My Recollections of Lord Byron Part 73

[Footnote 172: See chapter on "Courage, Coolness, and Self-control."]

[Footnote 173: Moore, vol. i.]

[Footnote 174: Galt says that what he relates of his visit to Ali Pasha has all the _freshness and life of a scene going on under one's own eye_.]

[Footnote 175: See Moore, Letters 52 and 54, to Mrs. Byron.]

[Footnote 176: Galt, p. 105.]

[Footnote 177: Moore, Letter 81.]

[Footnote 178: "Jacopo Ortis," Ugo Foscolo.]

[Footnote 179: Moore, Letter 166.]

[Footnote 180: Ibid.]

[Footnote 181: Moore, Letters 183 and 184.]

[Footnote 182: "Childe Harold," canto iv.]

[Footnote 183: Letter 312.]

[Footnote 184: See his "Life in Italy."]

[Footnote 185:

"Che giova a te, cor mio, l'esser amato?

Che giova a me l'aver si cara Amante?

Se tu, crudo Destine, ne dividi Cio che amor ne stringe!"]

[Footnote 186: Letter 386.]

[Footnote 187: Letter 389.]

[Footnote 188: It was then that "Sardanapalus" came to light.]

[Footnote 189: See chapter on "Life in Ravenna."]

[Footnote 190:

"Many small articles make up a sum, And hey ho for Caleb Quotem, oh!"]

[Footnote 191: See Letter 435.]

[Footnote 192: Moore, Letter 471.]

[Footnote 193: See his "Life at Genoa."]

[Footnote 194: See chapter on "Faults."]

CHAPTER XXV.

LOVE OF TRUTH; OR, CONSCIENCE A CHIEF CHARACTERISTIC OF LORD BYRON.

Some of Lord Byron's biographers, unable to overcome the difficulty of defining so complete a character, or of explaining, by ordinary rules, certain contradictions apparent in his rich nature, think to excuse their own inefficiency and elude the difficulty, by saying that he did not possess one of those striking points, or decided inclinations, that const.i.tute a man's moral physiognomy. They pretend that his qualities of heart and mind, his pa.s.sions, inclinations, virtues, faults, are so combined in his ardent, mobile nature, as to make him in reality the sport of chance; and that no inclination or pa.s.sion whatsoever could ever become mistress of his heart or mind, so as to const.i.tute the basis of a character, and render it possible to define it.

Moore himself, for reasons I have mentioned,[195] and which have been sufficiently spoken of in another chapter, contents himself with saying that Lord Byron's intellectual and moral attributes were so dazzling, contradictory, complicated, and varied, beyond all example, that it may be truly said there was not one man, but several men, in him:--

"So various, indeed, and contradictory, were his attributes, both moral and intellectual, that he may be p.r.o.nounced to have been, not one, but many; nor would it be any great exaggeration of the truth to say that, out of the mere part.i.tion of the properties of his single mind, a plurality of characters, all different and all vigorous, might have been furnished. It was this multiform aspect exhibited by him that led the world, during his short, wondrous career, to compare him with that medley host of personages, almost all differing from each other, which he playfully enumerates in one of his journals."

These observations of Moore's are only true from a certain point of view--the richness of Lord Byron's nature. But even if this exuberance of faculties, united in one individual, had not been already in itself a character, and had not const.i.tuted a well-marked distinct personality, almost unique in kind, Moore would have been at variance with the most profound moralists, who agree that human nature never has the simplicity of a geometrical figure, and that, in reality, characters always are mixed, complicated, composed of opposite elements of incompatible inclinations and pa.s.sions. For Moore appears to think that men are almost always swayed by one chief pa.s.sion, round which, as round a pivot, life unrolls itself, just as we see in theatrical pieces. But even if this system were correct, intimate, as he was with Lord Byron, and so full of perspicacity, could he not have found, towering above the rich profusion of qualities in his friend, one dominant pa.s.sion? Yes, he ought to have discovered it; but there was a _struggle_ in Moore between the love of justice and his friendship for Lord Byron on one side, _and the desire, alas! of keeping fair with a host of prejudices_ arrayed against Lord Byron on the other; and on the favor of these persons Moore felt that his own position, or rather his pleasure in society, depended.

The master-pa.s.sion that occupied so great a place in Lord Byron's mind was his _love of truth, with all the qualities flowing from it_.

It may, perhaps, be said that all beautiful souls love truth more or less. Yes; but seldom does this quality acquire such complete development as in Lord Byron. For with him it was a _real pa.s.sion_, since it gave the law, so to say, to his heart, his mind, and all the actions of his life. This extraordinary attraction, coming in contact with the lies, hypocrisy, baseness, cowardice, and deceitfulness of others, often raised indignation to such a pitch that he could not help showing and expressing it. Thus his love of truth affected his social status in England, doing him immense harm; and, if it contributed to his greatness and his heroism, so it likewise added to his sorrows.

This n.o.ble quality showed itself in him, we may say, from his birth, under the form of _sincerity, frankness, a pa.s.sion for justice, loyalty, delicacy, honor, and likewise in the shape of special hatred for all hypocrisy, and for that shade of it peculiar to England, called cant_.

Amid all the pa.s.sions and events of life, whatsoever the consequences, Lord Byron always went straight at truth; as the hero marches up under fire, or the saint to martyrdom. A lie was not only a lie to him, it was also an injustice, a cowardice, the mark of a corrupt soul, an inconceivable thing, and not to be forgiven. A child, at Aberdeen, he was taken to the play to see one of Shakspeare's pieces, wherein an actor, showing the sun, says it is the moon. He was a timid child, but (incapable then of understanding Shakspeare's meaning) this outrage on truth excited him so far that he rose from his seat and exclaimed, "_I tell you, my dear sir, that it is the sun_." With regard to lying, he remained his whole life the child of Aberdeen.

Neither his nurses nor preceptors ever surprised him in a lie.

Education, which in England, more than elsewhere, modifies and shapes men according to the requirements of their social position, had no power to affect the fundamental part of his nature. While forming his mind, it did not change his heart. It destroyed some very dear illusions, and made his soul grow sick with disappointment, so that he never ceased regretting his happy childhood. In some respects it even had power to superadd a fict.i.tious character to his real one, but his qualities of soul and his natural character still remained untouched.

The ardent affection he entertained for one of the masters at Harrow--Dr. Drury--made him feel dislike to this gentleman's successor.

Having been asked to dinner by him, Lord Byron declined, because, he said, that by accepting, _he should belie his heart_. At the university, he, like his companions, ran after the young girls of Cambridge and its environs, but he never seduced or deceived any. Early in life he adopted the good habit of examining himself most rigidly; and so strict was his conscience, that, where his companions saw reason to excuse him, he, on the contrary, found cause for self-reproach.

It was this same imperious, innate want of his nature, which, combined with certain circ.u.mstances, made him ill for a time. The malady was one quite foreign to his temperament, springing from self-depreciation, and because he did not then find sufficient gratification in society. A sort of misanthropy stole over his soul, chaining him to the East for two years, as a land where both soul and heart were less tried.

On his return home, the impressionability belonging to his ardent, enthusiastic nature may have produced undue excitement, but no bad feeling could ever dim the l.u.s.tre of the n.o.bler pa.s.sion that held sway over him.

For him truth was more than a virtue, it was an imperative duty.

Indulgent as he ever showed himself toward all weaknesses in general, and especially toward the faults committed by his servants, he could not forgive _a lie_.

At Ravenna, a young woman attached to the service of his little Allegra, being unwilling to avow, for fear of dismissal, that Allegra had had a fall, though the child bore the mark of it, told an untruth instead. No intercession could prevail on Lord Byron to pardon her, and she was sent away.[196]

Though eager for glory--especially at an age when not having yet arrived at it, he ignored the bite of the serpent that often lurks within a garland of roses--he yet repelled all undue praise, and was much more indignant at receiving it, than when unmerited blame was heaped upon him. Once, having been compared to a man of high standing in French literature, he, anxious to prove that there could be no resemblance between him and this great man, replied:--"If the thing were true, it might flatter me; but it is impossible to accept fictions with pleasure."

When Dallas--who only knew him then by his family name--read his early productions, he was enchanted with poetry that often rose to the sublime, and was always chivalrous in feeling, "which denoted," he said, "a heart full of honorable sentiments, and formed for virtue." This is a precious verdict, coming as it does, from a man so bigoted in all respects as the elder Dallas. He adds afterward that the perusal of these verses, and the sentiments contained in them, made him discover great affinity of mind between the young author and another literary man, who was equally remarkable as a poet, an orator, and a historian--"_the great and good Lord Lyttelton of immortal fame_." "And I doubt not," added Dallas, "that one day, like him, he will confer more honor on the peerage than it can ever reflect on him." Such a compliment from a man so rigid and respectable might certainly have tempted the most ordinary self-love, but Lord Byron, applying his magnifying-gla.s.s to his conscience, and comparing what he saw there with his ideal, did not conceive he merited such praise. Accordingly he answered with candor that enchanted Dallas himself:--

"Though our periodical censors have been uncommonly lenient, I confess a tribute from a man of acknowledged genius is still more flattering. But I am afraid I should forfeit all claim to candor, if I did not decline such praise as I do not deserve, and this is, I am sorry to say, the case in the present instance. My pretensions to virtue are, unluckily, so few, that, though I should be happy to deserve your praise, I can not accept your applause in that respect."

Thus, from fear of being wanting in truth, he exaggerated his youthful imperfections, nor could find any excuse for them. And in the same way throughout life his dread of making himself out better than he was, led him into the opposite defect of representing himself as far inferior to his real worth.

If from considering of the man, we turn to look at the author, we shall still always find the same pa.s.sion for truth. By degrees, as he observed society around him, this pa.s.sion increased, for he found the dominant vice was precisely that one most repugnant to his nature. If Lord Byron ever admitted, with La Rochefoucault, _that hypocrisy is a homage vice renders to virtue_, he did not the less consider this homage as degrading to him who offered it, insulting to those to whom it is addressed, and most corrupting in its effect upon the soul.