Among the books Murray sent him were some travels: "Send me no more of them," he wrote, "I have travelled enough already; and, besides, _they lie_."[201]
Books with effected sentiment of any kind, imaginary itineraries, made him very impatient. High-sounding phrases jarred on his ears; and I thoroughly believe that the _forty centuries" looking down from the Pyramids upon the grand French army_ somewhat _spoilt_ his hero for him.
What he especially sought for in monuments and among ruins was their authenticity. It was on this sole condition that he took interest in them.
Campbell, in his "Lives of English Poets," had averred that readers cared no more for the truth of the manners portrayed in Collins"s "Eclogues" than for the authenticity of the history of Troy:--
""Tis false," says Lord Byron in his memoranda, after having read Campbell; "we do care about "the authenticity of the tale of Troy." I have stood upon that plain daily, for more than a month, in 1810; and if any thing diminished my pleasure, it was that the blackguard Bryant had impugned its veracity. It is true that I read "Homer Travestied" (the first twelve books), because Hobhouse and others bored me with their learned localities, and I love quizzing. But I still venerated the grand original as the truth of history (in the material facts) and of place: otherwise, it would have given me no delight. Who will persuade me, when I reclined upon a mighty tomb, that it did not contain a hero? Its very magnitude proved this. Men do not labor over the ign.o.ble and petty dead--and why should not the dead be Homer"s dead? The secret of Tom Campbell"s defense of inaccuracy in costume and description is, that his "Gertrude," etc., has no more locality in common with Pennsylvania than with Penmanmawr. It is notoriously full of grossly false scenery, as all Americans declare, though they praise parts of the poem. It is thus that self-love forever creeps out, like a snake, to sting any thing which happens, even accidentally, to stumble upon it."
In order then, that Lord Byron might take an interest in either a place, a monument, or a work of art, he must a.s.sociate them in his mind with some fact which had really taken place. By what was he most impressed on reaching Venice?
"There is still in the Doge"s Palace the black veil painted over Faliero"s picture, and the staircase whereon he was first crowned Doge and subsequently decapitated. This was the thing that most struck my imagination in Venice--more than the Rialto, which I visited for the sake of Shylock: and more, too, than Schiller"s "Armenian," a novel which took a great hold of me when a boy. It is also called the "Ghost Seer," and I never walked down St. Mark"s by moonlight without thinking of it. And "at nine o"clock he died." But I hate things all fiction, and therefore the _Merchant_ and _Oth.e.l.lo_ have no great attractions for me, but _Pierre_ has. There should always be some foundation of fact for the most airy fabric, and pure invention is but the talent of a liar."
The little taste which he entertained for painting came from the impression that, of all the arts, it was the most artificial, and the least truthful. In April, 1817, he wrote to Murray as follows, on the subject:--
"Depend upon it, of all the arts it is the most artificial and unnatural, and that by which the folly of mankind is most imposed upon.
I never yet saw the picture or the statue which came a league within my conception or expectation: but I have seen many mountains, and seas, and rivers, and views, and two or three women, who went as far beyond it."
But, then, what enthusiasm, whenever he did meet with truth in art! When visiting the Manfrini Gallery at Venice, which is so rich in _chefs-d"oeuvre_, he admits the charm of painting, and exclaims:--
"Among them there is a portrait of Arios...o...b.. t.i.tian, surpa.s.sing all my antic.i.p.ation of the power of painting or human expression; it is the poetry of portrait and the portrait of poetry. Here was also a portrait of a lady of the olden times, celebrated for her talents, whose name I forget, but whose features must always be remembered. I never saw greater beauty or sweetness, or wisdom; it is the kind of face to go mad about, because it can not detach itself from its frame."
Our readers are aware with what obstinate determination the public voice proclaimed Lord Byron a skeptic, and still does. Nor will we here examine whether that epithet is merited, because a soul has been sometimes visited by the malady always more or less afflicting great minds; we will not ask if disquietude--which const.i.tutes the dignity of our nature; if the torture caused by doubts and universal uncertainty, by the impossibility of explaining what is, or of comprehending what will be, if all this deserve to be called skepticism. It is not necessary to enter into the subject here, because we have already examined in another chapter[202] with what foundation such a name was applied to Lord Byron.
Now, we will content ourselves with adding that it was his love of truth and his delicacy of conscience which caused, in a great measure, what has been called his skepticism. For these sentiments would not allow him to affirm things that many others perhaps affirm, without believing more in them. Moreover, he appears sometimes to have been _persuaded that doubt was the feeling least removed from truth_.
THIS QUALITY RISES TO A VIRTUE.
If Lord Byron"s pa.s.sion for truth had simply remained within the limits already described, it would have given earnest of a n.o.ble soul, more gifted than others, with instincts of a higher order; it would have lighted up his social character, given the charm of that frankness so delightful in his manners, conversation, style; so attractive in the expression of his fine countenance; but still it would only have been a natural quality, without any more right to the name of virtue than all the other beautiful instincts he had received from Heaven; but, when ceasing to be purely natural, it became a distinguishing characteristic of the author, then it went far beyond these limits. In his writings it raised him above all calculations of interest, made him despise all considerations of ambition or of ease, exposed him to terrible party warfare, to slander, and revenge; spurred him on to attack the great and powerful whenever they turned aside from the path of virtue, justice, or simplicity, and made him forget his nationality, that he might better remember his humanity.
Meanwhile he never once yielded to any interest; and thus this innate faculty, which might have been a virtue easily practiced, _became one of heroic merit_.
We may safely a.s.sert that all his griefs through life owed their origin to this rare quality; for perhaps he did not know sufficiently how to reconcile it with a _certain amount_ of that social virtue called prudence; whose office it is to keep silence when advisable, and not to utter dangerous truths.
Certainly Lord Byron never showed that wisdom for himself which he knew well how to practice for others; witness his conduct in Greece, where, according to the account given by all who lived with him there at that time, he displayed the utmost prudence, moderation, and ability.[203]
That social virtue of prudence, which, to our mind, is somewhat akin to a defect, was wholly wanting in him in private life; yet it is a necessary virtue in his country, and especially was so in his day.
England then was, in many respects, far from resembling the England of our time. Liberty of opinion was certainly guaranteed by law; but then there were the drawing-room tribunals; very unforgiving with regard to certain truths, and little disposed to admire that inclination which prompts superior minds not to conceal their real thoughts. The earth or the universe might have been conceded as a field open to criticism, he might express his true opinions on all points, provided only some few books, and one island, called England, were excepted. Under show of respect, absolute silence was required on these heads. They const.i.tuted the ark of alliance; to speak ill of them was not permissible, and even to praise was almost dangerous.
In the enchanted palace of "Blue beard" one single chamber was reserved; and woe to him who penetrated therein.
Since then, a period of peace and prosperity, together with the effects of time and travel, have greatly improved the n.o.ble character of the English nation. In our day, pens, tongues, and consciences are less strictly bound, and many truths may now be avowed without fear of bringing the flush of anger or of indignant modesty to the cheek.
The present, and, still less, the past, are no more considered as sacred ground. Even the Norman conquest is no longer a seditious subject. The dictionary of society has gained many words; and Englishmen no longer fear to see their children lose that patriotism which for them is almost a religion, because they read books not deifying their own country and full of libels on the rest of the globe.
Historians, novel-writers, poets--even theologians--have vied with each other in tearing away the bandages concealing many old wounds, in order to cure them by contact with the vivifying breezes of heaven; and twenty years after Lord Byron, Macaulay has been able, without losing his popularity, to show less filial piety than he, and to blame the past in language so beautiful as to obtain forgiveness for the sacrifice even of truth.
But, in Lord Byron"s time, England was carrying on her great struggle against the lion of the age. Separated from the Continent by war still more than by the sea, the cannon"s roar booming across the waters added venom to her wounds, and pride made her prefer to conceal rather than to heal them.
The echo of this detested cannon was still sounding when Lord Byron returned to England, from his travels in the East, with the same thirst for truth as heretofore, but having gained much from observation, comparison, and reflection. He believed he had the right to make use of faculties with equal independence, whether as regarded his own nation or the rest of humanity. England then seemed to wish to arrogate to herself the monopoly, of morality, wisdom, and greatness, together with the right of despising the rest of the world. Lord Byron considered this pretension as excessive, and he expressed his generous incredulity in lines proudly independent. He refused to see heroism where he did not believe it to exist, and would not accord glory to victories that seemed to him the result of chance. He refused to see virtue and religion in what he considered calculation or hypocrisy. He demanded _justice_ for Catholic Ireland, and impartiality for enemies; he even went so far as to show sympathy for Napoleon and deplore his fall. He could not allow party spirit to depreciate the genius of Napoleon. Madame de Stael, who had made Lord Byron"s acquaintance in London when he was very young, and had conceived a great liking for him, often wrote to him, and always tried to prove that he was wrong in thinking so highly of Napoleon. But on account of this Lord Byron broke off the correspondence suddenly, which vexed Madame de Stael not a little. The invasion of France, the humiliation of a great nation, was painful to him; and this generous sentiment even caused him to commit a real _fault, which he expressed regret for more than once_, says Madame G----, when conversing with her at Pisa and Genoa. The fault was a certain feeling of hostility indulged toward the ill.u.s.trious Duke of Wellington, whom he yet confessed to be the glory of his country.
"P.S.--If you hear any news of battle or retreat on the part of the Allies (as they call them), pray send it. He has my best wishes to manure the fields of France with an invading army. I hate invaders of all countries, and have no patience with the cowardly cry of exultation over him at whose name you all turned whiter than the snow to which you are indebted for your triumph."
He was too generous an enemy to echo the Archbishop of Canterbury"s prayer.[204]
As a Whig, he was indignant at the Prince of Wales"s conduct in deserting his political banner and pa.s.sing over to the Tories when he became regent; so he wrote some hard verses against him,--"Lines to a Lady weeping," addressed to the Princess Charlotte.
This poem was the olive-branch that Robert was about to s.n.a.t.c.h from the tomb. All evil pa.s.sions were now let loose against Lord Byron.
The Tory party--so influential then, and which saw with displeasure the future promise of a great orator held out in the person of a young Whig peer--gladly seized a pretext for displaying its hostility. The higher clergy naturally clung to the interests of the aristocracy, as identical with their own: moreover, they were vexed with the young lord for attacking intolerancy, hypocrisy, and similar anti-Christian qualities, and consequently espoused with ardor Tory grievances. Pretending even to discover danger to religion in some philosophical verses,[205] they denounced the young poet as an _atheist_ and a _rebel_. At the same time his admiration for foreign beauties wounded feminine self-love at home.
In thus placing the interests of truth above every other consideration, not only from the necessity he experienced of expressing it, but also with the design of serving justice, Lord Byron by no means ignored the formidable amount of burning coals he was piling upon his head. He knew well that the secret war going on against him delighted all his rivals, who, not having dared to show their spite at the time of his triumphs, had bided patiently the day of vengeance.
He was aware of it all, but did not therefore draw back; and looking fearlessly at the pile heaped with all these combustible materials intended for his martyrdom, he did not any the more cease from his work.
He resisted, and accepted martyrdom like a _hero_.
"You can have no conception of the uproar the eight lines on the little Royalty"s weeping in 1812 (now republished) have occasioned.... The "Morning Post," "Sun," "Herald," "Courier," have all been in hysterics.... I am an atheist, a rebel, and at last the devil (_boiteux_, I presume). My demonism seems to be a female"s conjecture.... The abuse against me in all directions is vehement, unceasing, loud."[206]
The editor, alarmed, proposed to have them disavowed.
"Take any course you please to vindicate yourself," Lord Byron answered him; "but leave me to fight my own way, and, as I before said, do not _compromise_ me by any thing which may look like _shrinking_ on my part; as for your own, make the best of it.... I have already done all in my power by the suppression" (of the satire). "If that is not enough, they must act as they please; but I will not "teach my tongue a most inherent baseness," come what may.... I shall bear what I can, and what I can not I shall resist. The worst they could do would be to exclude me from society. I have never courted it, nor, I may add, in the general sense of the word, enjoyed it; and there is a world elsewhere!
"Any thing remarkably injurious I have the same means of repaying as other men, with such interest as circ.u.mstances may annex to it."
After this first great explosion, of which the verses addressed to the Princess Charlotte had formed the occasion and the pretext, the commotion appeared to subside. But the fire in the mine had not gone out. It still circulated obscurely, gathering strength in the quiet darkness. Another occasion was alone wanting for a second explosion, and a hand to strike the spark. The circ.u.mstance of his unhappy marriage, which had taken place in the interval, presented this occasion; and the hand to strike the spark was the one which had received the nuptial ring a year before. The explosion was brutal, abominable, insensate--unworthy of the society that tolerated it.
Then came another interval; the good who had been drawn into this stormy current were seized with regret and remorse. "_Why did we thus rise against our spoilt and favorite child?_" The wicked knew well wherefore they had done it, but the good did not. Macaulay told it them one day, twenty years afterward, better than any one else has, in one of those pa.s.sages where the beauty of his style, far from injuring truth, lends it a double charm, enhancing it just as nature"s beauty is set off by a profusion of light.
This good feeling stealing over the public conscience alarmed Lord Byron"s deadly enemies. They feared lest sentimental remorse should compromise their victory; and they manoeuvred so well, that from that hour persecution took up permanent abode in England, under pretext of offense to religion or morals. It followed him on his heroic journey into Greece, and ceased not with his death. Even after that, the vengeance and rage of his enemies--the indiscretion and timidity of friends--the material or moral speculations of all, together with the a.s.surance of impunity--continued to feed the fire which an end so glorious as his ought to have quenched.[207]
But if the war against him did not cease, his perseverance and courage in saying what he thought did not cease either. Who more than he despised popularity and literary success, if they were to be purchased at the cost of truth?
"Were I alone against the world," said he, "I would not exchange my freedom of thought for a throne." And again: "He who wishes not to be a despot, or a slave, may speak freely."
That such independence of mind, aided by such high genius, should have alarmed certain coteries--not to speak of certain political and religious sets, who were all powerful--may easily be conceived. We can not feel surprise at the scandals they got up in defense of their privileges, when attacked by a new power who made every species of baseness and hypocrisy tremble; nor can we wonder that, unknowing where it would stop, they should have sought to cast discredit on the oracle by slandering the man. That the bark bearing him to exile should have been pushed on by a wind of angry pa.s.sions in coalition--by a breeze not winged by conscience--may also be conceived; but to _conceive_ is not to absolve, and in using the above expression we only mean to allow due share to human nature in general--to the character, manners, and perhaps to the special requirements of England. And if we ought not to condone party spirit in politics, defending privileges to the death; nor the anti-Christian ferocity displayed by that portion of the clergy who, without reason or sincerity, attacked him from the pulpit; nor yet the malice and revenge displayed in the vile slanders that pursued him to his last hour; we can, on the other hand, comprehend, and even, up to a certain point, excuse this prosperous and n.o.ble country of England for not cla.s.sing her great son among popular poets--for hiding her admiration cautiously: since it must be acknowledged that Lord Byron often acted and wrote rather _as belonging to humanity, than merely as belonging to England_.
But if he were treated with the same injustice by foreigners, could the same excuse be made for them? Would a man be excusable if laziness and carelessness made him accept, without examination, some type set up for Lord Byron by a country wounded in her self-love, as England had been, or the reserves made by hostile biographers, under the weighty influence of a society organized as English society then was? The vile system which consists in seeking to give a good opinion of one"s own morality by being severe on the morality of others, is only too well known. Would it be excusable to apply it ruthlessly to Lord Byron?--to pretend to repeat that in attacking prejudice he wounded morals?--that he injured virtue by warring against hypocrisy?--that by using a right inherent to the human mind in some hypothetical lines of a poem, written at twenty-one years of age, and which is beyond the comprehension of the mult.i.tude, since the greater number of mankind neither read elevated poetry nor works of high taste; is it not absurd to pretend that he wished to upset them in their religious belief, and deprive them of truths which are at once their consolation, support, and refuge in time of sorrow and suffering?
Nevertheless, _Frenchmen_ have spoken thus; and in this way, through these united causes, Lord Byron has remained _unappreciated_ as a man and unfairly judged as a poet.
One calls him _the poet of evil_; another _the bard of sorrow_. But no!
Lord Byron was not exclusively either one or the other. He was _the poet of the soul_, just as Shakspeare was before him.
Lord Byron, in writing, never had in view virtue rather than vice. To take his stand as a teacher of humanity, at his age, would have seemed ridiculous to him. After having chosen subjects in harmony with his genius, and a point of view favorable to his poetic temperament, which especially required to throw off the yoke of artificial pa.s.sions and of weak, frivolous sentiments, what he really endeavored was to be powerfully and energetically true. He thought that truth _ought_ always to have precedence over every thing else--that it was the source of the _beautiful_ in art, as well as of all _good_ in souls. To him lies were _evil_ and _vice_; truth was _good_ and _virtue_. As a poet, then, he was the bard of the soul and of truth; and as a man, all those who knew him, and all who read his works, must proclaim him the poet who has come nearest to the ideal of truth and sincerity.
And now, after having studied this great soul under every aspect, if there were in happy England men who should esteem themselves higher in the scale of virtue than Lord Byron, because having never been troubled in their belief, either through circ.u.mstances or the nature of their own mind, they _never admitted or expressed any doubt_; because they are the happy husbands of those charming, indulgent, admirable women to be found in England, who _love and forgive so much_; because, being rich, they have not refused _some trifle_ out of their superfluity to the poor; because, proud and happy in privileges bestowed by their const.i.tution, they have never _blamed those in power_: if these prosperous ones deemed themselves superior to their great fellow-citizen, would it be illiberal in them to express now a different opinion? Might we not without rashness affirm, that they should rather hold themselves honored in the virtue and glory of their ill.u.s.trious countryman, humbly acknowledging that their own greater happiness is not the work of their own hands?
FOOTNOTES: