THE MODESTY OF LORD BYRON.
Among the qualities that belong to his genius, the one which formed its chief ornament has been too much forgotten.
Modesty const.i.tuted a beautiful quality of his soul. If it has not been formally denied him; if, even among those whom we term his biographers, some have conceded modesty as pertaining to Lord Byron"s genius, they have done so timidly; and have at the same time indirectly denied it by accusing him of pride.
Was Lord Byron proud as a poet and as a man? We shall have occasion to answer this question in another chapter. Here we shall only examine his claims to modesty; and we say, without hesitation, that it was as great in him as it has ever been in others. It shines in every line of his poetry and his prose, at every age and in all the circ.u.mstances of his life.
"There is no real modesty" (says a great moralist of the present day) "without diffidence of self, inspired by a deep sense of the beautiful and by the fear of not being able to reach the perfection we conceive."
As a poet, Lord Byron always undervalued or despised himself. As a man, he did so still more; he exaggerated this quality so far as to convert it into a fault, for he calumniated himself.
We have seen how unambitious Lord Byron was as a child, and with what facility he allowed his comrades to surpa.s.s him in intellectual exercises, reserving for his sole ambition the wish of excelling them in boyish games and in bodily exercises.
As a youth he did nothing but censure his own conduct, which, was not at all different from that which his comrades thought allowable in themselves. We have seen with what modest feelings he published his first poems; with what docility he accepted criticisms, and yielded to the advice of friends whom he esteemed.
When cruel criticism showed him neither mercy nor justice, notwithstanding his youthful age, he lost, it is true, serenity and moderation of spirit, but never once put aside his modesty.
Instigated by a pa.s.sion for truth, he exclaims in his first satire,--
"Truth! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his hand To drive this pestilence from out the land."
Certainly, he does not spare censure in this pa.s.sionate satire; but, while inflicting it, he questions whether he should be the one to apply the lash:--
"E"en I, least thinking of a thoughtless throng, Just skill"d to know the right and choose the wrong."
It was during the time of his first travels that Lord Byron wrote his first _chef-d"oeuvre_,[82] but so little was he aware of possessing great faculties that, while suffering from the exactions and torments they created within him, he only asked in return some amus.e.m.e.nt, an occupation for long hours of solitude.
Having begun "Childe Harold" as a memorial of his travelling impressions, he communicated it, on his return to England, to the friend who had been his companion throughout. But, instead of meeting with indulgence and encouragement, this friend only blamed the poem, and called it an extravagant conception.
He was, nevertheless, a competent judge and a poet himself. Why, then, such severity? Did he wish to sacrifice the poet to the man, fearing for his friend lest the allusions therein made should lend further weapons to the malice of his enemies? Did he dread for himself, and for those among their comrades who, two years before, had donned the preacher"s garb at Newstead Abbey, lest the voice of public opinion should mix them up in the pretended disorders of which the Abbey had been the theatre, and which the poem either exaggerated or invented? Whatsoever his motive, this friend was not certainly then a John of Bologna for Lord Byron; but the modesty of the poet surpa.s.sed the severity of his judge; for, accepting the blame as if it were merited, he restored the poem to its portfolio with such humility that when Mr. Dallas afterward heard of it almost by chance, and, fired with enthusiasm on reading it, p.r.o.nounced this extravagant thing to be a sublime _chef-d"oeuvre_, he had the greatest difficulty in persuading Lord Byron to make it public.
Gifford"s criticisms were always received by Lord Byron not only with docility and modesty but even with grat.i.tude.
He never lost an occasion of blaming himself as a poet and of depreciating his genius. Living only for affection, more than once when he feared that the war going on against him might warp feeling, he was on the point of consigning all he had written to the flames; of destroying forever every vestige of it; and only the fear of harming his publisher made him at last withdraw the given order.
He knew only how to praise his rivals, and to a.s.sist those requiring help or encouragement.
Notwithstanding the favor shown him by the public, it always appeared to him that he would weary it with any new production.
When about to publish the "Bride of Abydos," he said, "I know what I risk, and with good reason,--losing the small reputation I have gained by putting the public to this new test; but really I have ceased to attach any importance to that. I write and publish solely for the sake of occupation, to draw my thoughts away from reality, and take refuge in imagination, however dreadful."
In 1814, when Murray (who was thinking of establishing a periodical for bringing out the works of living authors) consulted Lord Byron on the subject, he, whose splendid fame had already thrown all his contemporaries into the shade, answered simply, that supported by such poets as Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and many others, the undertaking would of course succeed; and that for his part, he would unite with Hobhouse and Moore so as to furnish occasionally--a failure! and at the same time he made use of the opportunity to praise Campbell and Canning.
His memorandum-book is one perpetual record of his humility, even at a time when the public, of all cla.s.ses and s.e.xes, had made him their idol.
After having expressed in his memoranda for 1813 his sublime aspirations after glory--that is to say, the happiness he should experience in being _not a ruler, but a guide and benefactor of humanity, a Washington, a Franklin, a Penn_; "but no," added he; "no, I shall never be any thing: or rather, I shall always be nothing. The most I can hope is that some one may say of me, "_He might_, _perhaps_, if he would.""
The low estimation in which he held his poetical genius, to which he preferred action, amounted almost to a fault; for he forgot that grand and beautiful truths, couched in burning words and lighted up by genius, are also actions. He really seemed to have difficulty in forgiving himself for writing at all. Even at the outset of his literary career he was indignant with his publisher for having taken steps with Gifford which looked like asking for praise.
"It is bad enough to be a scribbler," said he, "without having recourse to such subterfuges for extorting praise or warding off criticism."
"I have never contemplated the prospect," wrote he, in 1819, "of occupying a permanent place in the literature of my country. Those who know me best are aware of that; and they also know that I have been considerably astonished at even the transient success of my works, never having flattered any one person or party, and having expressed opinions which are not those of readers in general. If I could have guessed the high degree of attention that has been awarded to them, I should certainly have made all possible efforts to merit it. But I have lived abroad, in distant countries, or else in the midst of worldly dissipation in England: circ.u.mstances by no means favorable to study and reflection. So that almost all I have written is but pa.s.sion; for in me (if it is not Irishism to say so) indifference itself was a _sort of pa.s.sion_, the result of experience and not the philosophy of nature."
The same contempt, manifested in a thousand ways throughout his life, was again expressed by Lord Byron, a few days before his death, to Lord Harrington, on being told by the latter that, notwithstanding the war he had waged against English prejudices and national susceptibility, he had nevertheless been the pride and even the idol of his country.
"Oh!" exclaimed he, "it would be a stupid race that should adore such an idol. It is true, they laid aside their superst.i.tion, as to my divinity, after "Cain.""
We find in his memoranda, with regard to a comparison made between himself and Napoleon, these significant words: "I, an _insect_, compared to that creature!"[83]
Sometimes he ascribes his poetical success to accidental causes, or else to some merit not personal to himself but transmitted by inheritance; that is, to his rank.
The generality of authors, especially poets, love to read their productions over and over again, just as a fine woman likes to admire herself in the gla.s.s. He, on the contrary, avoided this reflection of his genius, which seemed to displease him.
"Here are two wretched proof-sheets from the printer. I have looked over one; but, on my soul, I can not read that "Giaour" again--at least not now and at this hour (midnight); yet there is no moonlight."
He never read his compositions to any one. On inviting Moore to Newstead Abbey, soon after having made his acquaintance, he said, "I can promise you Balnea Vina, and, if you like shooting, a manor of four thousand acres, fire, books, full liberty. H----, I fear, will pester you with verses, but, for my part, I can conclude with Martial, "_nil recitabo tibi_;" and certainly this last promise ought not to be the least tempting for you."
Nevertheless, this was a great moment for a young author, as "Childe Harold" was then going through the press. He never would speak of his works; and when any translation of them was mentioned to him, they were sure to cause annoyance to him. Several times in Italy he paid large sums to prevent his works from being translated, at the same time not to injure the translator; but while refusing these homages for himself he desired them for others, and with that view praised and a.s.sisted them.
We have already seen all he did to magnify Moore, as well as others, both friends and rivals. The Gospel says, "Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you;" but for him the precept should rather have been reversed thus, "Do for yourself what you would do for others."
In the midst of his matrimonial sufferings, at the most cruel moments of his existence, he still found time to write and warmly recommend to his publisher works written by Hunt and Coleridge, who afterward rewarded all his kindness with the most dire ingrat.i.tude. And after praising them greatly, he adds, speaking of one of his own works, "And now let us come to the last, my own, of which I am ashamed to speak after the others.
Publish it or not, as you like; I don"t care a straw about it. If it seems to you that it merits a place in the fourth volume, put it there, or anywhere else; and if not, throw it into the fire." This poem, so despised, was the "Siege of Corinth!"
About the same time, on learning that Jeffrey had lauded "Hebrew Melodies"--poems so much above all praise that one might believe them (said a great mind lately)[84] thought by Isaiah and written by Shakspeare--Lord Byron considered Jeffrey very kind to have been so indulgent.
With what simplicity or contempt does he always introduce his _chefs-d"oeuvre_, either by dedication to his friends, or to his publisher.
"I have put in press a devil of a story or tale, called the "Corsair."
It is of a pirate island, peopled with my own creatures, and you may easily imagine that they will do a host of wicked things, in the course of three cantos."
And this _devil of a story or tale_ had numberless editions. Several thousand copies were sold in one day. We have already seen the modest terms in which he announced to his friend Moore the termination of his poem "Manfred." This is how he mentioned it to his publisher:--
"I forgot to mention to you that a kind of poem in dialogue (in blank verse), or drama, from which the translation is an extract, begun last summer in Switzerland, is finished; it is in three acts, but of a very wild, metaphysical, and inexplicable kind.
BYRON."
He describes to Murray the causes, and adds:--
"You may perceive by this outline that I have no great opinion of this piece of fantasy; but I have at least rendered it _quite impossible_ for the stage, for which my intercourse with Drury Lane has given me the greatest contempt.
"I have not even copied it off, and feel too lazy at present to attempt the whole; but when I have, I will send it to you, and you may either throw it into the fire or not.
"I have really and truly no notion whether it is good or bad, and as this was not the case with the princ.i.p.al of my former publications, I am, therefore, inclined to rank it very humbly. You will submit it to Mr. Gifford, and to whomsoever you please besides. With regard to the question of copyright (if it ever comes to publication), I do not know whether you would think _three hundred_ guineas an overestimate, if you do you may diminish it. I do not think it worth more.
BYRON.[85]
"Venice, March 9, 1817."