not like Mr. Hobhouse, "for they thought he
kept me within bounds."
'When he was asked for a motto for the _Greek Telegraph_, by Gamba,
during the time he felt averse to the publication of a European
newspaper in Greece, he gave, "To the Greeks foolishness"--in allusion
to the publication in languages which the natives generally do not
understand.
'On a discussion in his presence concerning the resemblance of
character between the ancient and modern Greeks, he said: "At least we
have St. Paul's authority that they had their present character in his
time; for he says there is no difference between the Jew and the
Greek."
'A few days before I left Missolonghi, riding out together, he told me
that he had received a letter from his sister, in which she mentioned
that one of the family had displayed some poetical talent, but that
she would not tell him who, as she hoped she should hear no more of
it. I said "That is a strange wish from the sister of such a poet." He
replied that he believed the poetical talent was always a source of
pain, and that he certainly would have been happier had he never
written a line.
'Those only who were personally acquainted with him can be aware of
the influence which every passing event had over his mind, or know the
innumerable modifications under which his character was daily
presenting itself; even his writings took a shade of colouring from
those around him. His passions and feelings were so lively that each
occurrence made a strong impression, and his conduct became so
entirely governed by impulse that he immediately and vehemently
declared his sentiments. It is not wonderful, therefore, that
instances of his inconsistency should be found; though in the most
important actions of his life he has acted with no common consistency,
and his death attests his sincerity. To attempt by scattered facts to
illustrate his character is really useless. A hundred could be
immediately told to prove him a miser; as many to prove him the most
generous of men; an equal number, perhaps, to show he was nervously
alive to the distresses of others, or heartlessly unfeeling; at times
that he indulged in every desire; at others, that he pursued the most
determined system of self-denial; that he ridiculed his friends, or
defended them with the greatest anxiety. At one time he was all
enthusiasm; at another perfect indifference on the very same subject.
All this would be true, and yet our inference most probably incorrect.
Such hearts as Lord B.'s must become old at an early age, from the
continual excitement to which they are exposed, and those only can
judge fairly of him, even from his personal acquaintance, who knew him
from his youth, when his feelings were warmer than they could be
latterly. From some of those who have seen the whole course of his
wonderful existence, we may, indeed, expect information; and it is
information, not scandal, that will be sought for.'
CHAPTER IX
Millingen tells us that Byron, even before his arrival in Greece, was a
favourite among the people and soldiers. Popular imagination had been
kindled by reports of his genius, his wealth, and his rank. Everything
that a man could perform was expected of him; and many a hardship and
grievance was borne patiently, in hope that on Byron's arrival everything
would be set right. The people were not disappointed; his conduct towards
them after he had landed soon made him a popular idol. It was perceived
that Byron was not a theoretical, but a practical, friend to Greece; and
his repeated acts of kindness and charity in relieving the poor and
distressed, the heavy expenses he daily incurred for the furtherance of
every plan, and every institution which he deemed worthy of support,
showed the people of Missolonghi that Byron was not less alive to their
private than he was to their public interests. But there were some people,
of course, who felt a slight attack of that pernicious malady known
euphuistically as 'the green-eyed monster'. Mavrocordato, the
Governor-General of Western Greece, was, according to Millingen, slightly
afflicted with envy. He had imagined, when using every means during
Byron's stay at Cephalonia to induce him to come to Missolonghi, that he
was preparing for himself a powerful instrument to execute his own
designs, and that, by placing Byron in a prominent position which would
require far more knowledge of the state of things than Byron could
possibly possess, he would helplessly drift, and eventually fall entirely
under his own guidance. But in this Mavrocordato was entirely mistaken,
for Byron had long made up his mind as to the course which he meant to
steer, and by sheer honesty of purpose and by the glamour of his fame his
authority daily increased, while that of Mavrocordato fell in proportion,
until his high-soundi
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