After having seen that Lord Byron was unchangeable in great principles and ideas, as soon as his mind was convinced, and that he was constant to all the true sentiments of his heart, it still remains to be shown whether he was equally so in his tastes and habits.
It may be said of most men that they have no character, because they often vary in taste, and without even perceiving it. That could not be a.s.serted of Lord Byron, although sometimes, according to his self-accusing custom, he declared himself to be inconstant.
The truth is that he was, on the contrary, remarkably steadfast in his tastes. The nature of his preferences, and the conclusions to be drawn from them, will form the subject of another chapter. We shall only speak of them here as relating to constancy.
"We shall often have occasion," says Moore, "to remark the fidelity to early habits and tastes which distinguished Lord Byron." Moore then observes the extraordinary constancy Lord Byron showed in clinging to all the impressions of youth; and he adduces as a proof the care with which he preserved the notes and letters written by his favorite comrades at school, even when they were younger than himself. These letters he enriched with dates and notes, after years of long interval, while very few of his childish effusions have been kept by the opposite parties. Moore also notes several other features of this constancy, which he continued to practice throughout life. For instance, his punctuality in answering letters immediately, despite his distaste for epistolary effusions; and his love for simple music, such as that of the ballads that used to attract him at sixteen to Miss Pigott"s saloon. It was partly this same taste that made him enjoy so much, at twenty-six, the evenings he pa.s.sed at his friend Kinnaird"s house (some months before his marriage, the last of his London life), when Moore would sing his favorite songs, bringing tears to Byron"s eyes. And it was this same taste that subsequently drew him to the piano at which Madame G---- sat, at Ravenna, Pisa, Genoa; and which, when she played or sung Mozart"s and Rossini"s favorite motets, made him say that he no longer loved any other music but hers.
What he had once loved never tired him. Memory was to him like an enchanter"s wand, throwing some charm into objects which in themselves possessed none. He loved the land where he had loved, however naturally unattractive it might be: witness Ravenna, and Italy in general.
"Possession of what I truly love," said he, in the very rare moments when he did himself justice "does not cloy me." He loved the mountains of Greece, because they recalled those of Scotland; he would have loved other mountains, because they recalled those of Greece.
A few months before his death, he said in his charming poem "The Island,"--
"Long have I roam"d through lands which are not mine, Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine, Revered Parna.s.sus, and beheld the steep Jove"s Ida and Olympus crown the deep: But "twas not all long ages" lore, nor all _Their_ nature held me in their thrilling thrall; The infant rapture still survived the boy, And Loch-na-gar with Ida look"d o"er Troy, Mix"d Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount, And Highland linns with Castalie"s clear fount.
Forgive me, Homer"s universal shade!
Forgive me, Phoebus! that my fancy stray"d; The north and nature taught me to adore Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before."[75]
He would love a place of abode because he had loved when in it. The same with regard to a dwelling, a walk, a melody, a perfume, a form, and even a dish; he who cared so little for any sort of food. His childish impressions, his readings at that age, had a great deal to do with his choice of poetic subjects afterward; and we find them again reproduced even in his last dramatic work. "Werner," written in such a fine moral sense, is the result of the "Canterbury Tale" read in childhood. Never was man more constant in his habits and tastes than he; and, indeed, it required that indefinable charm of soul he possessed, and which pervaded his whole being, to prevent monotony from perverting this quality into a fault.
Why, then, have his biographers talked so much of his mobility, if it were not to make Lord Byron pa.s.s for a creature swayed by every fresh impulse, and incapable of steady feeling? I have given the first reason elsewhere.[76] But I will add another, namely, that they have transferred the qualities of the _poet to the man_ in an erroneous manner; that to the versatility of his genius (one of his great gifts, and which ever belong to him) they have added mobility of character such as often, too often, perhaps, influenced his conversation, and tinctured his external fict.i.tious nature. But they have done so without examining his actions, without reflecting that this mobility vanished as it was written, or in the light play of his witty conversation, or the trivial acts of his life. Otherwise they would have been forced to confess, that it never had any influence on his conduct in matters of moment, that he was persevering and firm to an extremely rare degree in all things _essential_ and which const.i.tute _man in his moral and social capacity_.
We may then sum up by saying that Lord Byron generally established on an impregnable rock, guarded by unbending principles, those great virtues to which principles are essential; but that, after making these treasures secure--for treasures they are to the man of honor and worth--once having placed them beyond the reach of sensibility and sentiment, he may sometimes have allowed the _lesser virtues_ (within ordinary bonds) such indulgence as flowed from his kindly nature, and such as his youth rendered natural to a feeling heart and ardent imagination. Like all men, he was only truly firm under serious circ.u.mstances, when he wished to show energy in fulfilling a duty. Thus Lord Byron allowed his pen to jest, to mark the follies of men: sometimes attacking them boldly in front, sometimes aiming light arrows aslant, ridiculing, chastising, as humor or fancy prompted; and he gave himself the same liberty of language in private conversation, according to the character of those with whom he conversed. On all these occasions his genius undoubtedly gave itself up to versatility. But let us not forget that all that which changes and becomes effaced in hearts of inconstant mood, and which ought not to change in men of honor and worth, never did vary in him. Let us acknowledge, in short, that, if mobility belonged to the _sensitive_ parts of his nature, constancy no less characterized his _moral and intellectual_ being.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 64: See chapter on "Mobility."]
[Footnote 65: Stanhope, Parry, 235.]
[Footnote 66: See Sainte-Beuve, vol. i. p. 286.]
[Footnote 67: See chapter on "Religion."]
[Footnote 68: See this prayer in chapter on "Religion."]
[Footnote 69: See chapter on "Religion."]
[Footnote 70: See octaves 48, 49 and 50, canto xiv. "Don Juan;" and several in "Childe Harold," cantos iii. and iv.]
[Footnote 71: See chapter on "Generosity."]
[Footnote 72: See chapter on "Marriage."]
[Footnote 73: See "Life at Venice, at Milan."]
[Footnote 74: See chapter on "Strength of Soul."]
[Footnote 75: "The Island," canto ii. stanza 12.]
[Footnote 76: See chapter on "Mobility."]
CHAPTER XII.
THE COURAGE AND FORt.i.tUDE OF LORD BYRON.
All the moral qualities that flow from energy--courage, intrepidity, fort.i.tude; in a word, self-control--shone with too much l.u.s.tre in Lord Byron"s soul for us to pa.s.s them over in silence, or even to call only superficial attention to them.
But, it may be said, Why speak of his courage? No one ever called it in question. Besides, is courage a virtue? It is hardly a quality; in reality it is but a duty. Yes, undoubtedly, that is true, but there are different kinds of courage, and Lord Byron"s was of such a peculiar nature, and showed itself under such uncommon circ.u.mstances as to justify observation, for it evinces a quality necessary to be noticed by all who seek to portray his great soul with the wish of arriving at a close resemblance.
"Whatever virtue may be allowed to belong to personal courage, it is most a.s.suredly those who are endowed by nature with the liveliest imaginations, and who have, therefore, most vividly and simultaneously before their eyes all the remote and possible consequences of danger, that are most deserving of whatever praise attends the exercise of that virtue."
Certainly Lord Byron made part of the category, so that Moore adds:--
"The courage of Lord Byron, as all his companions in peril testify, was of that n.o.blest kind which rises with the greatness of the occasion, and becomes the more self-collected and resisting the more imminent the danger."
Thus, far from its being the natural impetuosity that causes rash natures to rush into danger, Lord Byron"s courage was quite as much the result of reflection as of impulse. _His was courage of the n.o.blest kind_, a quality mixed up with other fine moral faculties, shining with light of its own, yet all combining to lend mutual l.u.s.tre. This is, indeed, what ought to be called _fort.i.tude_ and _self-control_, and this is what we remark in Lord Byron. But, in order not to sin against the scientific cla.s.sification used by moralists, and which requires subdivisions, we will isolate it for a moment, and examine it under the name of courage, presence of mind, and coolness.
Unaffected in his bravery, as in all things else, Lord Byron did not seek dangers, but when they presented themselves to him he met them with lofty intrepidity.
To give some examples--and the difficulty is to choose--let us consider him under different circ.u.mstances that occurred during his first travels in the East.
While at Malta he was on the point of fighting a duel, through some misunderstanding with an officer on General Oakes"s staff. The meeting had been fixed for an early hour, but Lord Byron slept so soundly that his companion was obliged to awaken him. On arriving at the spot, which was near the sh.o.r.e, his adversary was not yet there; and Lord Byron, although his luggage had already been taken on board the brig that was to convey him to Albania, wished to give him the chance at least of another hour. During all this long interval he amused himself very quietly walking about the beach perfectly unconcerned.
At last an officer, sent by his antagonist, arrived on the ground, bringing not only an explanation of how the delay had arisen, but likewise all the excuses and satisfaction Lord Byron could desire for the supposed offense. Thus the duel did not take place.
The gentleman who was to be his second could not sufficiently praise the coolness and firm courage shown by Lord Byron throughout this affair.
Some time later Lord Byron was on the mountains of Epirus with his friend and fellow-traveller, Mr. Hobhouse (now Lord Broughton). These mountains being then infested with banditti, they were accompanied by a numerous escort, and even by one of the secretaries, as well as several retainers belonging to the famous Ali Pasha of Joannina, whom they had just been visiting. One evening, seeing a storm impending, Mr. Hobhouse hastened on in front with part of their suite, in order sooner to reach a neighboring hamlet, and get shelter prepared. Lord Byron followed with the remainder of the escort. Before he could arrive, however, the storm burst, and soon became terrific. Mr. Hobhouse, who had long been safe under cover in the village, could see nothing of his friend.
"It was seven in the evening," says Mr. Hobhouse, in his account of it, "and the fury of the storm had become quite alarming. Never before or since have I witnessed one so terrible. The roof of the hovel in which we had taken shelter trembled beneath violent gusts of rain and wind, and the thunder kept roaring without intermission, for the echo from one mountain crest had not ceased ere another frightful crash broke above our heads. The plain, and distant hills, visible through the c.h.i.n.ks of the hut, seemed on fire. In short, the tempest was terrific; quite worthy of the Jupiter of ancient Greece. The peasants, no less religious than their ancestors, confessed their fears; the women were crying around, and the men, at every new flash of lightning, invoked the name of G.o.d, making the sign of the cross."
Meanwhile hours pa.s.sed, midnight drew near, the storm was far from abating, and Lord Byron had not appeared. Mr. Hobhouse, in great alarm, ordered fires to be lighted on the heights, and guns to be let off in all directions. At length, toward one in the morning, a man, all pale and panic-stricken, soaked through to the skin, suddenly entered the cabin, making loud cries, exclamations, and gestures of despair. He belonged to the escort, and speedily related the danger to which they had been exposed, and in which Lord Byron and his followers still were, and urging the necessity of sending off at once horses, guides, and men with torches, to extricate them from it.
It appears that at the commencement of the storm, when only three miles from the village, Lord Byron, through the fault of his escort, lost the right path. After wandering about as chance directed, in complete ignorance of their whereabouts, and on the brink of precipices, they had stopped at last near a Turkish cemetery and close to a torrent, which they had been enabled to distinguish through the flashes of lightning.
Lord Byron was exposed to _all the fury of the storm for nine consecutive hours_; his guides, instead of lending him any a.s.sistance, only increased the general confusion, running about on all sides, because they had been menaced with death by the dragoman George, who, in a paroxysm of rage and fear, had fired off his pistols without warning any body, and Lord Byron"s English servants, fancying they were attacked by robbers, set up loud cries.
It was three in the morning before the party could reach the shelter where their friends awaited them. During these nine consecutive hours of danger, Lord Byron never once lost his self-possession or serenity, or even that pleasant vein of humor which made him always see the ridiculous side of things.
About the same period Lord Byron and his companion, after having visited Eleusis, were obliged, by stress of weather, to stop some days at Keratea. Having heard of a wonderful cavern situated on Mount Parne, they determined to visit it. On arriving at the entrance they lighted torches of resinous wood, and, preceded by a guide, penetrated through a small aperture, dragging themselves along the ground until they reached a sort of subterranean hall, ornamented with arcades and high cupolas of crystal, supported by columns of shining marcasite; the hall itself opened out into large horizontal chambers, or else conducted to dark, deep yawning abysses toward the centre of the mountain. After having strayed from one grotto to another, the travellers arrived near a fountain of crystal water. There they stopped, till, seeing their torches wane low, they thought of retracing their steps. But, after walking for some minutes in the labyrinth, they again found themselves beside the mysterious fountain. Then they grew alarmed, for their guide acknowledged with _terror that he had forgotten the itinerary of the cavern, and no longer knew where to find the outlet_.
While they were wandering thus from one grotto to another, in a sort of despair, and occasionally dragging themselves along to get through narrow openings, their last torch was consumed. They remained a long time in total darkness, not knowing what to do, when, as if by miracle, a feeble ray of light made itself visible, and, directing their steps toward it, they ended by reaching the mouth of the cavern. Certainly, it would be difficult to meet with a more alarming situation. Mr. Hobhouse, while confessing that for some moments it had been impossible to look forward to any thing else but the chance of a horrible death, declared that, not only Lord Byron"s presence of mind and coolness were admirable in the teeth of such a prospect, but also that his playful humor never forsook him, and helped to keep up their spirits during minutes that must have seemed years to all of them.
It was during this same journey that, finding the mountains which separated them from the Morea were infested with banditti, they embarked on board a vessel of war, called the "Turk." A tempest broke out, and its violence, joined to the ignorance betrayed by the captain and sailors, put the vessel in great danger. Shipwreck seemed inevitable, and close at hand. Nothing was heard on board but cries, lamentations, and prayers. Lord Byron alone remained calm, doing every thing in his power to console and encourage the rest; and then at length, when he saw that his efforts were useless, he wrapped himself up in his Albanian cloak, and lay down on the deck, _going tranquilly to sleep until fate should decide his destiny_.