Recollections of the Life of Lord Byron
Chapter XII
RECOLLECTIONS
OF THE
LIFE OF LORD BYRON,
FROM THE YEAR
1808 TO THE END OF 1814;
EXHIBITING
HIS EARLY CHARACTER AND OPINIONS, DETAILING THE PROGRESS OF HIS
LITERARY CAREER, AND INCLUDING VARIOUS UNPUBLISHED
PASSAGES OF HIS WORKS.
TAKEN FROM AUTHENTIC DOCUMENTS.
IN THE POSSESSION OF THE AUTHOR.
BY THE LATE
R. C. DALLAS, Esq.
TO WHICH IS PREFIXED
AN ACCOUNT OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES LEADING TO THE SUPPRESSION
OF LORD
BYRON’S CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE AUTHOR,
AND HIS LETTERS TO HIS MOTHER,
LATELY
ANNOUNCED FOR PUBLICATION.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR CHARLES KNIGHT, PALL-MALL-EAST.
MDCCCXXIV.
CHAPTER XII.
CONCLUSION.
This work had proceeded thus far, when it pleased God to stop
the pen of the writer, and bid to cease the current of recollections which had set it in
motion. Mr. Dallas had been attacked, in the month
of July*, with an inflammatory fever, for which copious bleeding was necessary: he
recovered indeed from the immediate disease, but the debility occasioned by the remedy was
too great for his constitution to overcome, and he gradually sank under its effects. On the
21st of October, 1824, he expired. On his death-bed, and with a near view of eternity
before him, which
* See Preliminary Statement. |
was brightened by the firm hope of its being passed in the presence
of his reconciled Maker, he confided to the writer of the following pages the task of
closing these Recollections, and imparted to him his feelings and opinions upon the matter
which should compose this concluding chapter.
While executing this sacred commission, I intreat the reader to remember
that it is not the same person who writes; and not only that the writer is different, but
to call to mind that it is a son who takes up the mantle which a father has cast down in
leaving this world. Whoever has perused the foregoing pages, cannot but feel that the
author has borne a part in the circumstances which are related of so honourable a nature,
that a son may be well authorised to speak in other terms than those which the person
himself might use. And if, in any thing I may say, it should be
thought that I have overstepped the reasonable licence which may be granted to the feelings
of so near and dear a connexion, I trust that whatever may be counted as excess, will be
pardoned in consideration of the fresh and powerful impulse which cannot but be given by
the sense of so recent an event.
The character of Lord Byron, as it
stands depicted in the preceding pages, will appear in a different light from that in which
the public have recently been led to regard it. Piquant anecdotes, and scandalous
chronicles, may serve to amuse for a time the unthinking; but their real tendency is to
pander to the worst feelings ot our nature, by dragging into light the corruptions which
disgrace humanity. It is not difficult to form an estimate of what Lord
Byron might have been, by attending to the causes which made him what he
was.
To reason from hearsay, and form opinions upon the unauthenticated annals
of common conversation, can never bring us to truth, nor give to our judgments sufficient
certainty for practical purposes. It will therefore be useless to attempt to estimate
Lord Byron’s original character from the
events commonly related of his early life; nor to take into consideration the defects of
his education, and the misfortunes of his boyhood. We have no authorized data upon which to
conduct such an inquiry. But the pages of this book do contain authorized data. They
contain opinions, and feelings, and facts, established by his own hand, although
circumstances withhold from the British public the original records. These data will show
us what he was, immediately before and immediately after the public development of his
poetical powers had thrown him into a vortex which
decided his character, whatever it might have been previously.
There might have been some difficulty in finding so reasonable a
ground-work upon which to form an opinion of what he had continued to be in his subsequent
progress through life; and the fairest inference would have been that which his own later
productions afford, had not a work been published purporting to be the record of Conversations held with
Lord Byron at Pisa, in the years 1821 and 1822. This
book appeared on the very day on which my father’s remains were consigned to the grave, and I cannot be too
thankful that he was spared the pain which he would have felt in reading it.
The perusal of this book rewards the reader, as he was rewarded who
opened Pandora’s box. It fills the mind with an
unvaried train of miserable reflections; but there is one consolation at the end. As by
a mathematical axiom the lesser is contained in the greater, so the
comparatively smaller crime of falsehood is necessarily within the capability of one so
depraved as Lord Byron appears in this book; and by the
same argument, the man whose mind could be in such a state as to suppose that he was doing
“the world” and “the memory of Lord Byron” a
service, by thus laying bare the degradation to which a master-mind was reduced, must
surely be unable to restrain the tendency to exaggeration which would heighten the
incredibility of what is already beyond belief. This opinion concerning the reporter of
Lord Byron’s conversations is in some degree confirmed, by
the simplicity which he displays in stating, that when Lord Byron was
applied to for some authentic particulars of his life, his lordship asked the reporter himself, “Why he did
not write some, as he believed that he knew more of
him than any one else?” This was after three or four
months’ acquaintance*!
In my own case, after reading the book to which I allude, this solitary
consolation on account of Lord Byron was accompanied by
a feeling of great satisfaction on account of my father; for, if its contents be not
* There are several things mentioned in this book of Conversations which prove,
to say the least, that Lord Byron’s memory
was not correct, if what is reported of him be true. On one occasion his lordship
is stated to have said that his mother’s death was one of the reasons of his return from
Turkey, and this is repeated more strongly in another place. His mother’s
death did not take place until several weeks after his arrival in London, and he
had not the slightest expectation of it when it happened. Lord
Byron is also stated to have said, that after an absence of three years, he returned to London, and that the second
canto of Childe Harold was just then
published. The fact is, that he was absent two years to a
day, which he remarked himself in a very strong manner, returning in July, 1811,
and that the first and second cantos of Childe Harold
were published together eight months after, in March, 1812, in the manner related
in these Recollections. |
only the truth, but the whole truth, Lord Byron
afforded the highest testimony of his respect for my father’s character, which in his unhappy situation he could possibly
upon give. In such company, and conversing such subjects, he forbore to mention his name,
although referring to matters upon which, the reader will have seen, it would have been
natural to have spoken of him. I am willing to attribute this silence to the circumstance
that, in Lord Byron’s mind, my father’s name must have
been connected with the remembrance of all he had done, and said, and written, to turn him
into the better path; and his Lordship could not have borne to recal that train of thought,
after he had decidedly chosen the worse. That my father’s earnest exertions had been
applied to this end, will sufficiently appear from the foregoing part of this work; and,
perhaps, I shall be pardoned for inserting here the body of a letter
which he wrote to Lord Byron at a much later period, to prove that he
still retained that object in view. The letter is that alluded to in the last chapter,
when, stating that he informed Lord Byron of his intention to leave a
posthumous account of him, he extracted a short passage from it. The whole letter, which
might not so well have been made public by the writer himself, cannot be considered as
improperly published by the present Editor.
It was dated the 10th of November, 1819, and after some introductory
remarks upon the cessation of his correspondence with Lord
Byron, it proceeds as follows:—
“I am almost out of life, and I shall speak to you
with the freedom of a spirit already arrived beyond the grave: what I now write
you may suppose addressed to you in a dream, or by my ghost, which I believe
will be greatly inclined to haunt
you, and render you
even supernatural service.
“I take it for granted, my Lord, that when you
excluded me from your friendship, you also banished me from your thoughts, and
forgot the occurrences of our intimacy. I will, therefore, bring one
circumstance to your recollection, as it is introductory to the subject of this
letter. One day when I called upon you at your apartments in the Albany, you
took up a book in which you had been writing, and having read a few short
passages, you said that you intended to fill it with the characters of those
then around you, and with present anecdotes, to be published in the succeeding
century, and not before; and you enjoyed, by anticipation, the effect that
would be produced on the fifth and sixth generations of those to whom you
should give niches in your posthumous volume. I have often thought of this
fancy of yours, and imagined the wits, the belles,
and
the beaux, the dupes of our sex, and the artful and frail ones of the other,
figuring at the beginning of the twentieth century in the costume of the early
part of the nineteenth. I remember well that after one or two slight sketches
you concluded with, ‘This morning
Mr.
Dallas was here, &c. &c.’ You went on no farther,
but the smile with which you shut your book gave me to understand that the
colours you had used for my portrait were not of a dismal hue, and I was
inclined enough at the time to digest the flattery, as I was conscious that I
deserved your kindness, and believed that you felt so too. But, however that
may be, whether the words were a mere flattering impromptu or not, whatever
character you may have doomed me to figure in, a hundred years hence, you
certainly have not done me justice in this age: it will not, therefore, appear
extraordinary if I should not have depended altogether for my character
on the smile with which you put your volume down.
“Lest you should suspect some inconsistency in this,
and that although I began by assuring you that I did not mean to complain, my
letter has been imagined for no other purpose; I will pause here, to declare to
you solemnly that the affection I have felt for you, that the affection I do
feel for you, is the motive by which I am at present actuated; and that but for
the desire I feel to be of some service to you, you never would have heard from
me again while I remained in this life. Were not this the case, this letter
would deserve to be considered as an impertinence, and I would scorn to write
it. I would give the world to retrieve you; to place you again upon that summit
which you reached, I may say on which you alighted, in the spring of 1812. It
may be a more arduous attempt, but I see no impossibility; nay, to place you
much higher than ever. You
are yet but little beyond the
dawn of life—it is downright affectation; it is, I was going to say,
folly, to talk of grey hairs and age at twenty-nine. This is free language, my
Lord, but not more than you formerly allowed me, and my increased age, and
nearer view of eternity confirm the privilege. As a
Poet
you have indeed wonderfully filled up the years you have attained—as a
man you are in your infancy. Like a child you fall and dirt yourself, and your
last fall has soiled you more than all the rest. I would to heaven you had not
written your last unaccountable
work*, and which, did it not here and there bear internal
incontestible evidence, I would suffer no man to call yours. Forgive my
warmth—I would rather consider you as a child slipping into mire, that
may be washed away, than as a man
Stept in so far, that should he wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o’er. |
Your absence, and the distance of your abode, leave your
name at the mercy of every tatler and scribbler, who, even without being
personal enemies, attack character for the mere pleasure of defamation, or for
gain; and the life you are said to lead, and I grieve to say the work you have
published, leave you no defenders. However you may stand with the world, I
cannot but believe that at your age you may shake off all that clogs you in the
career for which you were born. The very determination to resume it would be an
irresistible claim to new attention from the world; and unshaken perseverance
would effect all that you could wish. Imagination has had an ample range. No
genius ever attained its meed so rapidly, or more completely; but manhood is
the period for reality and action. Will you be content to throw it away for
Italian skies and the reputation of eccentricity? May God grant me power to
stir
up in your mind the resolution of living the next
twenty years in England, engaged in those pursuits to which Providence seems
more directly to call every man who by birth is entitled to take a share in the
legislation of his country. But what do I say? I believe that I ought first to
wish you to take a serious view of the subjects on which legislation turns.
Much has been argued in favour of adopting and adhering to a party—I have
never been convinced of this—but I am digressing. At all events, I
beseech you to think of reinstating yourself in your own country. Preparatory
to this, an idea has come into my mind, which it is time for me to state to
you; to do which I must return to the seemingly querulous style from which I
have digressed. Well then, my Lord, I did some time ago think of your treatment
of me with pain; and reflection, without lessening my attachment, showed me
that you had acted towards me
very ungenerously, and,
indeed, very unjustly—you ought to have made more of me. I say this the
more freely now because I have lived till it is become indifferent to me.
It is true that I benefited not inconsiderably by
some of your works; but it was not in the nature of money to satisfy or repay
me. I felt the pecuniary benefit as I ought, and was not slow in acknowledging
it as I ought. The six or seven hundred pounds paid by the purchaser of
Childe Harold for the copyright was, in my mind, nothing
in comparison with the honour that was due to me for discerning the genius that
lay buried in the Pilgrimage, and for exciting you to the publication of it, in
spite of the damp which had been thrown upon it in the course of its
composition, and in spite of your own reluctance and almost determination to
suppress it; nothing in comparison with the kindness that was due to me for the
part I took in keeping back your
Hints from Horace, and the new edition of the
Satire, till the moment I impressed conviction on your
mind that your fame and the choice of your future career in life depended upon
the suppression of these, and on the publication of
Childe
Harold. I made an effort to render you sensible that I was not dead to
that better claim, but it was unsuccessful; and though you continued your
personal kindness whenever we met, you raised in my mind a jealousy which I was
perhaps too proud, if not too mean-spirited, to betray. The result of the
feeling, however, was, that I borrowed from you the hint of a posthumous
volume, for after awhile I did not much care for the present, and I have
indulged meditations on you and on myself for the amusement and judgment of
future generations, but with this advantage over you, that I am convinced that
I shall participate in whatever effect they produce; and without this
conviction
I cannot conceive how the slightest value can
be attached to posthumous fame. This is a topic on which I feel an inclination
to dwell, but I will conquer the impulse, for my letter is already advanced
beyond the limits I proposed. My Lord, my posthumous volume is made up—I
look into it occasionally with much pleasure, and I enjoy the thought of being,
when it is opened, in the year 1900, in company with your spirit, and of
finding you pleased, even in the high sphere you may, if you will, then occupy,
which it is possible you would not be, were you to see it now opened to the
public in your present sphere. I do not know, my Lord, whether you are able to
say as much for your book, for if you do live hereafter, and I have not the
slightest doubt but you will, I suspect that you will have company about you at
the opening of it, which may rather afford occasion of remorse than of
pleasure, however gra-
cious and forgiving you may find
immortal spirits. Of you I have written precisely as I think, and as I have
found you; and though I have inserted some things which I would not give to the
present generation, the whole, as it stands, is a just portrait of you during
the time I knew you; for I drop the pencil where you dropped the curtain
between us, and the picture is to me an engaging one. I contemplate it together
with some parts of your works, and I cannot help breaking forth into the
exclamation of ‘And is this man to be lost!’ You, perhaps, echo, in
a tone of displeasure, ‘Lost!’—Yes, lost.—Nay, unclench
your hand—remember it is my ghost that is addressing you; not the being
of flesh and blood whom you may dash from you at your will, as you have done.
The man whose place is in the highest council of the first nation in the world,
who possesses powers to delight and to serve his
country, if he dissipates years between an Italian country-house and opera-box,
and murders his genius in attempts to rival a
Rochester or a
Cleland,—for I will not, to flatter you, say a
Boccacio or a
LaFontaine, who wrote at periods when, and in countries where,
indecency was wit—that man is lost. Gracious Heaven! on what lofty ground
you stood in the month of March, 1812! The world was before you, not as it was
to Adam, driven in tears from Paradise to seek a place of
rest, but presenting an elysium, to every part of which its crowded and various
inhabitants vied in their welcome of you. ‘Crowds of eminent
persons,’ says my posthumous volume, ‘courted an introduction, and
some volunteered their cards. This was the trying moment of virtue, and no
wonder if that were shaken, for never was there so sudden a transition from
neglect to courtship. Glory darted thick upon him from all sides; from the
Prince Regent, and his admirable daughter, to the
bookseller and his shopman; from
Walter
Scott to ——; from
Jeffrey to the nameless critics of the
Satirist and
Scourge; he was
the wonder of wits, and the show of fashion.’ I will not pursue the
reverse; but I must repeat, ‘And is this man to be lost!’
My head is full of you, and whether you allow me
the merit or not, my heart tells me that I was chiefly instrumental, by my
conduct, in 1812, in saving you from perpetuating the enmity of the world, or
rather in forcing you, against your will, into its admiration and love; and
that I once afterwards considerably retarded your rapid retrograde motion from
the envied station which genius merits, but which even genius cannot preserve
without prudence. These recollections have actuated me, it may be imprudently,
to write you this letter, to endeavour to impel you to reflect seriously upon
what you ought to be, and to beseech
you to take steps
to render your manhood solidly and lastingly glorious. Will you once more make
use of me? I cannot believe that there is an insurmountable bar to your return
to your proper station in life,—a station, which let me be bold enough to
say, you have no right to quit. All that I have heard concerning you is but
vague talk. The breach with
Lady Byron was
evidently the ground of your leaving England; and I presume the causes of that
breach are what operate upon your spirit in keeping you abroad. In recollecting
my principles, you will naturally imagine that the first thing that would occur
to my mind in preparing the way for your return, is an endeavour to close that
breach—but I am not sufficiently acquainted with her to judge of the
force of her opposition. At any rate, I would make the blame rest at her door,
if reconciliation is not obtainable; I would be morally right;
and this it is in your power to be, on whichever side
the wrong at first lay, by a manly severity to yourself, and by declaring your
resolution to forgive, and to banish from your thought for ever all that could
interrupt a cordial reconciliation. This step, should it not produce a
desirable effect on the mind of Lady Byron, would
infallibly lead to the esteem of the world. Is it too much for me to hope that
I might, by a letter to her, and by a public account of you, and of your
intended pursuits in England, make such a general impression, as once more to
fix the eyes of your country upon you with sentiments of new admiration and
regard, and usher you again to a glory of a nature superior to all you ever
enjoyed. It has, I own, again and again come into my mind, to model my intended
posthumous work for present publication, so as to have that effect; could I but
prevail upon you to follow it up by a return to
England,
with a resolution to lead a philosophical life, and to turn the great powers of
your mind to pursuits worthy of them: and, among those, to a candid search
after that religious Truth which often, as imagination sobers, becomes more
obvious to the ordinary vision of Reason. Once more, my dear
Lord Byron, forgive, or, rather, let me say,
reward, my warmth, by listening again to the affection which prompts me to
express my desire of serving you. I do not expect the glory of making a
religious convert of you. I have still a hope that you will yourself have that
glory if your life be spared to the usual length—but my present anxiety
is to see you restored to your station in this world, after trials that should
induce you to look seriously into futurity.”
Such was the affectionate interest with which the author of this letter
continued
to regard Lord Byron!
But it was too late; he had hardened his heart, and blunted his perception of the real
value of such a friend. This was the last communication that ever took place between them,
although an accidental circumstance afforded the assurance that this letter had reached its
destination.
To return to the original character of Lord
Byron. Whoever has read these pages attentively, or has seen the original
documents from whence they are drawn, cannot fail to have perceived, that in his
Lordship’s early character there were the seeds of all the evil which has blossomed
and borne fruit with such luxuriance in his later years. Nor will it be attempted here, to
shew that in any part of his life he was without those seeds; but I think that a candid
observer will also be ready to acknowledge, after reading this work, that there was an
opposing principle of
good acting in his mind, with a strength which
produced opinions that were afterwards entirely altered. The coterie into which he
unfortunately fell at Cambridge familiarized him with all the sceptical arguments of human
pride. And his acquaintance with an unhappy
atheist—who was suddenly summoned before his outraged Maker, while bathing
in the streams of the Cam, was rendered a severe trial, by the brilliancy of the talent
which he possessed, and which imparted a false splendour to the principles which he did not
scruple to avow. Yet, when Lord Byron speaks of this man, as being an
atheist, he considers it offensive;—when he remarks on the work of Mr. Townsend, who had attempted in the sketch of an
intended poem to give an idea of the last judgment, he considered his idea as too daring;—in opening his heart to his mother he shows that
he believed that God knew, and did all things for the
best;—after having seen mankind in many nations and
characters, he unrestrainedly conveys his opinion, that human nature is every where corrupt
and despicable. These points are the more valuable, because they flowed naturally and
undesignedly from the heart; while, on the contrary, his sceptical opinions were expressed
only when the subject was before him, and as it were by way of apology.
When, in this period of his life, there is any thing like argument upon
this subject, advanced by him in his correspondence, it is miserably weak and confused. The
death of his atheistical friend bewildered him: he thought there was the stamp of
immortality in all this person said and did—that he seemed a man created to display
what the Creator could make—and yet, such as he was, he had been gathered into
corruption, before the maturity of a mind that might have been the pride of posterity.
And this bewildered him! If his opinion of his friend were a just
one, ought not this reasoning rather to have produced the conviction, that such a mind could not be gathered into the corruption which awaited the
perishable body? Accordingly, Lord Byron’s
inference did not lead him to produce this death as a support to the doctrine of
annihilation; but his mind being tinctured previously with that doctrine, he confesses that
it bewildered him.
When about to publish Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, containing sceptical
opinions, the decided expression of which he was then induced to
withdraw, he wrote a note to accompany them, which has been inserted in this work. Its main
object is to declare, that his was not sneering, but desponding scepticism—and he
grounds his opinions upon the most unlogical deduction that could be formed: that, because
he had found many people abuse and disgrace
the religion they
professed, that therefore religion was not true. This is like saying, that because a
gamester squanders his guineas for his own destruction, they are therefore not gold, nor
applicable for good purposes. Weak as this was, he called it an
apology for his scepticism.
It cannot be said, that up to this period, Lord
Byron was decidedly an unbeliever; but, on the contrary, I think it may be
said, that there was a capability in his mind for the reception of Divine Truth,—that
he had not closed his eyes to the light which therefore forced its way in with sufficient
power to maintain some contest with the darkness of intellectual pride; and this opinion is
strengthened, by observing the effects of that lingering light, in the colouring which it
gave to vice and virtue in his mind. His conduct had been immoral and dissipated; but he
knew it to be such, and acknowledged it in its true colours. He
regretted the indulgence of his passions as producing criminal acts, and bringing him under
their government. He expressed these feelings;—he did more, he strove against them.
He scrupled not publicly to declare his detestation of the immorality which renders the
pages of Mr. Moore inadmissible into decent society;
and he severely satirizes the luxurious excitements to vice which abound in our theatrical
importation of Italian manners*. When a circumstance occurred in which one of his tenants
had given way to his passions, Lord Byron’s opinion and decision
upon the subject were strongly expressed, and his remarks upon that occasion are
particularly worthy of notice. He thought our first
* Then let Ausonia, skilled in every art To soften manners, but corrupt the heart, Pour her exotic follies o’er the town, To sanction vice, and hunt decorum down. |
|
duty was not to do evil, though he felt that was impossible. The
next duty was to repair the evil we have done, if in our power. He would not afford his
tenants a privilege he did not allow himself.—He knew he had been guilty of many
excesses, but had laid down a resolution to reform, and latterly kept it.
I mention these circumstances to call to the reader’s mind the
general tenor of Lord Byron’s estimate of moral
conduct, as it appears in the present work; because I think it may be said that he had a
lively perception of what was right, and a strong desire to follow it; but he wanted the
regulating influence of an acknowledged standard of sufficient purity, and, at the same
time, established by sufficient authority in his mind. The patience of God not only offered
him such a standard in religion, but kept his heart in a state of capability for receiving
it. In spite of his many
grievings of God’s spirit, still, it
would not absolutely desert him as long as he allowed a struggle to continue in his heart.
But the publication of Childe Harold was followed by consequences which seemed
to have closed his heart against the long-tarrying spirit of God, and at once to have ended
all struggle. Never was there a more sudden transition from the doublings of a mind to
which Divine light was yet accessible, to the unhesitating abandonment to the blindness of
vice. Lord Byron’s vanity became the ruling
passion of his mind. He made himself his own god; and no eastern idol ever received more
abject or degrading worship from a bigotted votary.
The circumstances which have been detailed in this work respecting the
publication of Childe
Harold, prove sufficiently how decided and how lamentable a turn they
gave to a character, which, though
wavering and inconsistent for
want of the guide I have referred to, had not yet passed all the avenues which might take
him from the broad way that leadeth to destruction, into the narrow path of life. But
Lord Byron’s unresisting surrender to the
first temptation of intrigue, from which all its accompanying horrors could not affright
him, seems to have banished for ever from his heart the Divine influence which could alone
defend him against the strength of his passions and the weakness of his nature to resist
them; and it is truly astonishing to find the very great rapidity with which he was
involved in all the trammels of fashionable vice.
With proportionable celerity his opinions of moral conduct were changed;
his power of estimating virtue at any thing like its true value ceased; and his mind became
spiritually darkened to a degree as great perhaps as has ever been known to take
place from the results of one step. Witness the course of his life
at this time, as detailed in the conversations lately published, to which I have before
alluded. Witness the fact of his being capable of detailing such a course of life in
familiar conversation to one almost a stranger.
What must have been the change in that man who could at one time write
these lines,—
Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be just, Nor spare melodious advocates of lust; Pure is the flame that o’er her altar burns, From grosser incense with disgust she turns; Yet kind to youth, this expiation o’er, She bids thee mend thy line, and sin no more— |
and at another become the author of Don Juan, where grosser, more
licentious, more degrading images are produced, than could have been expected to have found
their way into any mind desirous merely of preserving a decent character in
society;—than could have been looked for from any tongue not
habituated to the conversation of the most abandoned of the lowest order of society? What
must have been the change in him who, from animadverting severely upon the licentiousness
of a village intrigue, could glory in the complication of crimes which give zest to
fashionable adultery; and even in the excess of his glorying could forego his title to be
called a man of honour or a gentleman, for
which the merest coxcomb of the world will commonly restrain himself within some bounds
after he has overstepped the narrower limits of religious restraint! For who can venture to
call Lord Byron either one or the other after reading
the unrestrained disclosures he is said, in his published Conversations, to have made,
“without any injunctions to secrecy.” Who could have imagined that
the same man who had observed upon the offensiveness of the expression of another’s
irreligious principles, should ever be capable of offending the
world with such awfully fearless impiety as is contained in the latter Cantos of Don Juan, and boldly advanced in Cain? Who can read, in his own
handwriting, the opinion that a sublime and well intentioned anticipation of the Last
Judgment is too daring, and puts him in mind of the line— “And fools rush in where Angels fear to tread,” |
and conceive that the same hand wrote his Vision of Judgment?
Yet such a change did take place, as any one may be convinced of, who
will take the trouble to read the present work, and the Conversations to which I have alluded, and
compare them together. For, let it be observed, that the few pages in the latter
publication which refer to Lord Byron’s religious
opinions, state only his old weak reasoning, founded upon the disunion of
professing Christians, some faint, and, I may say, childish wishes;
and a disowning of the principles of Mr.
Shelley’s school. So also that solitary
reference to a preparation for death, when death stood visibly by his bed-side ready to
receive him, which is related by his servant,* and upon which I have known a charitable
hope to be hung, amounts to just as much—an assertion. It can
only be the most puerile ignorance of the nature of religion, which can receive assertion
for proof in such a matter. The very essence of real religion is to let itself be seen in
the life, when it is really sown in the heart; and a man who appeals to his assertions to
establish his religious character, may be his own dupe, but can never dupe any but such as
are like him—just as the lunatic in Bedlam may call himself a king,
* Lord Byron is stated to
have said to his servant, “I am not afraid of dying—I am more fit to
die than people think.”
|
and believe it; but it is only those who are as mad as himself who
will think themselves his subjects. There is no possibility of hermetically sealing up
religion in the heart; if it be there it cannot be confined,—it must extend its
influence over the principle of thought, of word, and of action.
When we see wonderful and rapid changes take place in the physical
world, we naturally seek for the cause; and it cannot but be useful to trace the cause of
so visible a change in the moral world, as that which appears upon the comparison I have
pointed out. It will not, I think, be too much to say, that it took place immediately that
the resistance against evil ceased in Lord Byron’s
mind. Temptation certainly came upon him in an overpowering manner; and the very first
temptation was perhaps the worst, yet he yielded to it almost immediately. I refer to the
circum-
stance recorded in these pages, which took place little
more than a week after the first appearance of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, when he received an extraordinary anonymous
letter, which led immediately to the most disgraceful liaison of
which he has not scrupled to boast. There was something so disgusting in the forwardness of
the person who wrote, as well as deterring in the
enormity of the criminal excesses of which this letter was the beginning, that he should
have been roused against such a temptation at the first glance. But the sudden gust of
public applause had just blown upon him, and having raised him in its whirlwind above the
earth, he had already began to deify himself in his own imagination; and this incense came
to him as the first offered upon his altar. He was intoxicated with its fumes; and, closing
his mind against the light that had so long crept in at crevices,
and endeavoured to shine through every transparent part, he called the darkness light, and
the bitter sweet, and said Peace when there was no Peace.
As long as Lord Byron continued to
resist his temptations to evil, and to refrain from exposing publicly his tendency to
infidelity, so long he valued the friendship of the author of the foregoing chapters, who
failed not to seize every opportunity of supporting the struggle within him, in the earnest
hope that the good might ultimately be successful. The contents of this book may give some
idea of the nature and constancy of that friendship, and cannot fail of being highly
honourable to its author, as well as of reflecting credit on Lord
Byron, who, on so many occasions, gave way to its influence. But it is a
strong proof of the short-sightedness of man’s
judgment, that
upon the most remarkable occasion on which this influence was excited, by inducing him to
publish Childe Harold instead of the Hints
from Horace, though the best intentions guided the opinion, it was made the step by which
Lord Byron was lost; and he who, in a literary point of view, had justly prided himself
upon having withheld so extraordinary a mind from encumbering its future efforts with the
dead weight of a work which might have altogether prevented its subsequent buoyancy, and
who was alive to the glory of having discerned the neglected merit of the real poem, and of
having spread out the wings which took such an eagle flight—having lived to see the
rebellious presumption which that towering flight occasioned, and to anticipate the
destruction that must follow the audacity, died deeply regretting that he had, even though
unconsciously, ever borne such a part in producing so lamentable a
loss. One of the last charges which he gave me upon his death-bed, but a few days before he
died, and with the full anticipation of his end, was, not to let this work go forth into
the world without stating his sincere feeling of sorrow that ever he had been instrumental
in bringing forward Childe Harold’s
Pilgrimage to the public, since the publication of it had produced such
disastrous effects to one whom he had loved so affectionately, and from whom he had hoped
so much good—effects which the literary satisfaction the poem may afford to all the
men of taste in the present and future generations, can never, in the slightest degree,
compensate.
In obeying this solemn charge I should have concluded these remarks, had
I not found, in looking over the manuscript of the work upon this subject, which was
first intended to have been left to posterity as a posthumous
offering, and which was written about the year 1819, a passage which appears to me to form
a fitter conclusion to this Chapter, and which, therefore, I copy from the author’s
writing:—
“I have suffered Time to make a progress unfriendly to the subject to which I had
attached so great an interest. Had Providence vouchsafed me the happiness of recording
of Lord Byron, from my own knowledge, the renovation
of his mind and character, which was the object of my last letter to him, my delight
would have supplied me with energy and spirits to continue my narrative, and my
observations. Of his course of life subsequent I will not write upon hearsay; but I
cannot refrain from expressing my grief, disappointment, and wonder, at the direction
which was given
to it by the impulse of his brilliant success as
a Poet. It seemed not only to confirm him in his infidelity, but to set him loose from
social ties, and render him indifferent to every other praise than that of poetical
genius. I am not singular in the cooling of his friendship, if it be not derogatory to
call by that name any transient feeling he may have expressed; and his intended
posthumous volume will, probably, show this, if he has not, in consequence of what I
said to him in my last letter, altered or abandoned it. In the dedications of his poems
there is no sincerity; he had neither respect nor regard for the persons to whom they
are addressed; and Lord Holland, Rogers, Davies,
and Hobhouse, if earthly knowledge becomes
intuitive on retrospection, will see on what grounds I say this, and nod the
recognition, and I trust forgiveness of heavenly spirits, if heavenly their’s become, to the wondering Poet with whose works
their names are swimming down the stream of Time. He and they shall have my nod too on the occasion, if, let me humbly add, my prayers
shall have availed me beyond the grave.”
THE END.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES,
Northumberland-court.
Anonymous,
“Dallas’s Recollections of Lord Byron” in Gentleman’s Magazine
Vol. 94 (November 1824)
Mr. DALLAS, the author of the
“Recollections,” has
soon followed the subject of his work to the “bourne whence no traveller
returns.” He was at the time of his death 70 years of age, and was personally
connected with the Noble Lord’s family, his sister
having married the father of the present Peer. These circumstances led, at one period of his
Lordship’s life, to a degree of intimacy; in the course of which Mr.
Dallas not only became one of his Correspondents, but was entrusted with the
duty of an Editor to several of his poems, and lastly was made the depositary of many of his
Lordship’s confidential letters to his mother and other persons. Whether those letters
were or were not intended by Lord Byron to see the light at
a future period, is a matter of some doubt. We confess we think they were; but his executors
have restrained their publication. A long “preliminary statement,” of 97 pages,
drawn up by the Rev. A. R. C. Dallas, son of the Author,
is occupied with the disputes between his father and the executors, who obtained an injunction
from the Court of Chancery against the publication of the Letters. We pass over this, and come
to the “Recollections.” . . .
Anonymous,
“Dallas’s Recollections of Lord Byron” in Gentleman’s Magazine
Vol. 94 (November 1824)
In our review of Capt.
Medwin’s book (p. 436), we have observed, that the publication of Childe Harold was
“the crisis of Lord Byron’s fate as a
man and a poet.” The present volume sets this truth in the strongest light;
but it adds a fact so extraordinary, that if it were not related so circumstantially, we
own we should hesitate to give it credence—this fact is, that Lord
Byron himself was insensible to the value of Childe Harold, and could with difficulty be brought to
consent to its publication! He had written a very indifferent paraphrase of Horace’s Art of Poetry, and was anxious to have it
published. . . .
Anonymous,
“Dallas’s Recollections of Lord Byron” in Gentleman’s Magazine
Vol. 94 (November 1824)
Childe Harold, with all its moral
faults, is beyond a doubt the great work of Lord Byron. No
one, after reading it, can deny him to be a Poet. Yet was this production the ruin of his
Lordship’s mind. “The rapidity of the sale of the Poem,” says Mr. Dallas, “its reception, and the elution of the
author’s feelings were unparalleled.” This elation of feeling was the
outbreaking of an inordinate vanity which had at last found its food, and which led him in the
riotous intoxication of his passions to break down all the fences of morality, and to trample
on everything that restrained his excesses. Mr. Dallas rendered him
essential service, by persuading him to omit some very blamable stanzas: and when he could not
prevail on him to strike out all that was irreligious, he entered a written Protest against certain passages. This protest, which is a very curious document, is
preserved in p. 124 of the volume before us. Probably Lord Byron grew
weary of such lecturing; for in a few years he dropped his intimacy with Mr.
Dallas, and fell into other hands, which only accelerated his degradation. . . .
Anonymous,
“Dallas’s Recollections of Lord Byron” in Gentleman’s Magazine
Vol. 94 (November 1824)
It certainly does appear that Mr. Dallas,
from the first to the last of his intimacy with Lord Byron,
did every thing that a friend, with the feelings of a parent, could do to win his Lordship to
the cause of virtue, but unhappily in vain. . . .
Anonymous,
“Dallas’s Recollections of Lord Byron” in Gentleman’s Magazine
Vol. 94 (November 1824)
The concluding chapter of this book is written by Mr. Dallas, jun. to whom his father on his death-bed confided the task of
closing these “Recollections.” This Gentleman’s
reflections on the decided and lamentable turn which the publication of Childe Harold gave to Lord Byron’s character, are forcible and just. . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
Since
Orrery wrote his defamatory life of Swift, and since Mr.
Wyndham published Doddington’s diary, in order to expose the author of that strange record of venality, we are not
aware that the friends or family of any writer have deliberately set down to diminish his
fame and tarnish his character. Such, however, has been the case in the work before us. We
do not mean to say that such was the first object in view by the author or authors of this
volume. No; their first object was the laudable motive of putting money into their purses;
for it appears upon their own showing, that Mr. R. C. Dallas, having
made as much money as he could out of lord Byron in his life time,
resolved to pick up a decent livelihood (either in his own person or that of his son) out
of his friend’s remains when dead. . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
But it appears that Mr. R. C. Dallas
could not wait for his money so long as was requisite, and that in the year 1819 he became
a little impatient to touch something in his life time: accordingly, in an evil hour, he
writes a long long letter to lord Byron, containing a debtor and
creditor account between R. C. Dallas and his lordship; by which, when
duly balanced, it appeared that said lord Byron was still considerably
in arrears of friendship and obligation to said R. C. Dallas, and
ought to acquit himself by a remittance of materials (such is
Mr. R. C. Dallas’s own word, in his own letter, as will be
seen by and by) to his creditor Mr. R. C.
Dallas. . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
The death of lord Byron, of
course, seemed at once to promise this settlement: no sooner had he heard it, than he set
about copying the manuscripts; he wrote to Messrs.
Galignani at Paris, to know whether they would “enter into the speculation” of publishing some very interesting manuscripts
of lord Byron; he set off for London; he sold the volume to a London:
bookseller, and “he returned without loss of time to
France.” His worthy son has told us all this himself, at pages 94 and 96 of his
volume, and has actually printed the letter his father wrote to Messrs.
Galignani, to show, we suppose, how laudably alert Mr. R. C.
Dallas evinced himself to be on this interesting opportunity of securing his
lawful property. The booksellers, also, performed their part; they announced the “Private Correspondence” of lord Byron for
sale; and, as it also appears by this volume, were so active as to be prepared to bring
their goods to market before lord Byron’s funeral. . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
They thought
differently of the publication of private letters; and Mrs. Leigh
desired Mr. Hobhouse one of the executors, to write
to Mr. R. C. Dallas to say, that she should think the publication, in
question “quite unpardonable,” at least for the present, and unless
after a previous inspection by his lordship’s family. Unfortunately for Mr.
Dallas, it appears, according to this volume, that Mr.
Hobhouse did not in this letter, state that he was lord
Byron’s executor; but merely appealed to Mr. R. C.
Dallas’s “honour and feeling,” wishing
probably to try that topic first; and thinking it more respectful to do so, than to
threaten the author with legal interference at once. . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
Mr. Dallas was resolved upon getting his money, and wrote a very angry
letter, not to Mr. Hobhouse but to Mrs. Leigh
(which, his prudent son has also printed), containing menaces not unkilfully calculated to
intimidate that lady, especially considering that she must have been at that moment
peculiarly disposed to receive any unpleasant impressions—her brother’s corpse
lying yet unburied. For an author and seller of Remains the time was
not ill chosen—by a gentleman and a man, another moment, to say nothing of another
style, might perhaps have been selected. But no time was to be lost; the book must be out
on the 12th of July, and out it would have been had not the executors procured an
injunction against it on the 7th of the same month, and thus very seriously damaged, if not
ruined, Mr. R. C. Dallas’s “speculation.” . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
Ninety-seven
pages of the volume are taken up with a statement of the proceedings in Chancery, which
were so fatal to the “speculation.” In this statement, which is written by
Mr. Alexander Dallas, the son of Mr.
R. C. Dallas, who died before the volume could be published, it may easily
be supposed that all imaginable hard things are said of those who spoiled the speculation.
The executors, and lord Byron’s sister, are spoken of in terms
which, if noticed, would certainly very much increase those “expenses” of which the Rev. Alexander Dallas so
piteously complains; for we doubt if any jury would hesitate to return a verdict of libel
and slander against many passages which we could point out in the preliminary
statement. . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
Lord Byron was taken into Scotland by his mother and
father, and Mrs. Leigh was left in England with her
grandmother, to whom her father had consigned her on condition that she should provide for
her. They were thus separated from 1789 until lord Byron came to
England; when thy met as often as possible, although it was not easy to bring them
together, as Mrs. Byron, the mother of
lord Byron, had quarrelled with lady
Holdernesse. For the intercourse which did take place, the brother and
sister were indebted to the kind offices of lord
Carlisle. . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
That lord Byron might have dropt an
unguarded opinion as to relationship in general is possible, though such an error is
nothing in comparison with the atrocity of coolly recording that opinion as if it had been
an habitual sentiment, which we say it was not. We say that it is untrue that lord Byron declaimed against the ties of
consanguinity. It is untrue that he entirely withdrew from the
company of his sister during the period alluded to. It is untrue
that he “made advances” to a friendly intercourse with her only after the
publication of Childe Harold, and only at
the persuasion of Mr. R. C. Dallas. Mrs. Leigh corresponded with lord Byron at the very time
mentioned, and saw in lord Carlisle’s house in
the spring of 1809; after which he went abroad, and did not return until July 1811. . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
We speak from the same authority, when we say that what is said of
lord Carlisle, though there was, as all the world
knows, a difference between his lordship and lord Byron,
is also at variance with the facts. . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
Such was Mr. Alexander
Dallas’s letter to Mr.
Hobhouse; and that he should, after writing such a letter, make a statement
which he knew the production of that letter could positively contradict, is an instance of
confidence in the forbearance of others such as we never have happened before to witness.
We beg the reader to compare the words in italics from Mr.
Dallas’s statement with the words in capitals from Mr.
Dallas’s letter—and then to ask himself whether he thinks
lord Byron’s
reputation, or that of his relations and friends, has much to suffer or
fear from such a censor as the Reverend Alexander Dallas. In the
Statement, he tells the world that Mr. Hobhouse is mentioned in
lord Byron’s letters in the enumeration of his suite; and,
in a remark, that lord Byron was satisfied at being alone. In the
letter, he tells Mr. Hobhouse, that “he (Mr.
Hobhouse) is mentioned throughout the whole of the correspondence with great
affection.” . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
It answered the purpose of the editor to
deal in the strongest insinuations against Mr. Hobhouse; but,
unfortunately, his father had, in the course of his correspondence with lord
Byron, mentioned that gentleman in very different terms—what does
the honest editor do? he gives only the initial of the name, so that the eulogy, such
as it is, may serve for any Mr. H * *. Mr. R. C.
Dallas’s words are, “I gave Murray your note on M * *, to be placed in the page with Wingfield. He must have been a very extraordinary
young man, and I am sincerely sorry for H * *, for whom I have felt an
increased regard ever since I heard of his intimacy with my son at Cadiz, and that they
were mutually pleased” [p. 165]. The H * * stands for
Hobhouse, and the M * * whom R. C. Dallas
characterises here, “as an extraordinary young man,” becomes, in the hands
of his honest son, “an unhappy Atheist” [p. 325], whose name he mentions,
in another place, at full length, and characterises him in such a way as must give the
greatest pain to the surviving relations and friends of the deceased. . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
We now come to the reverend gentleman’s father, and as the death of
lord Byron did not prevent that person from writing
what we know to be unfounded of his lordship, we shall not refrain, because he also is
dead, from saying what we know to be founded of Mr. R. C.
Dallas. In performing this task we are, most luckily, furnished with a list
of Mr. Dallas’s pretensions, by Mr. Dallas
himself, in the shape of a letter written by that person to lord Byron
in 1819, of which the Reverend Alexander Dallas has
thought fit to publish a considerable portion. To this letter, or list of Mr. R.
C. Dallas’s brilliant virtues, and benefits conferred upon
lord Byron, we shall oppose an answer from a person, whom neither
Mr. R. C. Dallas nor his reverend son had ever dreamt could appear
against them again in this world—that person is lord Byron
himself. For it so happens, that although his lordship did not reply to the said letter by
writing to the author, yet he did transmit that epistle, with sundry notes of his own upon
it, to one of his correspondents in England. The letter itself, with lord
Byron’s notes, is now lying before us, and we shall proceed at once to
cite the passages which lord Byron has commented upon, all of which,
with one exception, to he noticed hereafter, have before been given to the public. . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
Across these passages, opposite the words “saving you from
perpetuating the enmity,” lord Byron has put
“the Devil you did?” and over the
words “rapid retrograde motion” lord Byron has
written “when did this happen? and how?”
. . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
We have now to mention that, Mr. R. C.
Dallas after the words which conclude his letter, as given by his son,
namely, these words: “but my present anxiety is, to see you restored to your
station in this world, after trials that should induce you to look seriously into
futurity.”—after these words, we find in the original letter the
following— . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
The upshot of this letter appears to be, to obtain my sanction to
the publication of a volume about
Mr. Dallas and
myself, which I shall not allow. The letter has remained and will remain
unanswered. I never injured Mr. R. C. Dallas, but did him all
the good I could, and I am quite unconscious and ignorant of what he means by
reproaching me with ungenerous treatment; the facts will speak for themselves to
those who know them—the proof is easy. . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
These persons, whose work, or rather, whose conduct we are reviewing, have tried all the
common topics by which they think they may enlist the sympathy of their readers in their
favour, to the prejudice of their illustrious benefactor. They have bandied about the
clap-trap terms of atheism, scepticism, irreligion, immorality, &c. but the good sense,
nay more, the generosity, the humanity, and the true Christian spirit of their
fellow-countrymen, will reject such an unworthy fellowship. They may weep over the failings
of Byron; but they will cast from them, with scorn and reprobation,
detractors, whose censure bears on the face of it, the unquestionable marks of envy,
malice, and. all uncharitableness. Can anything be more unpardonable, anything more unfair,
for instance, than for the editor of this volume (the clergyman) to take for granted, that
the Conversations of Medwin are authentic, though he himself has given an
example of two gross mis-statements in them, which would alone throw a doubt over their
authenticity; and upon that supposition to charge lord Byron with being sunk to the lowest
depths of degradation? What are we to say to this person who, at the same time that he
assumes the general truth of the Conversations, makes an
exception against that part of them, which represents lord
Byron’s dislike of the anti-religious opinions of Mr. Shelley? . . .
[John Cam Hobhouse],
“[Review of Dallas and Medwin on Byron]” in Westminster Review
Vol. 3 (January 1825)
If the author of “Aubrey” had but read, or had not forgotten lord
Byron’s preface to the second edition of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, he would have spared us
all this fine writing, for that preface explains that “phenomenon of the human mind, for which it is difficult to
account,” and which this poor writer has accounted for so
profoundly. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“Lord Byron” in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine
Vol. 17
No. 97 (February 1825)
The story of his having said to his mother, when he and Mr
Hobhouse parted company on their travels, that he “was glad to be
alone,” amounts to nothing; for who is he, and above all, who is the poet, who does
not often feel the departure of his dearest friend as a temporary relief? The man
that was composing Childe Harold had other
things to entertain him than the conversation of any companion, however pleasant; and we
believe there are few pleasanter companions anywhere than Mr Hobhouse.
This story, however, has been magnified into a mighty matter by Mr Dallas, whose name has recently been rather wearisomely connected with
Lord Byron’s. . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“Lord Byron” in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine
Vol. 17
No. 97 (February 1825)
Old Mr Dallas appears to have been an
inveterate twaddler, and there are even worse things than twaddling alleged against him by
Mr Hobhouse, in the article we have been quoting.
The worst of these, however, his misstatement as to the amount of his pecuniary obligations to
Lord Byron, may perhaps be accounted for in a way much
more charitable than has found favour with Mr Hobhouse; and as to the son,
(Mr Alexander Dallas,) we assuredly think he has
done nothing, but what he supposed his filial duty bound him to, in the whole matter. Angry
people will take sneering and perverted views of the subject matter of dispute, without
subjecting themselves in the eyes of the disinterested world, to charges so heavy either as
Mr Hobhouse has thought fit to bring against Mr A.
Dallas, or as Mr A. Dallas has thought fit to bring against
Mr Hobhouse. As for the song of which so much has been said, what is it, after all, but a mere
joke— . . .
[John Gibson Lockhart],
“Lord Byron” in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine
Vol. 17
No. 97 (February 1825)
Dallas’s book,
utterly feeble and drivelling as it is, contains certainly some very interesting
particulars as to his feelings when he was a very young author. The whole getting up of the
two first cantos of Childe Harold—the
diffidence—the fears —the hopes that alternately depressed and elevated his
spirits while the volume was printing, are exhibited, so as to form a picture that all
students of literature, at least, will never cease to prize. All the rest of the work is
more about old Dallas than young Byron, and is
utter trash. . . .
Leigh Hunt,
Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries (London: Henry Colburn, 1828)
The only publications that contained any thing at once new and true
respecting Lord Byron were, Dallas’s Recollections, the Conversations by
Captain Medwin, and Parry’s and Gamba’s Accounts of his Last Days. A good deal of the real
character of his Lordship, though not always as the writer viewed it, may be gathered from
most of them; particularly the first two. . . .
Leigh Hunt,
Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries (London: Henry Colburn, 1828)
Dallas, who was a sort of lay-priest, errs from
being half-witted. He must have tired Lord Byron to death with blind
beggings of the question, and solemn mistakes. The wild poet ran against him, and scattered
his faculties. To the last he does not seem to have made up his mind, whether his Lordship
was Christian or Atheist. I can settle at least a part of that dilemma. Christian he
certainly was not. He neither wrote nor talked, as any Christian, in the ordinary sense of
the word, would have done: and as to the rest, the strength of his belief probably varied
according to his humour, and was at all times as undecided and uneasy, as the lights
hitherto obtained by mere reason were calculated to render it. . . .
Leigh Hunt,
Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries (London: Henry Colburn, 1828)
Now, the passage here quoted was quoted by myself, one of those
“atheists and scoffers,” according to Mr.
Dallas, by whom “he was led into defiance of the sacred
writings.” . . .
Pietro Gamba,
A Narrative of Lord Byron’s Last Journey to Greece (London: John Murray, 1825)
Again, in order to prove the difficulty of living with Lord Byron, it is said, that “When Mr. Hobhouse and he travelled in Greece together, they
were generally a mile asunder.” I have the best authority for saying, that
this is not the fact: that two young men, who were continually together and slept in the
same room for many months, should not always have ridden side by side on their journey is
very likely; but when Lord Byron and Mr. Hobhouse
travelled in Greece, it would have been as little safe as comfortable to be
“generally a mile asunder;” and the truth is, they were generally
very near each other. . . .
John Cleland (1710-1789)
English novelist and miscellaneous writer, author of
Memoirs of a Woman
of Pleasure (
Fanny Hill) (1748-49).
Alexander Robert Charles Dallas (1791-1869)
The son of Byron's relation R. C. Dallas; he served in the Peninsular War and at Waterloo
and was ordained in 1821; he was rector of Wonston near Winchester from 1828.
Robert Charles Dallas (1754-1824)
English poet, novelist, and translator who corresponded with Byron. His sister Charlotte
Henrietta Dallas (d. 1793) married Captain George Anson Byron (1758-1793); their son George
Anson Byron (1789-1868) inherited Byron's title in 1824.
Scrope Berdmore Davies (1782-1852)
Byron met his bosom friend while at Cambridge. Davies, a professional gambler, lent Byron
funds to pay for his travels in Greece and Byron acted as second in Davies' duels.
Henry Richard Fox, third baron Holland (1773-1840)
Whig politician and literary patron; Holland House was for many years the meeting place
for reform-minded politicians and writers. He also published translations from the Spanish
and Italian;
Memoirs of the Whig Party was published in 1852.
John Cam Hobhouse, baron Broughton (1786-1869)
Founder of the Cambridge Whig Club; traveled with Byron in the orient, radical MP for
Westminster (1820); Byron's executor; after a long career in politics published
Some Account of a Long Life (1865) later augmented as
Recollections of a Long Life, 6 vols (1909-1911).
Francis Jeffrey, Lord Jeffrey (1773-1850)
Scottish barrister, Whig MP, and co-founder and editor of the
Edinburgh
Review (1802-29). As a reviewer he was the implacable foe of the Lake School of
poetry.
Jean de La Fontaine (1621-1695)
French poet whose
Fables were first translated into English in
1734.
Lady Caroline Lamb [née Ponsonby] (1785-1828)
Daughter of the third earl of Bessborough; she married the Hon. William Lamb (1779-1848)
and fictionalized her infatuation with Lord Byron in her first novel,
Glenarvon (1816).
Charles Skinner Matthews (1785-1811)
The libertine friend of Byron and Hobhouse at Trinity College, Cambridge; he was drowned
in the Cam.
Thomas Medwin (1788-1869)
Lieutenant of dragoons who was with Byron and Shelley at Pisa; the author of
Conversations of Lord Byron (1824) and
The Life of
Percy Bysshe Shelley, 2 vols (1847).
Thomas Moore (1779-1852)
Irish poet and biographer, author of the
Irish Melodies (1807-34),
The Fudge Family in Paris (1818), and
Lalla
Rookh (1817); he was Byron's close friend and designated biographer.
Samuel Rogers (1763-1855)
English poet, banker, and aesthete, author of the ever-popular
Pleasures of Memory (1792),
Columbus (1810),
Jaqueline (1814), and
Italy (1822-28).
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
English poet, with Byron in Switzerland in 1816; author of
Queen
Mab (1813),
The Revolt of Islam (1817),
The Cenci and
Prometheus Unbound (1820), and
Adonais (1821).
George Townsend (1788-1857)
He attended Trinity College, Cambridge under the patronage of Richard Cumberland, and
published
Armageddon a Poem, in Twelve Books (1815) and
The Old Testament arranged in Historical and Chronological Order, 2
vols (1821).
The Satirist, or, Monthly Meteor. (1807-1814). Originally issued with colored plates, the Tory-inspired
Satirist
was edited by George Manners (1778–1853) from October 1807 to June 1812, and William Jerdan
(1782–1869) from July 1812 to August 1814; it was continued as
Tripod,
or, New Satirist (July-Aug. 1814). The humor was coarse, and Byron the target in a
series of pieces by Hewson Clarke (1787-1845 fl.).
George Gordon Byron, sixth Baron Byron (1788-1824)
Don Juan. (London: 1819-1824). A burlesque poem in ottava rima published in installments: Cantos I and II published in
1819, III, IV and V in 1821, VI, VII, and VIII in 1823, IX, X, and XI in 1823, XII, XIII,
and XIV in 1823, and XV and XVI in 1824.