Lord Byron in Greece

 

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CHAPTER XL

“The Two Foscari”—“Werner”—“The Deformed Transformed”—“Don Juan”—“The Liberal”—Removes from Pisa to Genoa

I have never heard exactly where the tragedy of The Two Foscari was written: that it was imagined in Venice is probable.  The subject is, perhaps, not very fit for a drama, for it has no action; but it is rich in tragic materials, revenge and affection, and the composition is full of the peculiar stuff of the poet’s own mind.  The exulting sadness with which Jacopo Foscari looks in the first scene from the window, on the Adriatic, is Byron himself recalling his enjoyment of the sea.

      How many a time have I
Cloven with arm still lustier, heart more daring,
The wave all roughen’d: with a swimmer’s stroke
Flinging the billows back from my drench’d hair,
And laughing from my lip th’ audacious brine
Which kiss’d it like a wine-cup.

The whole passage, both prelude and remainder, glows with the delicious recollections of laying and revelling in the summer waves.  But the exile’s feeling is no less beautifully given and appropriate to the author’s condition, far more so, indeed, than to that of Jacopo Foscari.

      Had I gone forth
From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking
Another region with their flocks and herds;
Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion,
Or like our fathers driven by Attila
From fertile Italy to barren islets,
I would have given some tears to my late country,
And many thoughts; but afterward address’d
Myself to those about me, to create
A new home and first state.

What follows is still more pathetic:

   Ay—we but hear
Of the survivors’ toil in their new lands,
Their numbers and success; but who can number
The hearts which broke in silence of that parting,
Or after their departure; of that malady
Which calls up green and native fields to view
From the rough deep with such identity
To the poor exile’s fever’d eye, that he
Can scarcely be restrained from treading them?
That melody which out of tones and tunes
Collects such pastime for the ling’ring sorrow
Of the sad mountaineer, when far away
From his snow-canopy of cliffs and clouds,
That he feeds on the sweet but poisonous thought
And dies.—You call this weakness!  It is strength,
I say—the parent of all honest feeling:
He who loves not his country can love nothing.

MARINA

Obey her then, ’tis she that puts thee forth.

JACOPO FOSCARI

Ay, there it is.  ’Tis like a mother’s curse
Upon my soul—the mark is set upon me.
The exiles you speak of went forth by nations;
Their hands upheld each other by the way;
Their tents were pitch’d together—I’m alone—
         Ah, you never yet
Were far away from Venice—never saw
Her beautiful towers in the receding distance,
While every furrow of the vessel’s track
Seem’d ploughing deep into your heart; you never
Saw day go down upon your native spires
So calmly with its gold and crimson glory,
And after dreaming a disturbed vision
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not.

All this speaks of the voluntary exile’s own regrets, and awakens sympathy for the anguish which pride concealed, but unable to repress, gave vent to in the imagined sufferings of one that was to him as Hecuba.

It was at Pisa that Werner, or The Inheritance, a tragedy, was written, or at least completed.  It is taken entirely from the German’s tale, Kruitzner, published many years before, by one of the Miss Lees, in their Canterbury Tales.  So far back as 1815, Byron began a drama upon the same subject, and nearly completed an act when he was interrupted.  “I have adopted,” he says himself, “the characters, plan, and even the language of many parts of this story”; an acknowledgment which exempts it from that kind of criticism to which his principal works are herein subjected.

But The Deformed Transformed, which was also written at Pisa, is, though confessedly an imitation of Goethe’s Faust, substantially an original work.  In the opinion of Mr Moore, it probably owes something to the author’s painful sensibility to the defect in his own foot; an accident which must, from the acuteness with which he felt it, have essentially contributed to enable him to comprehend and to express the envy of those afflicted with irremediable exceptions to the ordinary course of fortune, or who have been amerced by nature of their fair proportions.  But save only a part of the first scene, the sketch will not rank among the felicitous works of the poet.  It was intended to be a satire—probably, at least—but it is only a fragment—a failure.

Hitherto I have not noticed Don Juan otherwise than incidentally.  It was commenced in Venice, and afterward continued at intervals to the end of the sixteenth canto, until the author left Pisa, when it was not resumed, at least no more has been published.  Strong objections have been made to its moral tendency; but, in the opinion of many, it is the poet’s masterpiece, and undoubtedly it displays all the variety of his powers, combined with a quaint playfulness not found to an equal degree in any other of his works.  The serious and pathetic portions are exquisitely beautiful; the descriptive have all the distinctness of the best pictures in Childe Harold, and are, moreover, generally drawn from nature, while the satire is for the most part curiously associated and sparklingly witty.  The characters are sketched with amazing firmness and freedom, and though sometimes grotesque, are yet not often overcharged.  It is professedly an epic poem, but it may be more properly described as a poetical novel.  Nor can it be said to inculcate any particular moral, or to do more than unmantle the decorum of society.  Bold and buoyant throughout, it exhibits a free irreverent knowledge of the world, laughing or mocking as the thought serves, in the most unexpected antitheses to the proprieties of time, place, and circumstance.

The object of the poem is to describe the progress of a libertine through life, not an unprincipled prodigal, whose profligacy, growing with his growth, and strengthening with his strength, passes from voluptuous indulgence into the sordid sensuality of systematic debauchery, but a young gentleman, who, whirled by the vigour and vivacity of his animal spirits into a world of adventures, in which his stars are chiefly in fault for his liaisons, settles at last into an honourable lawgiver, a moral speaker on divorce bills, and possibly a subscriber to the Society for the Suppression of Vice.  The author has not completed his design, but such appears to have been the drift of it, affording ample opportunities to unveil the foibles and follies of all sorts of men—and women too.  It is generally supposed to contain much of the author’s own experience, but still, with all its riant knowledge of bowers and boudoirs, it is deficient as a true limning of the world, by showing man as if he were always ruled by one predominant appetite.

In the character of Donna Inez and Don José, it has been imagined that Lord Byron has sketched himself and his lady.  It may be so; and if it were, he had by that time got pretty well over the lachrymation of their parting.  It is no longer doubtful that the twenty-seventh stanza records a biographical fact, and the thirty-sixth his own feelings, when,

Poor fellow! he had many things to wound him,
Let’s own, since it can do no good on earth;
It was a trying moment that which found him
Standing alone beside his desolate hearth,
Where all his household gods lay shiver’d round him:
No choice was left his feelings or his pride,
Save death or Doctors’ Commons.

It has been already mentioned, that while the poet was at Dr Glennie’s academy at Dulwich, he read an account of a shipwreck, which has been supposed to have furnished some of the most striking incidents in the description of the disastrous voyage in the second canto in Don Juan.  I have not seen that work; but whatever Lord Byron may have found in it suitable to his purpose, he has undoubtedly made good use of his grandfather’s adventures.  The incident of the spaniel is related by the admiral.

In the licence of Don Juan, the author seems to have considered that his wonted accuracy might be dispensed with.

The description of Haidee applies to an Albanian, not a Greek girl.  The splendour of her father’s house is altogether preposterous; and the island has no resemblance to those of the Cyclades.  With the exception of Zea, his Lordship, however, did not visit them.  Some degree of error and unlike description, runs indeed through the whole of the still life around the portrait of Haidee.  The fête which Lambro discovers on his return, is, however, prettily described; and the dance is as perfect as true.

And farther on a group of Grecian girls,
The first and tallest her white kerchief waving,
Were strung together like a row of pearls,
Link’d hand in hand and dancing; each too having
Down her white neck long floating auburn curls.
Their leader sang, and bounded to her song,
With choral step and voice, the virgin throng.

The account of Lambro proceeding to the house is poetically imagined; and, in his character, may be traced a vivid likeness of Ali Pasha, and happy illustrative allusions to the adventures of that chief.

The fourth canto was written at Ravenna; it is so said within itself; and the description of Dante’s sepulchre there may be quoted for its truth, and the sweet modulation of the moral reflection interwoven with it.

I pass each day where Dante’s bones are laid;
A little cupola, more neat than solemn,
Protects his dust; but reverence here is paid
To the bard’s tomb and not the warrior’s column.
The time must come when both alike decay’d,
The chieftain’s trophy and the poet’s volume
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth,
Before Pelides’ death or Homer’s birth.

The fifth canto was also written in Ravenna.  But it is not my intention to analyze this eccentric and meandering poem; a composition which cannot be well estimated by extracts.  Without, therefore, dwelling at greater length on its variety and merits.  I would only observe that the general accuracy of the poet’s descriptions is verified by that of the scenes in which Juan is placed in England, a point the reader may determine for himself; while the vagueness of the parts derived from books, or sketched from fancy, as contrasted with them, justifies the opinion, that invention was not the most eminent faculty of Byron, either in scenes or in characters.  Of the demerits of the poem it is only necessary to remark, that it has been proscribed on account of its immorality; perhaps, however, there was more of prudery than of equity in the decision, at least it is liable to be so considered, so long as reprints are permitted of the older dramatists, with all their unpruned licentiousness.

But the wheels of Byron’s destiny were now hurrying.  Both in the conception and composition of Don Juan he evinced an increasing disregard of the world’s opinion; and the project of The Liberal was still more fatal to his reputation.  Not only were the invidious eyes of bigotry now eagerly fixed upon his conduct, but those of admiration were saddened and turned away from him.  His principles, which would have been more correctly designated as paradoxes, were objects of jealousy to the Tuscan Government; and it has been already seen that there was a disorderliness about the Casa Lanfranchi which attracted the attention of the police.  His situation in Pisa became, in consequence, irksome; and he resolved to remove to Genoa, an intention which he carried into effect about the end of September, 1822, at which period his thoughts began to gravitate towards Greece.  Having attained to the summit of his literary eminence, he grew ambitious of trying fortune in another field of adventure.

In all the migrations of Lord Byron there was ever something grotesque and desultory.  In moving from Ravenna to Pisa, his caravan consisted of seven servants, five carriages, nine horses, a monkey, a bulldog, and a mastiff, two cats, three peafowl, a harem of hens, books, saddles, and firearms, with a chaos of furniture nor was the exodus less fantastical; for in addition to all his own clanjamphry, he had Mr Hunt’s miscellaneous assemblage of chattels and chattery and little ones.

CHAPTER XLI

Genoa—Change in the Manners of Lord Byron—Residence at the Casa Saluzzi—“The Liberal”—Remarks on the Poet’s Works in general and on Hunt’s Strictures on his Character

Previously to their arrival at Genoa, a house had been taken for Lord Byron and the Guiccioli in Albaro, a pleasant village on a hill, in the vicinity of the city; it was the Casa Saluzzi, and I have been told, that during the time he resided there, he seemed to enjoy a more uniform and temperate gaiety than in any former period of his life.  There might have been less of sentiment in his felicity, than when he lived at Ravenna, as he seldom wrote poetry, but he appeared to some of his occasional visitors, who knew him in London, to have become more agreeable and manly.  I may add, at the risk of sarcasm for the vanity, that in proof of his mellowed temper towards me, besides the kind frankness with which he received my friend, as already mentioned, he sent me word, by the Earl of Blesinton, that he had read my novel of The Entail three times, and thought the old Leddy Grippy one of the most living-like heroines he had ever met with.  This was the more agreeable, as I had heard within the same week, that Sir Walter Scott had done and said nearly the same thing.  Half the compliment from two such men would be something to be proud of.

Lord Byron’s residence at Albaro was separate from that of Mr Hunt, and, in consequence, they were more rarely together than when domiciled under the same roof as at Pisa.  Indeed, by this time, if one may take Mr Hunt’s own account of the matter, they appear to have become pretty well tired of each other.  He had found out that a peer is, as a friend, but as a plebeian, and a great poet not always a high-minded man.  His Lordship had, on his part, discovered that something more than smartness or ingenuity is necessary to protect patronage from familiarity.  Perhaps intimate acquaintance had also tended to enable him to appreciate, with greater accuracy, the meretricious genius and artificial tastes of his copartner in The Liberal.  It is certain that he laughed at his affected admiration of landscapes, and considered his descriptions of scenery as drawn from pictures.

One day, as a friend of mine was conversing with his Lordship at the Casa Saluzzi, on the moral impressions of magnificent scenery, he happened to remark that he thought the view of the Alps in the evening, from Turin, the sublimest scene he had ever beheld.  “It is impossible,” said he, “at such a time, when all the west is golden and glowing behind them, to contemplate such vast masses of the Deity without being awed into rest, and forgetting such things as man and his follies.”—“Hunt,” said his Lordship, smiling, “has no perception of the sublimity of Alpine scenery; he calls a mountain a great impostor.”

In the mean time the materials for the first number of The Liberal had been transmitted to London, where the manuscript of The Vision of Judgment was already, and something of its quality known.  All his Lordship’s friends were disturbed at the idea of the publication.  They did not like the connection he had formed with Mr Shelley—they liked still less the copartnery with Mr Hunt.  With the justice or injustice of these dislikes I have nothing to do.  It is an historical fact that they existed, and became motives with those who deemed themselves the custodiers of his Lordship’s fame, to seek a dissolution of the association.

The first number of The Liberal, containing The Vision of Judgment, was received soon after the copartnery had established themselves at Genoa, accompanied with hopes and fears.  Much good could not be anticipated from a work which outraged the loyal and decorous sentiments of the nation towards the memory of George III.  To the second number Lord Byron contributed the Heaven and Earth, a sacred drama, which has been much misrepresented in consequence of its fraternity with Don Juan and The Vision of Judgment; for it contains no expression to which religion can object, nor breathes a thought at variance with the Genesis.  The history of literature affords no instance of a condemnation less justifiable, on the plea of profanity, than that of this Mystery.  That it abounds in literary blemishes, both of plan and language, and that there are harsh jangles and discords in the verse, is not disputed; but still it abounds in a grave patriarchal spirit, and is echo to the oracles of Adam and Melchisedek.  It may not be worthy of Lord Byron’s genius, but it does him no dishonour, and contains passages which accord with the solemn diapasons of ancient devotion.  The disgust which The Vision of Judgment had produced, rendered it easy to persuade the world that there was impiety in the Heaven and Earth, although, in point of fact, it may be described as hallowed with the Scriptural theology of Milton.  The objections to its literary defects were magnified into sins against worship and religion.

The Liberal stopped with the fourth number, I believe.  It disappointed not merely literary men in general, but even the most special admirers of the talents of the contributors.  The main defect of the work was a lack of knowledge.  Neither in style nor genius, nor even in general ability, was it wanting; but where it showed learning it was not of a kind in which the age took much interest.  Moreover, the manner and cast of thinking of all the writers in it were familiar to the public, and they were too few in number to variegate their pages with sufficient novelty.  But the main cause of the failure was the antipathy formed and fostered against it before it appeared.  It was cried down, and it must be acknowledged that it did not much deserve a better fate.

With The Liberal I shall close my observations on the works of Lord Byron.  They are too voluminous to be examined even in the brief and sketchy manner in which I have considered those which are deemed the principal.  Besides, they are not, like them, all characteristic of the author, though possessing great similarity in style and thought to one another.  Nor would such general criticism accord with the plan of this work.  Lord Byron was not always thinking of himself; like other authors, he sometimes wrote from imaginary circumstances; and often fancied both situations and feelings which had no reference to his own, nor to his experience.  But were the matter deserving of the research, I am persuaded, that with Mr Moore’s work, and the poet’s original journals, notes, and letters, innumerable additions might be made to the list of passages which the incidents of his own life dictated.

The abandonment of The Liberal closed his Lordship’s connection with Mr Hunt; their friendship, if such ever really existed, was ended long before.  It is to be regretted that Byron has not given some account of it himself; for the manner in which he is represented to have acted towards his unfortunate partner, renders another version of the tale desirable.  At the same time—and I am not one of those who are disposed to magnify the faults and infirmities of Byron—I fear there is no excess of truth in Hunt’s opinion of him.  I judge by an account which Lord Byron gave himself to a mutual friend, who did not, however, see the treatment in exactly the same light as that in which it appeared to me.  But, while I cannot regard his Lordship’s conduct as otherwise than unworthy, still the pains which Mr Hunt has taken to elaborate his character and dispositions into every modification of weakness, almost justifies us in thinking that he was treated according to his deserts.  Byron had at least the manners of a gentleman, and though not a judicious knowledge of the world, he yet possessed prudence enough not to be always unguarded.  Mr Hunt informs us, that when he joined his Lordship at Leghorn, his own health was impaired, and that his disease rather increased than diminished during his residence at Pisa and Genoa; to say nothing of the effect which the loss of his friend had on him, and the disappointment he suffered in The Liberal; some excuse may, therefore, be made for him.  In such a condition, misapprehensions were natural; jocularity might be mistaken for sarcasm, and caprice felt as insolence.

CHAPTER XLII

Lord Byron resolves to join the Greeks—Arrives at Cephalonia—Greek Factions—Sends Emissaries to the Grecian Chiefs—Writes to London about the Loan—To Mavrocordato on the Dissensions—Embarks at lest for Missolonghi

While The Liberal was halting onward to its natural doom, the attention of Lord Byron was attracted towards the struggles of Greece.

In that country his genius was first effectually developed; his name was associated with many of its most romantic scenes, and the cause was popular with all the educated and refined of Europe.  He had formed besides a personal attachment to the land, and perhaps many of his most agreeable local associations were fixed amid the ruins of Greece, and in her desolated valleys.  The name is indeed alone calculated to awaken the noblest feelings of humanity.  The spirit of her poets, the wisdom and the heroism of her worthies; whatever is splendid in genius, unparalleled in art, glorious in arms, and wise in philosophy, is associated in their highest excellence with that beautiful region.

Had Lord Byron never been in Greece, he was, undoubtedly, one of those men whom the resurrection of her spirit was likeliest to interest; but he was not also one fitted to do her cause much service.  His innate indolence, his sedentary habits, and that all-engrossing consideration for himself, which, in every situation, marred his best impulses, were shackles upon the practice of the stern bravery in himself which he has so well expressed in his works.

It was expected when he sailed for Greece, nor was the expectation unreasonable with those who believe imagination and passion to be of the same element, that the enthusiasm which flamed so highly in his verse was the spirit of action, and would prompt him to undertake some great enterprise.  But he was only an artist; he could describe bold adventures and represent high feeling, as other gifted individuals give eloquence to canvas and activity to marble; but he did not possess the wisdom necessary for the instruction of councils.  I do, therefore, venture to say, that in embarking for Greece, he was not entirely influenced by such exoterical motives as the love of glory or the aspirations of heroism.  His laurels had for some time ceased to flourish, the sear and yellow, the mildew and decay, had fallen upon them, and he was aware that the bright round of his fame was ovalling from the full and showing the dim rough edge of waning.

He was, moreover, tired of the Guiccioli, and again afflicted with a desire for some new object with which to be in earnest.  The Greek cause seemed to offer this, and a better chance for distinction than any other pursuit in which he could then engage.  In the spring of 1823 he accordingly made preparations for transferring himself from Genoa to Greece, and opened a correspondence with the leaders of the insurrection, that the importance of his adhesion might be duly appreciated.

Greece, with a fair prospect of ultimate success, was at that time as distracted in her councils as ever.  Her arms had been victorious, but the ancient jealousy of the Greek mind was unmitigated.  The third campaign had commenced, and yet no regular government had been organized; the fiscal resources of the country were neglected: a wild energy against the Ottomans was all that the Greeks could depend on for continuing the war.

Lord Byron arrived in Cephalonia about the middle of August, 1823, where he fixed his residence for some time.  This was prudent, but it said nothing for that spirit of enterprise with which a man engaging in such a cause, in such a country, and with such a people, ought to have been actuated—especially after Marco Botzaris, one of the best and most distinguished of the chiefs, had earnestly urged him to join him at Missolonghi.  I fear that I may not be able to do justice to Byron’s part in the affairs of Greece; but I shall try.  He did not disappoint me, for he only acted as might have been expected, from his unsteady energies.  Many, however, of his other friends longed in vain to hear of that blaze of heroism, by which they anticipated that his appearance in the field would be distinguished.

Among his earliest proceedings was the equipment of forty Suliotes, or Albanians, whom he sent to Marco Botzaris to assist in the defence of Missolonghi.  An adventurer of more daring would have gone with them; and when the battle was over, in which Botzaris fell, he transmitted bandages and medicines, of which he had brought a large supply from Italy, and pecuniary succour, to the wounded.

This was considerate, but there was too much consideration in all that he did at this time, neither in unison with the impulses of his natural character, nor consistent with the heroic enthusiasm with which the admirers of his poetry imagined he was kindled.

In the mean time he had offered to advance one thousand dollars a month for the succour of Missolonghi and the troops with Marco Botzaris; but the government, instead of accepting the offer, intimated that they wished previously to confer with him, which he interpreted into a desire to direct the expenditure of the money to other purposes.  In his opinion his Lordship was probably not mistaken; but his own account of his feeling in the business does not tend to exalt the magnanimity of his attachment to the cause: “I will take care,” says he, “that it is for the public cause, otherwise I will not advance a para.  The opposition say they want to cajole me, and the party in power say the others wish to seduce me; so, between the two, I have a difficult part to play; however, I will have nothing to do with the factions, unless to reconcile them, if possible.”

It is difficult to conceive that Lord Byron, “the searcher of dark bosoms,” could have expressed himself so weakly and with such vanity; but the shadow of coming fate had already reached him, and his judgment was suffering in the blight that had fallen on his reputation.  To think of the possibility of reconciling two Greek factions, or any factions, implies a degree of ignorance of mankind, which, unless it had been given in his Lordship’s own writing, would not have been credible; and as to having nothing to do with the factions, for what purpose went he to Greece, unless it was to take a part with one of them?  I abstain from saying what I think of his hesitation in going to the government instead of sending two of his associated adventurers, Mr Trelawney and Mr Hamilton Brown, whom he despatched to collect intelligence as to the real state of things, substituting their judgment for his own.  When the Hercules, the ship he chartered to carry him to Greece, weighed anchor, he was committed with the Greeks, and everything short of unequivocal folly he was bound to have done with and for them.

His two emissaries or envoys proceeded to Tripolizza, where they found Colocotroni seated in the palace of the late vizier, Velhi Pasha, in great power; the court-yard and galleries filled with armed men in garrison, while there was no enemy at that time in the Morea able to come against them!  The Greek chieftains, like their classic predecessors, though embarked in the same adventure, were personal adversaries to each other.  Colocotroni spoke of his compeer Mavrocordato in the very language of Agamemnon, when he said that he had declared to him, unless he desisted from his intrigues, he would mount him on an ass and whip him out of the Morea; and that he had only been restrained from doing so by the representation of his friends, who thought it would injure their common cause.  Such was the spirit of the chiefs of the factions which Lord Byron thought it not impossible to reconcile!

At this time Missolonghi was in a critical state, being blockaded both by land and sea; and the report of Trelawney to Lord Byron concerning it, was calculated to rouse his Lordship to activity.  “There have been,” says he, “thirty battles fought and won by the late Marco Botzaris, and his gallant tribe of Suliotes, who are shut up in Missolonghi.  If it fall, Athens will be in danger, and thousands of throats cut: a few thousand dollars would provide ships to relieve it; a portion of this sum is raised, and I would coin my heart to save this key of Greece.”  Bravely said! but deserving of little attention.  The fate of Missolonghi could have had no visible effect on that of Athens.

The distance between these two places is more than a hundred miles, and Lord Byron was well acquainted with the local difficulties of the intervening country; still it was a point to which the eyes of the Greeks were all at that time directed; and Mavrocordato, then in correspondence with Lord Byron, and who was endeavouring to collect a fleet for the relief of the place, induced his Lordship to undertake to provide the money necessary for the equipment of the fleet, to the extent of twelve thousand pounds.  It was on this occasion his Lordship addressed a letter to the Greek chiefs, that deserves to be quoted, for the sagacity with which it suggests what may be the conduct of the great powers of Christendom.

“I must frankly confess,” says he, “that unless union and order are confirmed, all hopes of a loan will be in vain, and all the assistance which the Greeks could expect from abroad, an assistance which might be neither trifling nor worthless, will be suspended or destroyed; and what is worse, the great powers of Europe, of whom no one was an enemy to Greece, but seemed inclined to favour her in consenting to the establishment of an independent power, will be persuaded that the Greeks are unable to govern themselves, and will, perhaps, undertake to arrange your disorders in such a way, as to blast the brightest hopes you indulge, and that are indulged by your friends.”

In the meantime, Lord Byron was still at the villa he had hired in Cephalonia, where his conduct was rather that of a spectator than an ally.  Colonel Stanhope, in a letter of the 26th of November, describes him as having been there about three months, and spending his time exactly as every one acquainted with his habits must have expected.  “The first six weeks he spent on board a merchant-vessel, and seldom went on shore, except on business.  Since that period he has lived in a little villa in the country, in absolute retirement, Count Gamba (brother to the Guiccioli) being his only companion.”—Such, surely, was not exactly playing that part in the Greek cause which he had taught the world to look for.  It is true, that the accounts received there of the Greek affairs were not then favourable.  Everybody concurred in representing the executive government as devoid of public virtue, and actuated by avarice or personal ambition.  This intelligence was certainly not calculated to increase Lord Byron’s ardour, and may partly excuse the causes of his personal inactivity.  I say personal, because he had written to London to accelerate the attempt to raise a loan, and, at the suggestion of Colonel Stanhope, he addressed a letter to Mavrocordato respecting the inevitable consequences of their calamitous dissensions.  The object of this letter was to induce a reconciliation between the rival factions, or to throw the odium, of having thwarted the loan, upon the Executive, and thereby to degrade the members of it in the opinion of the people.  “I am very uneasy,” said his Lordship to the prince, “at hearing that the dissensions of Greece still continue; and at a moment when she might triumph over everything in general, as she has triumphed in part.  Greece is at present placed between three measures; either to reconquer her liberty, or to become a dependence of the sovereigns of Europe, or to return to a Turkish province; she has already the choice only of these three alternatives.  Civil war is but a road which leads to the two latter.  If she is desirous of the fate of Wallachia and the Crimea, she may obtain it to-morrow; if that of Italy, the day after.  But if she wishes to become truly Greece, free and independent, she must resolve to-day, or she will never again have the opportunity,” etc., etc.

Meanwhile, the Greek people became impatient for Lord Byron to come among them.  They looked forward to his arrival as to the coming of a Messiah.  Three boats were successively despatched for him and two of them returned, one after the other, without him.  On the 29th of December, 1823, however, his Lordship did at last embark.

CHAPTER XLIII

Lord Byron’s Conversations on Religion with Dr Kennedy

While Lord Byron was hesitating, in the Island of Cephalonia, about proceeding to Greece, an occurrence took place, of which much has been made.  I allude to the acquaintance he formed with a Dr Kennedy, the publication of whose conversations with him on religion has attracted some degree of public attention.

This gentleman was originally destined for the Scottish bar, but afterwards became a student of medicine, and entering the medical department of the army, happened to be stationed in Cephalonia when Lord Byron arrived.  He appears to have been a man of kind dispositions, possessed of a better heart than judgment; in all places wherever his duty bore him he took a lively interest in the condition of the inhabitants, and was active, both in his official and private capacity, to improve it.  He had a taste for circulating pious tracts, and zealously co-operated in distributing copies of the Scriptures.

Firmly settled, himself, in a conviction of the truth of Christianity, he was eager to make converts to his views of the doctrines; but whether he was exactly the kind of apostle to achieve the conversion of Lord Byron may, perhaps, be doubted.  His sincerity and the disinterestedness of his endeavours would secure to him from his Lordship an indulgent and even patient hearing.  But I fear that without some more effectual calling, the arguments he appears to have employed were not likely to have made Lord Byron a proselyte.  His Lordship was so constituted in his mind, and by his temperament, that nothing short of regeneration could have made him a Christian, according to the gospel of Dr Kennedy.

Lord Byron had but loose feelings in religion—scarcely any.  His sensibility and a slight constitutional leaning towards superstition and omens showed that the sense of devotion was, however, alive and awake within him; but with him religion was a sentiment, and the convictions of the understanding had nothing whatever to do with his creed.  That he was deeply imbued with the essence of natural piety; that he often felt the power and being of a God thrilling in all his frame, and glowing in his bosom, I declare my thorough persuasion; and that he believed in some of the tenets and in the philosophy of Christianity, as they influence the spirit and conduct of men, I am as little disposed to doubt; especially if those portions of his works which only trend towards the subject, and which bear the impression of fervour and earnestness, may be admitted as evidence.  But he was not a member of any particular church, and, without a reconstruction of his mind and temperament, I venture to say, he could not have become such; not in consequence, as too many have represented, of any predilection, either of feeling or principle, against Christianity, but entirely owing to an organic peculiarity of mind.  He reasoned on every topic by instinct, rather than by induction or any process of logic; and could never be so convinced of the truth or falsehood of an abstract proposition, as to feel it affect the current of his actions.  He may have assented to arguments, without being sensible of their truth; merely because they were not objectionable to his feelings at the time.  And, in the same manner, he may have disputed even fair inferences, from admitted premises, if the state of his feelings happened to be indisposed to the subject.  I am persuaded, nevertheless, that to class him among absolute infidels were to do injustice to his memory, and that he has suffered uncharitably in the opinion of “the rigidly righteous,” who, because he had not attached himself to any particular sect or congregation, assumed that he was an adversary to religion.  To claim for him any credit, as a pious man, would be absurd; but to suppose he had not as deep an interest as other men “in his soul’s health” and welfare, was to impute to him a nature which cannot exist.  Being, altogether, a creature of impulses, he certainly could not be ever employed in doxologies, or engaged in the logomachy of churchmen; but he had the sentiment which at a tamer age might have made him more ecclesiastical.  There was as much truth as joke in the expression, when he wrote,

I am myself a moderate Presbyterian.

A mind constituted like that of Lord Byron, was little susceptible of impressions from the arguments of ordinary men.  It was necessary that Truth, in visiting him, should come arrayed in her solemnities, and with Awe and Reverence for her precursors.  Acknowledged superiority, yea, celebrated wisdom, were indispensable, to bespeak his sincere attention; and, without disparagement, it may be fairly said, these were not the attributes of Dr Kennedy.  On the contrary, there was a taint of cant about him—perhaps he only acted like those who have it—but still he was not exactly the dignitary to command unaffected deference from the shrewd and irreverent author of Don Juan.  The result verified what ought to have been the anticipation.  The doctor’s attempt to quicken Byron to a sense of grace failed; but his Lordship treated him with politeness.  The history of the affair will, however, be more interesting than any reflections which it is in my humble power to offer.

Some of Dr Kennedy’s acquaintances wished to hear him explain, in “a logical and demonstrative manner, the evidences and doctrines of Christianity”; and Lord Byron, hearing of the intended meeting, desired to be present, and was accordingly invited.  He attended; but was not present at several others which followed; he however intimated to the doctor, that he would be glad to converse with him, and the invitation was accepted.  “On religion,” says the doctor, “his Lordship was in general a hearer, proposing his difficulties and objections with more fairness than could have been expected from one under similar circumstances; and with so much candour, that they often seemed to be proposed more for the purpose of procuring information, or satisfactory answers, than from any other motive.”

At the first meeting, Dr Kennedy explained, becomingly, his views of the subject, and that he had read every work against Christianity which fell in his way.  It was this consideration which had induced him with such confidence to enter upon the discussion, knowing, on the one hand, the strength of Christianity, and, on the other, the weakness of its assailants.  “To show you, therefore,” said the doctor, “the grounds on which I demand your attention to what I may say on the nature and evidence of Christianity, I shall mention the names of some of the authors whose works I have read or consulted.”  When he had mentioned all these names, Lord Byron asked if he had read Barrow’s and Stillingfleet’s works?  The doctor replied, “I have seen them, but I have not read them.”

After a disquisition, chiefly relative to the history of Christianity, Dr Kennedy observed, “We must, on all occasions, but more particularly in fair and logical discussions with sceptics, or Deists, make a distinction between Christianity, as it is found in the Scriptures, and the errors, abuses, and imperfections of Christians themselves.”  To this his Lordship remarked, that he always had taken care to make that distinction, as he knew enough of Christianity to feel that it was both necessary and just.  The doctor remarked that the contrary was almost universally the case with those who doubted or denied the truth of Christianity, and proceeded to illustrate the statement.  He then read a summary of the fundamental doctrines of Christianity; but he had not proceeded far, when he observed signs of impatience in Lord Byron, who inquired if these sentiments accorded with the doctor’s? and being answered they did, and with those of all sound Christians, except in one or two minor things, his Lordship rejoined, that he did not wish to hear the opinions of others, whose writings he could read at any time, but only his own.  The doctor then read on till coming to the expression “grace of God.”  His Lordship inquired, “What do you mean by grace?”  “The primary and fundamental meaning of the word,” replied the doctor, somewhat surprised at his ignorance (I quote his own language), “is favour; though it varies according to the context to express that disposition of God which leads Him to grant a favour, the action of doing so, or the favour itself, or its effects on those who receive it.”  The arrogance of the use of the term ignorance here, requires no animadversion; but to suppose the greatest master, then in existence, of the English language, not acquainted with the meaning of the word, when he asked to be informed of the meaning attached to it by the individual making use of it, gives us some insight into the true character of the teacher.  The doctor closed the book, as he perceived that Lord Byron, as he says, had no distinct conception of many of the words used; and his Lordship subjoined, “What we want is, to be convinced that the Bible is true; because if we can believe that, it will follow as a matter of course, that we must believe all the doctrines it contains.”

The reply to this was to the effect, that the observation was partly just; but though the strongest evidence were produced of the Scriptures being the revealed will of God, they (his Lordship and others present) would still remain unbelievers, unless they knew and comprehended the doctrines contained in the Scriptures.  This was not conclusive, and Lord Byron replied, that they wished him to prove that the Scriptures were the Word of God, which the doctor, with more than apostolic simplicity, said that such was his object, but he should like to know what they deemed the clearest course to follow with that object in view.  After some farther conversation—“No other plan was proposed by them,” says the doctor; and he adds, “they had violated their engagement to hear me for twelve hours, for which I had stipulated.”  This may, perhaps, satisfy the reader as to the quality of the doctor’s understanding; but as the subject, in its bearing, touches Lord Byron’s character, I shall proceed a little farther into the marrow of the matter.

The inculcation being finished for that evening, Lord Byron said, that when he was young his mother brought him up strictly; and that he had access to a great many theological works, and remembered that he was particularly pleased with Barrow’s writings, and that he also went regularly to church.  He declared that he was not an infidel, who denied the Scriptures and wished to remain in unbelief; on the contrary, he was desirous to believe, as he experienced no happiness in having his religious opinions so unsteady and unfixed.  But he could not, he added, understand the Scriptures.  “Those people who conscientiously believe, I always have respected, and was always disposed to trust in them more than in others.”  A desultory conversation then ensued, respecting the language and translations of the Scriptures; in the course of which his Lordship remarked, that Scott, in his Commentary on the Bible, did not say that it was the devil who tempted Eve, nor does the Bible say a word about the devil.  It is only said that the serpent spoke, and that it was the subtlest of all the beasts of the field.—Will it be said that truth and reason were served by Dr Kennedy’s answer?  “As beasts have not the faculty of speech, the just inference is, that the beast was only an instrument made use of by some invisible and superior being.  The Scriptures accordingly tell us, that the devil is the father of lies—the lie made by the serpent to Eve being the first we have on record; they call him also a murderer from the beginning, as he was the cause of the sentence of death which was pronounced against Adam and all his posterity; and still farther, to remove all doubt, and to identify him as the agent who used the serpent as an instrument, he is called the serpent—the devil.”

Lord Byron inquired what the doctor thought of the theory of Warburton, that the Jews had no distinct idea of a future state?  The doctor acknowledged that he had often seen, but had never read The Divine Legation.  And yet, he added, had Warburton read his Bible with more simplicity and attention, he would have enjoyed a more solid and honourable fame.

His Lordship then said, that one of the greatest difficulties he had met with was the existence of so much pure and unmixed evil in the world, and which he could not reconcile to the idea of a benevolent Creator.  The doctor set aside the question as to the origin of evil; but granted the extensive existence of evil in the universe; to remedy which, he said, the Gospel was proclaimed; and after some of the customary commonplaces, he ascribed much of the existing evil to the slackness of Christians in spreading the Gospel.

“Is there not,” said his Lordship, “some part of the New Testament where it appears that the disciples were struck with the state of physical evil, and made inquiries into the cause?”—“There are two passages,” was the reply.  The disciples inquired, when they saw a man who had been born blind, whether it was owing to his own or his parents’ sin?—and, after quoting the other instance, he concludes, that moral and physical evil in individuals are not always a judgment or punishment, but are intended to answer certain ends in the government of the world.

“Is there not,” said his Lordship, “a prophecy in the New Testament which it is alleged has not been fulfilled, although it was declared that the end of the world would come before the generation then existing should pass away?”—“The prediction,” said Dr Kennedy, “related to the destruction of Jerusalem, which certainly took place within the time assigned; though some of the expressions descriptive of the signs of that remarkable event are of such a nature as to appear to apply to Christ’s coming to judge the world at the end of time.”

His Lordship then asked, if the doctor thought that there had been fewer wars and persecutions, and less slaughter and misery, in the world since the introduction of Christianity than before?  The doctor answered this by observing, that since Christianity inculcates peace and good-will to all men, we must always separate pure religion from the abuses of which its professors are guilty.

Two other opinions were expressed by his Lordship in the conversation.  The doctor, in speaking of the sovereignty of God, had alluded to the similitude of the potter and his clay; for his Lordship said, if he were broken in pieces, he would say to the potter, “Why do you treat me thus?”  The other was an absurdity.  It was—if the whole world were going to hell, he would prefer going with them than go alone to heaven.

Such was the result of the first council of Cephalonia, if one may venture the allusion.  It is manifest, without saying much for Lord Byron’s ingenuity, that he was fully a match for the doctor, and that he was not unacquainted with the subject under discussion.

In the next conversation Lord Byron repeated, “I have no wish to reject Christianity without investigation; on the contrary, I am very desirous of believing.  But I do not see very much the need of a Saviour, nor the utility of prayer.  Devotion is the affection of the heart, and this I feel.  When I view the wonders of creation, I bow to the Majesty of Heaven; and when I feel the enjoyments of life, I feel grateful to God for having bestowed them upon me.”  Upon this some discussion arose, turning chiefly on the passage in the third chapter of John, “Unless a man is converted, he cannot enter the kingdom of Heaven”; which naturally led to an explanatory interlocutor, concerning new birth, regeneration, etc.; and thence diverged into the topics which had been the subject of the former conversation.

Among other things, Lord Byron inquired, “if the doctor really thought that the devil appeared before God, as is mentioned in the Book of Job, or is it only an allegorical or poetical mode of speaking?”—The reply was, “I believe it in the strict and literal meaning.”

“If it be received in a literal sense,” said his Lordship, “it gives me a much higher idea of the majesty, power, and wisdom of God, to believe that the devils themselves are at His nod, and are subject to His control, with as much ease as the elements of nature follow the respective laws which His will has assigned them.”

This notion was characteristic, and the poetical feeling in which it originated, when the doctor attempted to explain the doctrine of the Manicheans, was still more distinctly developed; for his Lordship again expressed how much the belief of the real appearance of Satan, to hear and obey the commands of God, added to his views of the grandeur and majesty of the Creator.

This second conversation was more desultory than the first; religion was brought in only incidentally, until his Lordship said, “I do not reject the doctrines of Christianity; I want only sufficient proofs of it, to take up the profession in earnest; and I do not believe myself to be so bad a Christian as many of them who preach against me with the greatest fury—many of whom I have never seen nor injured.”

“You have only to examine the causes which prevent you” (from being a true believer), said the doctor, “and you will find they are futile, and only tend to withhold you from the enjoyment of real happiness; which at present it is impossible you can find.”

“What, then, you think me in a very bad way?”

“I certainly think you are,” was the reply; “and this I say, not on my own authority, but on that of the Scriptures.—Your Lordship must be converted, and must be reformed, before anything can be said of you, except that you are bad, and in a bad way.”

“But,” replied his Lordship, “I already believe in predestination, which I know you believe, and in the depravity of the human heart in general, and of my own in particular; thus you see there are two points in which we agree.  I shall get at the others by-and-by.  You cannot expect me to become a perfect Christian at once.”

And farther his Lordship subjoined:

“Predestination appears to me just; from my own reflection and experience, I am influenced in a way which is incomprehensible, and am led to do things which I never intended; and if there is, as we all admit, a Supreme Ruler of the universe; and if, as you say, he has the actions of the devils, as well as of his own angels, completely at his command, then those influences, or those arrangements of circumstances, which lead us to do things against our will, or with ill-will, must be also under his directions.  But I have never entered into the depths of the subject; I have contented myself with believing that there is a predestination of events, and that predestination depends on the will of God.”

Dr Kennedy, in speaking of this second conversation, bears testimony to the respectfulness of his Lordship’s attention.  “There was nothing in his manner which approached to levity, or anything that indicated a wish to mock at religion; though, on the other hand, an able dissembler would have done and said all that he did, with such feelings and intentions.”

Subsequent to the second conversation, Dr Kennedy asked a gentleman who was intimate with Lord Byron, if he really thought his Lordship serious in his desire to hear religion explained.  “Has he exhibited any contempt or ridicule at what I have said?”  This gentleman assured him that he had never heard Byron allude to the subject in any way which could induce him to suspect that he was merely amusing himself.  “But, on the contrary, he always names you with respect.  I do not, however, think you have made much impression on him: he is just the same fellow as before.  He says, he does not know what religion you are of, for you neither adhere to creeds nor councils.”

It ought here to be noticed, as showing the general opinion entertained of his Lordship with respect to these polemical conversations, that the wits of the garrison made themselves merry with what was going on.  Some of them affected to believe, or did so, that Lord Byron’s wish to hear Dr Kennedy proceeded from a desire to have an accurate idea of the opinions and manners of the Methodists, in order that he might make Don Juan become one for a time, and so be enabled to paint their conduct with greater accuracy.

The third conversation took place soon after this comment had been made on Lord Byron’s conduct.  The doctor inquired if his Lordship had read any of the religious books he had sent.  “I have looked,” replied Byron, “into Boston’s Fourfold State, but I have not had time to read it far: I am afraid it is too deep for me.”

Although there was no systematic design, on the part of Lord Byron, to make Dr Kennedy subservient to any scheme of ridicule; yet it is evident that he was not so serious as the doctor so meritoriously desired.

“I have begun,” said his Lordship, “very fairly; I have given some of your tracts to Fletcher (his valet), who is a good sort of man, but still wants, like myself, some reformation; and I hope he will spread them among the other servants, who require it still more.  Bruno, the physician, and Gamba, are busy, reading some of the Italian tracts; and I hope it will have a good effect on them.  The former is rather too decided against it at present; and too much engaged with a spirit of enthusiasm for his own profession, to attend to other subjects; but we must have patience, and we shall see what has been the result.  I do not fail to read, from time to time, my Bible, though not, perhaps, so much as I should.”

“Have you begun to pray that you may understand it?”

“Not yet.  I have not arrived at that pitch of faith yet; but it may come by-and-by.  You are in too great a hurry.”

His Lordship then went to a side-table, on which a great number of books were ranged; and, taking hold of an octavo, gave it to the doctor.  It was Illustrations of the Moral Government of God, by E. Smith, M.D., London.  “The author,” said he, “proves that the punishment of hell is not eternal; it will have a termination.”

“The author,” replied the doctor, “is, I suppose, one of the Socinians; who, in a short time, will try to get rid of every doctrine in the Bible.  How did your Lordship get hold of this book?”

“They sent it out to me from England, to make a convert of me, I suppose.  The arguments are strong, drawn from the Bible itself; and by showing that a time will come when every intelligent creature shall be supremely happy, and eternally so, it expunges that shocking doctrine, that sin and misery will for ever exist under the government of God, Whose highest attribute is love and goodness.  To my present apprehension, it would be a most desirable thing, could it be proved that, alternately, all created beings were to be happy.  This would appear to be most consistent with the nature of God.—I cannot yield to your doctrine of the eternal duration of punishment.—This author’s opinion is more humane; and, I think, he supports it very strongly from Scripture.”

The fourth conversation was still more desultory, being carried on at table amid company; in the course of it Lord Byron, however, declared “that he was so much of a believer as to be of opinion that there is no contradiction in the Scriptures which cannot be reconciled by an attentive consideration and comparison of passages.”

It is needless to remark that Lord Byron, in the course of these conversations, was incapable of preserving a consistent seriousness.  The volatility of his humour was constantly leading him into playfulness, and he never lost an opportunity of making a pun or saying a quaint thing.  “Do you know,” said he to the doctor, “I am nearly reconciled to St Paul; for he says there is no difference between the Jews and the Greeks, and I am exactly of the same opinion, for the character of both is equally vile.”

Upon the whole it must be conceded, that whatever was the degree of Lord Byron’s dubiety as to points of faith and doctrine, he could not be accused of gross ignorance, nor described as animated by any hostile feeling against religion.

In this sketch of these conversations, I have restricted myself chiefly to those points which related to his Lordship’s own sentiments and belief.  It would have been inconsistent with the concise limits of this work to have detailed the controversies.  A fair summary of what Byron did not believe, what he was disposed to believe but had not satisfied himself with the evidence, and what he did believe, seemed to be the task I ought to undertake.  The result confirmed the statement of his Lordship’s religious condition, given in the preliminary remarks which, I ought to mention, were written before I looked into Dr Kennedy’s book; and the statement is not different from the estimate which the conversations warrant.  It is true that Lord Byron’s part in the conversations is not very characteristic; but the integrity of Dr Kennedy is a sufficient assurance that they are substantially correct.

CHAPTER XLIV

Voyage to Cephalonia—Letter—Count Gamba’s Address—Grateful Feelings of the Turks—Endeavours of Lord Byron to mitigate the Horrors of the War

Lord Byron, after leaving Argostoli, on the 29th December, 1823, the port of Cephalonia, sailed for Zante, where he took on board a quantity of specie.  Although the distance from Zante to Missolonghi is but a few hours’ sail, the voyage was yet not without adventures.  Missolonghi, as I have already mentioned, was then blockaded by the Turks, and some address was necessary, on that account, to effect an entrance, independent of the difficulties, at all times, of navigating the canals which intersect the shallows.  In the following letter to Colonel Stanhope, his Lordship gives an account of what took place.  It is very characteristic; I shall therefore quote it.

“Scrofer, or some such name, on board a
Cephaloniate Mistice, Dec. 31, 1823.

“MY DEAR STANHOPE,—We are just arrived here—that is, part of my people and I, with some things, etc., and which it may be as well not to specify in a letter (which has a risk of being intercepted, perhaps); but Gamba and my horses, negro, steward, and the press, and all the committee things, also some eight thousand dollars of mine (but never mind, we have more left—do you understand?) are taken by the Turkish frigates; and my party and myself in another boat, have had a narrow escape, last night (being close under their stern, and hailed, but we would not answer, and bore away) as well as this morning.  Here we are, with sun and charming weather, within a pretty little port enough; but whether our Turkish friends may not send in their boats, and take us out (for we have no arms, except two carbines and some pistols, and, I suspect, not more than four fighting people on board), is another question; especially if we remain long here, since we are blocked out of Missolonghi by the direct entrance.  You had better send my friend George Drake, and a body of Suliotes, to escort us by land or by the canals, with all convenient speed.  Gamba and our Bombard are taken into Patras, I suppose, and we must take a turn at the Turks to get them out.  But where the devil is the fleet gone? the Greek, I mean—leaving us to get in without the least intimation to take heed that the Moslems were out again.  Make my respects to Mavrocordato, and say that I am here at his disposal.  I am uneasy at being here.  We are very well.—Yours, etc.

“N. B.

“P.S.  The Bombard was twelve miles out when taken; at least, so it appeared to us (if taken she actually be, for it is not certain), and we had to escape from another vessel that stood right in between us and the port.”

Colonel Stanhope on receiving this despatch, which was carried to him by two of Lord Byron’s servants, sent two armed boats, and a company of Suliotes, to escort his Lordship to Missolonghi, where he arrived on the 5th of January, and was received with military honours, and the most enthusiastic demonstrations of popular joy.  No mark of respect which the Greeks could think of was omitted.  The ships fired a salute as he passed.  Prince Mavrocordato, and all the authorities, with the troops and the population, met him on his landing, and accompanied him to the house which had been prepared for him, amid the shouts of the multitude and the discharge of cannon.

In the meantime, Count Gamba and his companions being taken before Yusuff Pasha at Patras, expected to share the fate of certain unfortunate prisoners whom that stern chief had sacrificed the preceding year at Prevesa; and their fears would probably have been realised but for the intrepid presence of mind displayed by the Count, who, assuming a haughty style, accused the Ottoman captain of the frigate of a breach of neutrality, in detaining a vessel under English colours, and concluded by telling the Pasha that he might expect the vengeance of the British Government in thus interrupting a nobleman who was merely on his travels, and bound to Calamata.  Perhaps, however, another circumstance had quite as much influence with the Pasha as this bravery.  In the master of the vessel he recognised a person who had saved his life in the Black Sea fifteen years before, and in consequence not only consented to the vessel’s release, but treated the whole of the passengers with the utmost attention, and even urged them to take a day’s shooting in the neighbourhood.

The first measure which his Lordship attempted after his arrival, was to mitigate the ferocity with which the war was carried on; one of the objects, as he explained to my friend who visited him at Genoa, which induced him to embark in the cause.  And it happened that the very day he reached the town was signalised by his rescuing a Turk who had fallen into the hands of some Greek sailors.  This man was clothed by his Lordship’s orders, and sent over to Patras; and soon after Count Gamba’s release, hearing that four other Turks were prisoners in Missolonghi, he requested that they might be placed in his hands, which was immediately granted.  These he also sent to Patras, with a letter addressed to Yusuff, expressing his hope that the prisoners thence-forward taken on both sides would be treated with humanity.  This act was followed by another equally praiseworthy.  A Greek cruiser having captured a Turkish boat, in which there was a number of passengers, chiefly women and children, they were also placed at the disposal of his Lordship, at his particular request.  Captain Parry has given a description of the scene between Lord Byron, and that multitude of mothers and children, too interesting to be omitted here.  “I was summoned to attend him, and receive his orders that everything should be done which might contribute to their comfort.  He was seated on a cushion at the upper end of the room, the women and children were standing before him with their eyes fixed steadily on him; and on his right hand was his interpreter, who was extracting from the women a narrative of their sufferings.  One of them, apparently about thirty years of age, possessing great vivacity, and whose manners and dress, though she was then dirty and disfigured, indicated that she was superior in rank and condition to her companions, was spokeswoman for the whole.  I admired the good order the others preserved, never interfering with the explanation, or interrupting the single speaker.  I also admired the rapid manner in which the interpreter explained everything they said, so as to make it almost appear that there was but one speaker.  After a short time it was evident that what Lord Byron was hearing affected his feelings; his countenance changed, his colour went and came, and I thought he was ready to weep.  But he had, on all occasions, a ready and peculiar knack in turning conversation from any disagreeable or unpleasant subject; and he had recourse to this expedient.  He rose up suddenly, and, turning round on his heel as was his wont, he said something to his interpreter, who immediately repeated it to the women.  All eyes were immediately fixed on me; and one of the party, a young and beautiful woman, spoke very warmly.  Lord Byron seemed satisfied, and said they might retire.  The women all slipped off their shoes in an instant, and, going up to his Lordship, each in succession, accompanied by their children, kissed his hand fervently, invoked, in the Turkish manner, a blessing, both on his hand and heart, and then quitted the room.  This was too much for Lord Byron, and he turned his face away to conceal his emotion”

A vessel was then hired, and the whole of them, to the number of twenty-four, were sent to Prevesa, provided with every requisite for their comfort during the passage.  These instances of humanity excited a sympathy among the Turks.  The Governor of Prevesa thanked his Lordship, and assured him that he would take care that equal attention should be in future paid to the Greeks, who might fall into his hands.

CHAPTER XLV

Proceedings at Missolonghi—Byron’s Suliote Brigade—Their Insubordination—Difference with Colonel Stanhope—Imbecility of the Plans for the Independence of Greece

The arrival of Lord Byron at Missolonghi was not only hailed as a new era in the history of Greece, but as the beginning of a new cycle in his own extraordinary life.  His natural indolence disappeared; the Sardanapalian sloth was thrown off, and he took a station in the van of her efforts that bespoke heroic achievement.

After paying the fleet, which indeed had only come out in the expectation of receiving the arrears from the loan he had promised to Mavrocordato, he resolved to form a brigade of Suliotes.  Five hundred of the remains of Marco Botzaris’s gallant followers were accordingly taken into his pay.  “He burns with military ardour and chivalry,” says Colonel Stanhope, “and will proceed with the expedition to Lepanto.”  But the expedition was delayed by causes which ought to have been foreseen.

The Suliotes, conceiving that in his Lordship they had found a patron whose wealth and generosity were equally boundless, refused to quit Missolonghi till their arrears were paid.  Savage in the field, and untamable in the city, they became insubordinate and mercenary; nor was their conduct without excuse.  They had long defended the town with untired bravery; their families had been driven into it in the most destitute condition; and all the hopes that had led them to take up arms were still distant and prospective.  Besides, Mavrocordato, unlike the other Grecian captains, having no troops of his own, affected to regard these mercenaries as allies, and was indulgent to their excesses.  The town was overawed by their turbulence, conflicts took place in the street; riot and controversy everywhere prevailed, and blood was shed.

Lord Byron’s undisciplined spirit could ill brook delay; he partook of the general vehemence, and lost the power of discerning the comparative importance both of measures and things.  He was out of his element; confusion thickened around him; his irritability grew into passion; and there was the rush and haste, the oblivion and alarm of fatality in all he undertook and suggested.

One day, a party of German adventurers reached the fortress so demoralized by hardships, that few of them were fit for service.  It was intended to form a corps of artillery, and these men were destined for that branch of the service; but their condition was such, that Stanhope doubted the practicability of carrying the measure into effect at that time.  He had promised to contribute a hundred pounds to their equipment.  Byron attributed the Colonel’s objections to reluctance to pay the money; and threatened him if it were refused, with a punishment, new in Grecian war——to libel him in the Greek Chronicle! a newspaper which Stanhope had recently established.

It is, however, not easy to give a correct view of the state of affairs at that epoch in Missolonghi.  All parties seem to have been deplorably incompetent to understand the circumstances in which they were placed;—the condition of the Greeks, and that their exigencies required only physical and military means.  They talked of newspapers and types, and libels, as if the moral instruments of civil exhortation were adequate to wrench the independence of Greece from the bloody grasp of the Ottoman.  No wonder that Byron, accustomed to the management only of his own fancies, was fluttered amid the conflicts of such riot and controversy.

His situation at this period was indeed calculated to inspire pity.  Had he survived, it might, instead of awakening the derision of history, have supplied to himself materials for another canto of Don Juan.  I shall select one instance of his afflictions.

The captain of a British gun-brig came to Missolonghi to demand an equivalent for an Ionian boat, which had been taken in the act of going out of the Gulf of Lepanto, with provisions and arms.  The Greek fleet at that time blockading the port consisted of five brigs, and the Turks had fourteen vessels of war in the gulf.  The captain maintained that the British Government recognised no blockade which was not efficient, and that the efficiency depended on the numerical superiority of cannon.  On this principle he demanded restitution of the property.  Mavrocordato offered to submit the case to the decision of the British Government, but the captain would only give him four hours to consider.  The indemnification was granted.

Lord Byron conducted the business in behalf of the captain.  In the evening, conversing with Stanhope on the subject, the colonel said the affair was conducted in a bullying manner.  His Lordship started into a passion and contended that law, justice, and equity had nothing to do with politics.  “That may be,” replied Stanhope, “but I will never lend myself to injustice.”

His Lordship then began to attack Jeremy Bentham.  The colonel complained of such illiberality, as to make personal attacks on that gentleman before a friend who held him in high estimation.

“I only attack his public principles,” replied Byron, “which are mere theories, but dangerous,—injurious to Spain, and calculated to do great mischief in Greece.”

Stanhope vindicated Bentham, and said, “He possesses a truly British heart; but your Lordship, after professing liberal principles from boyhood, have, when called upon to act, proved yourself a Turk.”

“What proofs have you of this?

“Your conduct in endeavouring to crush the press by declaiming against it to Mavrocordato, and your general abuse of liberal principles.”

“If I had held up my finger,” retorted his Lordship, “I could have crushed the press.”

“With all this power,” said Stanhope, “which by the way you never possessed, you went to the prince, and poisoned his ear.”

Lord Byron then disclaimed against the liberals.  “What liberals?” cried Stanhope.  “Did you borrow your notions of freemen from the Italians?”

“No: from the Hunts, Cartwrights, and such.”

“And yet your Lordship presented Cartwright’s Reform Bill, and aided Hunt by praising his poetry and giving him the sale of your works.”

“You are worse than Wilson,” exclaimed Byron, “and should quit the army.”

“I am a mere soldier,” replied Stanhope, “but never will I abandon my principles.  Our principles are diametrically opposite, so let us avoid the subject.  If Lord Byron acts up to his professions, he will be the greatest, if not, the meanest of mankind.”

“My character,” said his Lordship, “I hope, does not depend on your assertions.”

“No: your genius has immortalized you.  The worst will not deprive you of fame.”

Lord Byron then rejoined, “Well; you shall see: judge of me by my acts.”  And, bidding the colonel good night, who took up the light to conduct him to the passage, he added, “What! hold up a light to a Turk!”

Such were the Franklins, the Washingtons, and the Hamiltons who undertook the regeneration of Greece.

CHAPTER XLVI

Lord Byron appointed to the command of three thousand Men to besiege Lepanto—The Siege abandoned for a Blockade—Advanced Guard ordered to proceed—Lord Byron’s first Illness—A Riot—He is urged to leave Greece—The Expedition against Lepanto abandoned—Byron dejected—A wild diplomatic Scheme

Three days after the conversation related in the preceding chapter, Byron was officially placed in the command of about three thousand men, destined for the attack on Lepanto; but the Suliotes remained refractory, and refused to quit their quarters; his Lordship, however, employed an argument which proved effectual.  He told them that if they did not obey his commands, he would discharge them from his service.

But the impediments were not to be surmounted; in less than a week it was formally reported to Byron that Missolonghi could not furnish the means of undertaking the siege of Lepanto, upon which his Lordship proposed that Lepanto should be only blockaded by two thousand men.  Before any actual step was, however, taken, two spies came in with a report that the Albanians in garrison at Lepanto had seized the citadel, and were determined to surrender it to his Lordship.  Still the expedition lingered; at last, on the 14th of February, six weeks after Byron’s arrival at Missolonghi, it was determined that an advanced guard of three hundred soldiers, under the command of Count Gamba, should march for Lepanto, and that Lord Byron, with the main body, should follow.  The Suliotes were, however, still exorbitant, calling for fresh contributions for themselves and their families.  His troubles were increasing, and every new rush of the angry tide rose nearer and nearer his heart; still his fortitude enabled him to preserve an outward show of equanimity.  But, on the very day after the determination had been adopted, to send forward the advanced guard, his constitution gave way.

He was sitting in Colonel Stanhope’s room, talking jestingly, according to his wonted manner, with Captain Parry, when his eyes and forehead occasionally discovered that he was agitated by strong feelings.  On a sudden he complained of a weakness in one of his legs; he rose, but finding himself unable to walk, called for assistance; he then fell into a violent nervous convulsion, and was placed upon a bed: while the fit lasted, his face was hideously distorted; but in the course of a few minutes the convulsion ceased, and he began to recover his senses: his speech returned, and he soon rose, apparently well.  During the struggle his strength was preternaturally augmented, and when it was over, he behaved with his usual firmness.  “I conceive,” says Colonel Stanhope, “that this fit was occasioned by over-excitement.  The mind of Byron is like a volcano; it is full of fire, wrath, and combustibles, and when this matter comes to be strongly agitated, the explosion is dreadful.  With respect to the causes which produced the excess of feeling, they are beyond my reach, except one great cause, the provoking conduct of the Suliotes.”

A few days after this distressing incident, a new occurrence arose, which materially disturbed the tranquillity of Byron.  A Suliote, accompanied by the son, a little boy, of Marco Botzaris, with another man, walked into the Seraglio, a kind of citadel, which had been used as a barrack for the Suliotes, and out of which they had been ejected with difficulty, when it was required for the reception of stores and the establishment of a laboratory.  The sentinel ordered them back, but the Suliote advanced.  The sergeant of the guard, a German, pushed him back.  The Suliote struck the sergeant; they closed and struggled.  The Suliote drew his pistol; the German wrenched it from him, and emptied the pan.  At this moment a Swedish adventurer, Captain Sass, seeing the quarrel, ordered the Suliote to be taken to the guard-room.  The Suliote would have departed, but the German still held him.  The Swede drew his sabre; the Suliote his other pistol.  The Swede struck him with the flat of his sword; the Suliote unsheathed his ataghan, and nearly cut off the left arm of his antagonist, and then shot him through the head.  The other Suliotes would not deliver up their comrade, for he was celebrated among them for distinguished bravery.  The workmen in the laboratory refused to work: they required to be sent home to England, declaring, they had come out to labour peaceably, and not to be exposed to assassination.  These untoward occurrences deeply vexed Byron, and there was no mind of sufficient energy with him to control the increasing disorders.  But, though convinced, as indeed he had been persuaded from the beginning in his own mind, that he could not render any assistance to the cause beyond mitigating the ferocious spirit in which the war was conducted, his pride and honour would not allow him to quit Greece.

In a letter written soon after his first attack, he says, “I am a good deal better, though of course weakly.  The leeches took too much blood from my temples the day after, and there was some difficulty in stopping it; but I have been up daily, and out in boats or on horseback.  To-day I have taken a warm bath, and live as temperately as can well be, without any liquid but water, and without any animal food”; then adverting to the turbulences of the Suliotes, he adds, “but I still hope better things, and will stand by the cause as long as my health and circumstances will permit me to be supposed useful.”  Subsequently, when pressed to leave the marshy and deleterious air of Missolonghi, he replied, still more forcibly, “I cannot quit Greece while there is a chance of my being of (even supposed) utility.  There is a stake worth millions such as I am, and while I can stand at all I must stand by the cause.  While I say this, I am aware of the difficulties, and dissensions, and defects of the Greeks themselves; but allowance must be made for them by all reasonable people.”

After this attack of epilepsy Lord Byron because disinclined to pursue his scheme against Lepanto.  Indeed, it may be said that in his circumstances it was impracticable; for although the Suliotes repented of their insubordination, they yet had an objection to the service, and said “they would not fight against stone walls.”  All thought of the expedition was in consequence abandoned, and the destinies of poor Byron were hastening to their consummation.  He began to complain!

In speaking to Parry one day of the Greek Committee in London, he said, “I have been grossly ill-treated by the Committee.  In Italy Mr Blaquiere, their agent, informed me that every requisite supply would be forwarded with all despatch.  I was disposed to come to Greece, but I hastened my departure in consequence of earnest solicitations.  No time was to be lost, I was told, and Mr Blaquiere, instead of waiting on me at his return from Greece, left a paltry note, which gave me no information whatever.  If ever I meet with him, I shall not fail to mention my surprise at his conduct; but it has been all of a piece.  I wish the acting Committee had had some of the trouble which has fallen on me since my arrival here: they would have been more prompt in their proceedings, and would have known better what the country stood in need of.  They would not have delayed the supplies a day nor have sent out German officers, poor fellows, to starve at Missolonghi, but for my assistance.  I am a plain man, and cannot comprehend the use of printing-presses to a people who do not read.  Here the Committee have sent supplies of maps.  I suppose that I may teach the young mountaineers geography.  Here are bugle-horns without bugle-men, and it is a chance if we can find anybody in Greece to blow them.  Books are sent to people who want guns; they ask for swords, and the Committee give them the lever of a printing-press.

“My future intentions,” continued his Lordship, “as to Greece, may be explained in a few words.  I will remain here until she is secure against the Turks, or till she has fallen under their power.  All my income shall be spent in her service; but, unless driven by some great necessity, I will not touch a farthing of the sum intended for my sister’s children.  Whatever I can accomplish with my income, and my personal exertions, shall be cheerfully done.  When Greece is secure against external enemies, I will leave the Greeks to settle their government as they like.  One service more, and an eminent service it will be, I think I may perform for them.  You, Parry, shall have a schooner built for me, or I will buy a vessel; the Greeks shall invest me with the character of their ambassador, or agent: I will go to the United States, and procure that free and enlightened government to set the example of recognising the federation of Greece as an independent state.  This done, England must follow the example, and then the fate of Greece will be permanently fixed, and she will enter into all her rights as a member of the great commonwealth of Christian Europe.”

This intention will, to all who have ever looked at the effects of fortune on individuals, sufficiently show that Byron’s part in the world was nearly done.  Had he lived, and recovered health, it might have proved that he was then only in another lunation: his first was when he passed from poesy to heroism.  But as it was, it has only served to show that his mind had suffered by the decadency of his circumstances, and how much the idea of self-exaltation weakly entered into all his plans.  The business was secondary to the style in which it should be performed.  Building a vessel! why think of the conveyance at all? as if the means of going to America were so scarce that there might be difficulty in finding them.  But his mind was passing from him.  The intention was unsound—a fantasy—a dream of bravery in old age—begotten of the erroneous supposition that the cabinets of Christendom would remain unconcerned spectators of the triumph of the Greeks, or even of any very long procrastination of their struggle.

CHAPTER XLVII

The last Illness and Death of Lord Byron—His last Poem

Although in common parlance it may be said, that after the attack of epilepsy Lord Byron’s general health did not appear to have been essentially impaired, the appearance was fallacious; his constitution had received a vital shock, and the exciting causes, vexation and confusion, continued to exasperate his irritation.

On the 1st of March he complained of frequent vertigoes, which made him feel as though he were intoxicated; but no effectual means were taken to remove these portentous symptoms; and he regularly enjoyed his daily exercise, sometimes in boats, but oftener on horseback.  His physician thought him convalescent; his mind, however, was in constant excitement; it rested not even during sleep.

On the 9th of April, while sailing, he was overtaken by the rain, and got very wet: on his return home, he changed the whole of his dress; but he had been too long in his wet clothes, and the stamina of his constitution being shaken could not withstand the effects.  In little more than two hours he was seized with rigors, fever, and rheumatic pains.  During the night, however, he slept in his accustomed manner, but in the morning he complained of pains and headache; still this did not prevent him from going out on horseback in the afternoon—it was for the last time.

On returning home, he observed to one of the servants that the saddle was not perfectly dry, from having been so wet the day before, and that he thought it had made him worse.  He soon after became affected with almost constant shivering; sudorific medicines were administered, and blood-letting proposed; but though he took the drugs, he objected to the bleeding.  Another physician was in consequence called in to see if the rheumatic fever could be appeased without the loss of blood.  This doctor approved of the medicines prescribed, and was not opposed to the opinion that bleeding was necessary, but said it might be deferred till the next day.

On the 11th he seemed rather better, but the medicines had produced no effect.

On the 12th he was confined to bed with fever, and his illness appeared to be increasing; he was very low, and complained of not having had any sleep during the night; but the medical gentlemen saw no cause for alarm.  Dr Bruno, his own physician, again proposed bleeding; the stranger still, however, thought it might be deferred, and Byron himself was opposed to it.  “You will die,” said Dr Bruno, “if you do not allow yourself to be bled.”  “You wish to get the reputation of curing my disease,” replied his Lordship, “that is why you tell me it is so serious; but I will not permit you to bleed me.”

On the 13th he sat up for some time, after a sleepless night, and still complained of pain in his bones and head.

On the 14th he also left his bed.  The fever was less, but the debility greater, and the pain in his head was undiminished.  His valet became alarmed, and, doubtful of the skill of the doctors around him, entreated permission to send to Zante for an English physician of greater reputation.  His Lordship desired him to consult the others, which he did, and they told him there was no occasion to call in any person, as they hoped all would be well in a few days.

His Lordship now began to doubt if his disease was understood, and remarked repeatedly in the course of this day, that he was sure the doctors did not understand it.  “Then, my Lord,” said Fletcher, his valet, “have other advice.”  “They tell me,” rejoined his Lordship, “that it is only a common cold, which you know I have had a thousand times.”

“I am sure you never had one of so serious a nature.”

“I think I never had.”

Fletcher then went again to the physicians, and repeated his solicitations that the doctor in Zante might be sent for; but was again assured that his master would be better in two or three days.

At length, the doctor who had too easily consented to the postponement of the bleeding, seeing the prognostications of Dr Bruno more and more confirmed, urged the necessity of bleeding, and of no longer delay.  This convinced Byron, who was himself greatly averse to the operation, that they did not understand his case.

On the 15th his Lordship felt the pains abated, insomuch that he was able to transact some business.

On the 16th he wrote a letter, but towards the evening he became worse, and a pound of blood was taken from him.  Still the disease was making progress, but Dr Bruno did not yet seem much alarmed; on the contrary, he thought were more blood removed his recovery was certain.  Fletcher immediately told his master, urging him to comply with the doctor’s wishes.  “I fear,” said his Lordship, “they know nothing about my disorder, but”—and he stretched out his arm—“here, take my arm and do whatever you like.”

On the 17th his countenance was changed; during the night he had become weaker, and a slight degree of delirium, in which he raved of fighting, had come on.  In the course of the day he was bled twice; in the morning, and at two in the afternoon.  The bleeding, on both occasions, was followed by fainting fits.  On this day he said to Fletcher, “I cannot sleep, and you well know I have not been able to sleep for more than a week.  I know that a man can only be a certain time without sleep, and then he must go mad, without anyone being able to save him; and I would ten times sooner shoot myself than be mad, for I am not afraid of dying—I am more fit to die than people think.”

On the 18th his Lordship first began to dread that his fate was inevitable.  “I fear,” said he to Fletcher, “you and Tita will be ill by sitting up constantly, night and day”; and he appeared much dissatisfied with his medical treatment.  Fletcher again entreated permission to send for Dr Thomas, at Zante: “Do so, but be quick,” said his Lordship, “I am sorry I did not let you do so before, as I am sure they have mistaken my disease; write yourself, for I know they would not like to see other doctors here.”

Not a moment was lost in executing the order, and on Fletcher informing the doctors what he had done, they said it was right, as they now began to be afraid themselves.  “Have you sent?” said his Lordship, when Fletcher returned to him.—“I have, my Lord.”

“You have done well, for I should like to know what is the matter with me.”

From that time his Lordship grew every hour weaker and weaker; and he had occasional flights of delirium.  In the intervals he was, however, quite self-possessed, and said to Fletcher, “I now begin to think I am seriously ill; and in case I should be taken off suddenly, I wish to give you several directions, which I hope you will be particular in seeing executed.”  Fletcher in reply expressed his hope that he would live many years, and execute them himself.  “No, it is now nearly over; I must tell you all without losing a moment.”

“Shall I go, my Lord, and fetch pen, ink, and paper.

“Oh, my God! no, you will lose too much time, and I have it not to spare, for my time is now short.  Now pay attention—you will be provided for.”

“I beseech you, my Lord, to proceed with things of more consequence.”

His Lordship then added,

“Oh, my poor dear child!—my dear Ada!—My God! could I have but seen her—give her my blessing—and my dear sister Augusta, and her children—and you will go to Lady Byron and say—tell her everything—you are friends with her.”

He appeared to be greatly affected at this moment.  His voice failed, and only words could be caught at intervals; but he kept muttering something very seriously for some time, and after raising his voice, said,

“Fletcher, now if you do not execute every order which I have given you, I will torment you hereafter, if possible.”

This little speech is the last characteristic expression which escaped from the dying man.  He knew Fletcher’s superstitious tendency, and it cannot be questioned that the threat was the last feeble flash of his prankfulness.  The faithful valet replied in consternation that he had not understood one word of what his Lordship had been saying.

“Oh! my God!” was the reply, “then all is lost, for it is now too late!  Can it be possible you have not understood me!”

“No, my Lord; but I pray you to try and inform me once more.”

“How can I? it is now too late, and all is over.”

“Not our will, but God’s be done,” said Fletcher, and his Lordship made another effort, saying,

“Yes, not mine be done—but I will try”—and he made several attempts to speak, but could only repeat two or three words at a time; such as,

“My wife! my child—my sister—you know all—you must say all—you know my wishes”——The rest was unintelligible.

A consultation with three other doctors, in addition to the two physicians in regular attendance, was now held; and they appeared to think the disease was changing from inflammatory diathesis to languid, and ordered stimulants to be administered.  Dr Bruno opposed this with the greatest warmth; and pointed out that the symptoms were those, not of an alteration in the disease, but of a fever flying to the brain, which was violently attacked by it; and, that the stimulants they proposed would kill more speedily than the disease itself.  While, on the other hand, by copious bleeding, and the medicines that had been taken before, he might still be saved.  The other physicians, however, were of a different opinion; and then Dr Bruno declared he would risk no farther responsibility.  Peruvian bark and wine were then administered.  After taking these stimulants, his Lordship expressed a wish to sleep.  His last words were, “I must sleep now”; and he composed himself accordingly, but never awoke again.

For four-and-twenty hours he continued in a state of lethargy, with the rattles occasionally in his throat.  At six o’clock in the morning of the 19th, Fletcher, who was watching by his bed-side, saw him open his eyes and then shut them, apparently without pain or moving hand or foot.  “My God!” exclaimed the faithful valet, “I fear his Lordship is gone.”  The doctors felt his pulse—it was so.

After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.

But the fittest dirge is his own last lay, written on the day he completed his thirty-sixth year, soon after his arrival at Missolonghi, when his hopes of obtaining distinction in the Greek cause were, perhaps, brightest; and yet it breathes of dejection almost to boding.

’Tis time this heart should be unmoved
   Since others it has ceased to move,
Yet though I cannot be beloved
      Still let me love.

My days are in the yellow leaf,
   The flowers and fruits of love are gone,
The worm, the canker, and the grief
      Are mine alone.

The fire that in my bosom preys
   Is like to some volcanic isle,
No torch is kindled at its blaze—
      A funeral pile.

The hope, the fears, the jealous care,
   Th’ exalted portion of the pain,
And power of love I cannot share,
      But wear the chain.

But ’tis not here—it is not here—
   Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor now
Where glory seals the hero’s bier,
      Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
   Glory and Greece around us see;
The Spartan borne upon his shield
      Was not more free.

Awake! not Greece—she is awake—
   Awake my spirit! think through whom
My life-blood tastes its parent lake,
      And then strike home!

I tread reviving passions down,
   Unworthy manhood!  Unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
      Of beauty be.

If thou regrett’st thy youth, why live?
   The land of honourable death
Is here, up to the field and give
      Away thy breath.

Seek out—less often sought than found—
   A soldier’s grave—for thee the best
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
      And take thy rest.

CHAPTER XLVIII

The funeral Preparations and final Obsequies

The death of Lord Byron was felt by all Greece as a national misfortune.  From the moment it was known that fears were entertained for his life, the progress of the disease was watched with the deepest anxiety and sorrow.  On Easter Sunday, the day on which he expired, thousands of the inhabitants of Missolonghi had assembled on the spacious plain on the outside of the city, according to an ancient custom, to exchange the salutations of the morning; but on this occasion it was remarked, that instead of the wonted congratulations, “Christ is risen,” they inquired first, “How is Lord Byron?”

On the event being made known, the Provisional Government assembled, and a proclamation, of which the following is a translation, was issued

“Provisional Government of Western Greece.

“The day of festivity and rejoicing is turned into one of sorrow and morning.

“The Lord Noel Byron departed this life at eleven o’clock last night, after an illness of ten days.  His death was caused by an inflammatory fever.  Such was the effect of his Lordship’s illness on the public mind, that all classes had forgotten their usual recreations of Easter, even before the afflicting event was apprehended.

“The loss of this illustrious individual is undoubtedly to be deplored by all Greece; but it must be more especially a subject of lamentation at Missolonghi, where his generosity has been so conspicuously displayed, and of which he had become a citizen, with the ulterior determination of participating in all the dangers of the war.

“Everybody is acquainted with the beneficent acts of his Lordship, and none can cease to hail his name as that of a real benefactor.

“Until, therefore, the final determination of the national Government be known, and by virtue of the powers with which it has been pleased to invest me, I hereby decree:

“1st.  To-morrow morning, at daylight, thirty-seven minute-guns shall be fired from the grand battery, being the number which corresponds with the age of the illustrious deceased.

“2nd.  All the public offices, even to the tribunals, are to remain closed for three successive days.

“3rd.  All the shops, except those in which provisions or medicines are sold, will also be shut; and it is strictly enjoined that every species of public amusement and other demonstrations of festivity at Easter may be suspended.

“4th.  A general mourning will be observed for twenty-one days.

“5th.  Prayers and a funeral service are to be offered up in all the churches.

“A.  MAVROCORDATOS.
“GEORGIS PRAIDIS, Secretary.

“Given at Missolonghi, this 19th of April, 1824.”

The funeral oration was written and delivered on the occasion, by Spiridion Tricoupi, and ordered by the government to be published.  No token of respect that reverence could suggest, or custom and religion sanction, was omitted by the public authorities, nor by the people.

Lord Byron having omitted to give directions for the disposal of his body, some difficulty arose about fixing the place of interment.  But after being embalmed it was sent, on the 2nd of May, to Zante, where it was met by Lord Sidney Osborne, a relation of Lord Byron, by marriage—the secretary of the senate at Corfu.

It was the wish of Lord Sidney Osborne, and others, that the interment should be in Zante; but the English opposed the proposition in the most decided manner.  It was then suggested that it should be conveyed to Athens, and deposited in the temple of Theseus, or in the Parthenon—Ulysses Odysseus, the Governor of Athens, having sent an express to Missolonghi, to solicit the remains for that city; but, before it arrived, they were already in Zante, and a vessel engaged to carry them to London, in the expectation that they would be deposited in Westminster Abbey or St Paul’s.

On the 25th of May, the Florida left Zante with the body, which Colonel Stanhope accompanied; and on the 29th of June it reached the Downs.  After the ship was cleared from quarantine, Mr Hobhouse, with his Lordship’s solicitor, received it from Colonel Stanhope, and, by their directions it was removed to the house of Sir E. Knatchbull, in Westminster, where it lay in state several days.

The dignitaries of the Abbey and of St Paul’s having, as it was said, refused permission to deposit the remains in either of these great national receptacles of the illustrious dead, it was determined that they should be laid in the ancestral vault of the Byrons.  The funeral, instead of being public, was in consequence private, and attended by only a few select friends to Hucknell, a small village about two miles from Newstead Abbey, in the church of which the vault is situated; there the coffin was deposited, in conformity to a wish early expressed by the poet, that his dust might be mingled with his mother’s.  Yet, unmeet and plain as the solemnity was in its circumstances, a remarkable incident gave it interest and distinction: as it passed along the streets of London, a sailor was observed walking uncovered near the hearse, and on being asked what he was doing there, replied that he had served Lord Byron in the Levant, and had come to pay his last respects to his remains; a simple but emphatic testimony to the sincerity of that regard which his Lordship often inspired, and which with more steadiness might always have commanded.

The coffin bears the following inscription:

LORD BYRON, OF ROCHDALE,
BORN IN LONDON, JANUARY 22, 1788;
DIED AT MISSOLONGHI,
IN WESTERN GREECE,
APRIL 19, 1824.

Beside the coffin the urn is placed, the inscription on which is,

Within this urn are deposited the heart, brains, etc. of the deceased Lord Byron.

CHAPTER XLIX

The Character of Lord Byron

My endeavour, in the foregoing pages, has been to give a general view of the intellectual character of Lord Byron.  It did not accord with the plan to enter minutely into the details of his private life, which I suspect was not greatly different from that of any other person of his rank, not distinguished for particular severity of manners.  In some respects his Lordship was, no doubt, peculiar.  He possessed a vivacity of sensibility not common, and talents of a very extraordinary kind.  He was also distinguished for superior personal elegance, particularly in his bust.  The style and character of his head were universally admired; but perhaps the beauty of his physiognomy has been more highly spoken of than it really merited.  Its chief grace consisted, when he was in a gay humour, of a liveliness which gave a joyous meaning to every articulation of the muscles and features: when he was less agreeably disposed, the expression was morose to a very repulsive degree.  It is, however, unnecessary to describe his personal character here.  I have already said enough incidentally, to explain my full opinion of it.  In the mass, I do not think it was calculated to attract much permanent affection or esteem.  In the detail it was the reverse: few men possessed more companionable qualities than Lord Byron did occasionally; and seen at intervals in those felicitous moments, I imagine it would have been difficult to have said, that a more interesting companion had been previously met with.  But he was not always in that fascinating state of pleasantry: he was as often otherwise; and no two individuals could be more distinct from each other than Byron in his gaiety and in his misanthropy.  This antithesis was the great cause of that diversity of opinion concerning him, which has so much divided his friends and adversaries.  Of his character as a poet there can be no difference of opinion, but only a difference in the degree of admiration.

Excellence in talent, as in every other thing, is comparative; but the universal republic of letters will acknowledge, that in energy of expression and liveliness of imagery Byron had no equal in his own time.  Doubts, indeed, may be entertained, if in these high qualities even Shakspeare himself was his superior.

I am not disposed to think with many of those who rank the genius of Byron almost as supreme, that he has shown less skill in the construction of his plots, and the development of his tales, than might have been expected from one so splendidly endowed; for it has ever appeared to me that he has accomplished in them everything he proposed to attain, and that in this consists one of his great merits.  His mind, fervid and impassioned, was in all his compositions, except Don Juan, eagerly fixed on the catastrophe.  He ever held the goal full in view, and drove to it in the most immediate manner.  By this straightforward simplicity all the interest which intricacy excites was of necessity disregarded.  He is therefore not treated justly when it is supposed that he might have done better had he shown more art: the wonder is, that he should have produced such magnificent effects with so little.  He could not have made the satiated and meditative Harold so darkling and excursive, so lone, “aweary,” and misanthropical, had he treated him as the hero of a scholastic epic.  The might of the poet in such creations lay in the riches of his diction and in the felicity with which he described feelings in relation to the aspect of scenes amid the reminiscences with which the scenes themselves were associated.

If in language and plan he be so excellent, it may be asked why should he not be honoured with that pre-eminent niche in the temple which so many in the world have by suffrage assigned to him?  Simply because, with all the life and beauty of his style, the vigour and truth of his descriptions, the boldness of his conceptions, and the reach of his vision in the dark abysses of passion, Lord Byron was but imperfectly acquainted with human nature.  He looked but on the outside of man.  No characteristic action distinguishes one of his heroes from another, nor is there much dissimilarity in their sentiments; they have no individuality; they stalk and pass in mist and gloom, grim, ghastly, and portentous, mysterious shadows, entities of the twilight, weird things like the sceptred effigies of the unborn issue of Banquo.

Combined with vast power, Lord Byron possessed, beyond all question, the greatest degree of originality of any poet of this age.  In this rare quality he has no parallel in any age.  All other poets and inventive authors are measured in their excellence by the accuracy with which they fit sentiments appropriate not only to the characters they create, but to the situations in which they place them: the works of Lord Byron display the opposite to this, and with the most extraordinary splendour.  He endows his creations with his own qualities; he finds in the situations in which he places them only opportunities to express what he has himself felt or suffered; and yet he mixes so much probability in the circumstances, that they are always eloquently proper.  He does everything, as it were, the reverse of other poets; in the air and sea, which have been in all times the emblems of change and the similitudes of inconstancy, he has discovered the very principles of permanency.  The ocean in his view, not by its vastness, its unfathomable depths, and its limitless extent, becomes an image of deity, by its unchangeable character!

The variety of his productions present a prodigious display of power.  In his short career he has entitled himself to be ranked in the first class of the British poets for quantity alone.  By Childe Harold, and his other poems of the same mood, he has extended the scope of feeling, made us acquainted with new trains of association, awakened sympathies which few suspected themselves of possessing; and he has laid open darker recesses in the bosom than were previously supposed to exist.  The deep and dreadful caverns of remorse had long been explored but he was the first to visit the bottomless pit of satiety.

The delineation of that Promethean fortitude which defied conscience, as he has shown it in Manfred, is his greatest achievement.  The terrific fables of Marlowe and of Goethe, in their respective versions of the legend of Faustus, had disclosed the utmost writhings which remorse in the fiercest of its torments can express; but what are those Laocoon agonies to the sublime serenity of Manfred.  In the power, the originality, and the genius combined, of that unexampled performance, Lord Byron has placed himself on an equality with Milton.  The Satan of the Paradise Lost is animated by motives, and dignified by an eternal enterprise.  He hath purposes of infinite prospect to perform, and an immeasurable ambition to satisfy.  Manfred hath neither purpose nor ambition, nor any desire that seeks gratification.  He hath done a deed which severs him from hope, as everlastingly as the apostacy with the angels has done Satan.  He acknowledges no contrition to bespeak commiseration, he complains of no wrong to justify revenge, for he feels none; he despises sympathy, and almost glories in his perdition.

The creation of such a character is in the sublimest degree of originality; to give it appropriate thoughts and feelings required powers worthy of the conception; and to make it susceptible of being contemplated as within the scope and range of human sympathy, places Byron above all his contemporaries and antecedents.  Milton has described in Satan the greatest of human passions, supernatural attributes, directed to immortal intents, and stung with inextinguishable revenge; but Satan is only a dilatation of man.  Manfred is loftier, and worse than Satan; he has conquered punishment, having within himself a greater than hell can inflict.  There is a fearful mystery in this conception; it is only by solemnly questioning the spirits that lurk within the dark metaphors in which Manfred expresses himself, that the hideous secrets of the character can be conjectured.

But although in intellectual power, and in creative originality, Byron is entitled to stand on the highest peak of the mountain, his verse is often so harsh, and his language so obscure, that in the power of delighting he is only a poet of the second class.  He had all the talent and the means requisite to embody his conceptions in a manner worthy of their might and majesty; his treasury was rich in everything rare and beautiful for illustration, but he possessed not the instinct requisite to guide him in the selection of the things necessary to the inspiration of delight:—he could give his statue life and beauty, and warmth, and motion, and eloquence, but not a tuneful voice.

Some curious metaphysicians, in their subtle criticism, have said that Don Juan was but the bright side of Childe Harold, and that all its most brilliant imagery was similar to that of which the dark and the shadows were delineated in his other works.  It may be so.  And, without question, a great similarity runs through everything that has come from the poet’s pen; but it is a family resemblance, the progeny are all like one another; but where are those who are like them?  I know of no author in prose or rhyme, in the English language, with whom Byron can be compared.  Imitators of his manner there will be often and many, but he will ever remain one of the few whom the world acknowledges are alike supreme, and yet unlike each other—epochal characters, who mark extraordinary periods in history.

Raphael is the only man of pre-eminence whose career can be compared with that of Byron; at an age when the genius of most men is but in the dawning, they had both attained their meridian of glory, and they both died so early, that it may be said they were lent to the world only to show the height to which the mind may ascend when time shall be allowed to accomplish the full cultivations of such extraordinary endowments.

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