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London: Colburn (1828). AppendixLord Byron and Some of his ContemporariesHunt, Leigh, 1784-1859LondonColburn18282 vols2nd Ed.
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LORD BYRONANDSOME OF HIS CONTEMPORARIES;WITHRECOLLECTIONS OFTHE AUTHOR’S LIFE,AND OF HISVISIT TO ITALY.BY LEIGH HUNT. “It is for slaves to lie, and for freemen to speak truth. “In the examples, which I here bring in, of what I have heard, read,
done, or said, I have forbid myself to dare to alter even the most light and indifferent
circumstances. My conscience does not falsify one tittle. What my ignorance may do, I
cannot say.” Montaigne. SECOND EDITION. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II.LONDON:HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.1828.APPENDIX.
It was intended to close this edition with some letters out of the
Morning Chronicle, and “an attempt
(which I had promised in them) to estimate my own character.” But I am obliged to break
my promise, on finding my advisers of opinion, that the performance of it, instead of doing
what I wished, would subject me to a suspicion of intending the reverse. I find it difficult to
persuade myself, that some things which I had said in that estimate could be considered as any
other than extraordinary specimens of a candour far beyond the wish to profit by it; but I am
aware of the involuntary tricks played by self-love. I can only say, as a proof that I am not
sensible of them in the present instance, that I cannot but feel relieved at not having to lay
myself thus open to the public. I had thought of retaining the ill I had spoken, and leaving
out the good. But while the egotism of my critics might have found an excess of pretension even
in this, on the other hand, it would not have been reasonably fair to myself, considering how I
am treated. So little ceremony is used towards some of my real faults, so many others invented for me, and so violently is the defence of
Lord Byron taken up by those who have said much worse of
him in their time than any thing uttered by me, that I might perhaps, in common justice, be
warranted in keeping the rest of my errors to myself, as a compensation for what I have
forborne to relate of others.
For reasons, similar though not proportionate to those for which the estimate is
withheld, it has been thought better to retain as little as possible of what I have said about
myself in the letters; and in consequence, the letters themselves are suppressed, such portions
only remaining as comprise all the explanations for which I wrote them, and which I here
proceed to repeat, as nearly as possible in the same words.
I. With respect to the partial extracts from the book, that
were sent to the newspapers before it was published.—These, I need hardly tell
the public, were not made by myself. If they had been, they would not have subjected me to the
conclusions which have been pretended by some, and appear to have been really drawn by others,
respecting the spirit of my intercourse with Lord Byron. I
have been represented as a man capable of violating the confidence of friendship, and giving an
unfavourable portrait of a host who had treated me with nothing but kindness. I will venture to
affirm, that nothing, to a person of my turn of mind, could be more impossible. No man holds in
greater horror than I do the violation of the sub iisdem trabibus—the sacred enclosure of
private walls. I have not even dared, in my time, to enjoy the delight I should have found at
more than one table, purely because I knew that it would be impossible for me afterwards, as a
public man, to hold any opinion of my host but a grateful one. It might be expected that I
should despise an accusation of this sort: but people do not despise half as much as is
pretended; and I confess it has vexed me, with all its absurdity. One does not like to be
thought ill of by any body, much less to be subjected to the hazard of it in the whole heart of
a community. Unluckily, thousands will have read the extracts who will not see the book.
I will put a case in illustration of my position with Lord Byron, and show the cruelty of it besides, as affected by his character in
particular. Suppose a rich merchant invites another merchant out to set up a joint concern with
him; and suppose the latter a man with a wife and large family, and at the lowest ebb of his
fortunes. The rich merchant advances the other two hundred pounds to bring him out (taking care
nevertheless to get a bond for it from a friend); and after he is arrived, the loss of the
beloved friend who gave this bond forces the poor man to accept from the rich one farther sums,
from time to time, amounting in all to one hundred more. The joint concern in the meantime goes
on, but is trifled with by the invitor—is even injured by him in a variety of ways, is
suffered to be calumniated and undermined by him with his friends, and finally is abandoned by
him in the course of the year for an experiment in a remote quarter, and apart from any
consideration of the person invited out. It is true, the rich man
declines receiving his part of the profits of the concern; but it is only because they turn out
to be nothing like what he expected; and when he leaves it, and might still do it service, and
so keep his own proposed work alive, he never has another word of communication with the person
whom he invited out, and whom he had found destitute, and left so.
This is a literal picture of the state of the case between Lord Byron and myself; but the worst part of the spirit of it
remains.
I had scarcely put up under the same roof with his Lordship (and the nature of
that occupation of a floor in his house is explained in my book, and was very different from
any thing like entertainment by him as his guest) than our “host,” if he is so to
be called, commenced his claims upon our delicacy by writing disagreeable letters about us to
his friends. When I subsequently remonstrated with him on this subject, he answered me that it
was his way, and that he had “libelled his friends all round.” It is true I did not
know of these letters at the time; but his libels of his friends were very soon manifest: the
symptom was not encouraging; and the tempers he thought fit to try on me in my poverty,
prepared me farther for what I had to expect. This was almost in the very first days of our
intercourse. I had hardly been under the roof with him at Pisa, when a
very distressing communication from England forced me to urge him upon the subject of the
intended work, and to beg as it were, in charity, the assistance which he ought to have come
forward with in pursuance of his own proposal. He thought it sufficient to answer, that his
friends had already been “at him” to persuade him to
have nothing to do with the work; and he was wanting enough to his dignity to taunt me with
making him a party to certain distresses which had been communicated to me in the letter from
England, though he knew how much they were bound up with my own, and had had my confession that
I had assisted to cause them. This, however, is a matter which it is impossible to enter into,
and which does not, of necessity, belong to the question. I only allude to it, that I may show
the melancholy of my position with him from the first, and how sure he was to make me feel it.
In this manner his first contribution to his own work was made to appear a sort of forced
obligation, though he was delighted to have the opportunity of printing it; and though, in the
sanguineness of the moment, and the non-experience hitherto of what confirmed our forebodings,
we did our best to entertain a good opinion of him, and to make others partake of it.
Most calamitous was it on every account, that at this early juncture of our
intercourse, my beloved friend, Mr. Shelley, was torn
from me. I was thrown, perforce, on Lord Byron for his
assistance; he even offered it; and bitter indeed, for the first time in my life, was the taste
I then had of obligation. The specimen I have mentioned in my work will suffice, and may be
repeated. My family lived in the most economical Italian manner, and tried hard not to force me
to apply to him for much. In fact, I applied to him for little, and he put me under the
necessity of asking even for that in driblets, and for those he sent me every time to his
steward. My cheek seems to burn against my paper as I write. Yes, I have to confess that I have
tasted indeed the bitterness of that prophecy of the poet’s
addressed to himself, that he should know “how hard it was to ascend the steps of another
person for bread.” Let the exquisite mortification of confessions like these, excuse me
with the happier and the more industrious—I may add, with the healthier and the better
taught; for the commonest rules of arithmetic were, by a singular chance, omitted in my
education. I do not agree with the writer, who spoke the other day of the “degrading
obligations of private friendship.” God forbid I should be such a traitor to those whose
friendship elevated while it assisted me, and whom it is a transport to me, whenever I think of
it, to have been indebted to. I see beyond that. But I am bound to say that I have not the less
altered my practice in that particular; and not the less do I agree with the eloquent
after-saying of the same writer, that it is “comely, and sweet, and exquisite,” to
be able to earn one’s own sufficiency. I only think, especially in behalf of those who
can enjoy leisure as well as business, that it should not be made so hard a matter to do so, as
it very often is, by the systems of society, and by the consequences they have in reserve for
us, even before we are born, and in our very temperaments as well as fortunes: and I think
also, that the world would have been losers, in a very large way—far beyond what
utilitarians suppose, and yet on their own ground—if certain men of lively and
improvident genius, humanists of the most persuasive order, had not sometimes left themselves
under the necessity of being assisted. The headlong sympathies that ran in their blood, and
that diverted them sometimes from ordinary duties, have helped to carry us all forwards to those great waters of humanity which are now out over
the world, and which shall assuredly give it a new level and a new life.
But I did not sit down to these remarks to take up the reader’s time with
theories. I have written even more than was necessary for the real purpose of them, which was
to say that nobody has a right to judge of the spirit of my intercourse with
Lord Byron from partial extracts out of the work in
question; and that I protest against any opinion of it whatsoever, unproduced by an
acquaintance with the work itself. I may put a case in the mean time, if I please, and
ask the reader what he thinks, on the face of it, of my claims on Lord
Byron as a partner, invited to set up a work with him under all the
circumstances, and of my right to speak as freely to the public of him, as he spoke secretly
and underhand of me. But for a complete view of the case I must refer him (if he chooses to
judge the matter) to the book itself, and to all the evidences it contains, for me or against:
for of one thing he may be certain—that every jot of it is true. I love truth with a
passion commensurate to what I think its desirableness, above all other things, for the
security of good to the world: and if I did not, I should love it for the trouble it saves me
in having but one story and one answer for all men, and being a slave to nobody.
I have a word, however, to add, with regard to those who have hitherto thought
fit to make objections to my book, without knowing the whole of it. Some of these, I have been
told, are really conscientious men, who are kind enough to entertain an ill opinion of me with
pain; and I can believe that partial extracts might possibly have
led them into that opinion. All that I complain of in this case is, that they did not
sufficiently think of their conscientiousness, when they expressed the opinion without knowing
all I had to say. Some of them have already become sensible of their mistake, and have done me
justice. As to other anonymous writers, who have attacked me in a different spirit, I concede
even to them the possibility of their having come to a similar conclusion, out of the same
partial degree of knowledge. I will at present not stop to inquire how far they were led into
it by motives of their own. But I warn them how, upon a better acquaintance with the work, they
renew the same kind of attacks; as, in that case, I shall be compelled to let the public see,
not only the whole amount of what I have to object to them on my own part, but what their
pretended hero thought and said of them on his. And this, if they insist upon it, it will only
be less easy for me to do, than it is to spare them in the mean time. I have told nothing but
the truth, but I am far from having told all the truth—and I never will tell it all.
Common humanity would not let me. But I will not have my very forbearance turned against me by
those, whose sufferings would be tragic to themselves only, and comic to all the rest of the
world.
It has been said that I undervalue the genius of Lord
Byron, and think too highly of myself at the same time. I believe, that when I
speak seriously, I am in the habit of using a tone of decision and confidence, which may
produce mistakes on that point. It is owing to my having some decided opinions, and an exalted
view of what may be done for the world; and it was the ab-sence of
such views in Lord Byron, and the presence of an eternal persiflage and
affectation, that led me to think of what was petty instead of great in him, and perhaps really
made me undervalue his genius. I can only say, that I heartily wish his head may have deserved
all the laurels that were stuck about it; to the concealment of his coronet, according to some,
who nevertheless can never separate the two ideas. My own talents, unfortunately, (if I may
speak of such things), I am not so conscious of, as I am of their having fallen far short of
what I once hoped they would turn out. I have many infirmities, and nothing great in me but my
sympathy with mankind. It is for this only I desire any honour I pretend to; and this, I allow,
I cannot shut up, as I would an opera hat, and convert it into a piece of deference to the
circles.
After all, I had no intention in writing my book but to give a true portrait of
Lord Byron, as of a human being interesting to the times
he lived in, and worth painting at any time. My spleen came across me, I own, as I called him
to mind; but if I had been actuated by ordinary motives, I should have done it when I first
returned to England, and made, as the phrase is, “money by it:” which is what I
cannot be said to have done now. My bookseller had pleased me by advances of money; and it was
a series of circumstances connected with that liberal treatment, which finally led me to make
the book what it is. But I have stated this in the former preface. I wish in his good nature to
others, and exceeding notion of mine, Mr. Colburn had
not hazarded doing me a very painful disservice with my readers, by omitting, in its passage
through the press, a concluding line or two in my notice of
Mr. Theodore Hook. I had no wish to say any thing at
all of Mr. Hook, and could, with pleasure, have omitted the whole notice
of him, had Mr. Colburn wished it. But after my pleasanter recollections
of him (as they now stand unqualified in the book), it became doubly necessary not to omit the
drawbacks I had to make on a writer of his outrageous description; and my account of him,
instead of ending with the two or three words now concluding it, should have terminated
thus:—“That I wished he had stuck to his humours and farces for which he had real
talent, instead of attempting to cut up a great man for the hounds, and taking a silver fork
and a seat at a great table for the refinement that he has missed.”
I have only one opinion more to guard against, which might be caused by
something in my book itself; to wit, the face which the engraver in his hurry has been pleased to thrust upon me, and which might lead
people to suppose that I am not only capable of calumniating my host, but of walking off with
his tankard. I have no pretensions to handsomeness—my face is rescued from insignificance
solely by thought; but I must really be allowed to say, that there is nothing in it which ought
to take me to Bow-street.*
II. With regard to an alleged charge of cowardice against
Lord Byron.—A person for whom I have
great * This engraving has been altered, but I have not seen what has been
done to it. I take this opportunity of saying, that I am responsible for none of the other
portraits in the book, but those of Lord Byron and
Mr. Keats. respect has sent me a message by a kinsman, informing me, that
from one of the passages of the extracts before mentioned, a conclusion has been drawn by some,
that I meant to charge Lord Byron with “cowardice.” My
informant does not see the passage in the same light himself. He does not suppose that I meant
it to be so construed. But such, he tells me, is the impression with some; and he has
accordingly recommended me to cancel it in the present edition. I cannot do that—desirous
as I should be of falling in with the least intimations of the person in question. But I can
explain myself on the subject; and feel bound to make some observations upon it. The reader, if
he chooses, can turn to the passage itself at p. 157. vol. ii. It will there be seen, if I am
not mistaken, that whatever may have been my doubts on this matter, they applied only to the
latter part of Lord Byron’s life, and to what he had made himself by
an unwise treatment of his constitution; for effeminacy is, in itself, no disproof of the
existence of courage. Cæsar himself began with being a
dandy, and with scratching the top of his head with the tip of one of his fingers, that he
might not displace the curls.* But if Cæsar had been a poet as well
as a man of pleasure, and circumstances had led him into a sedentary mode of life, it would not
have been easy to say what the crucifier of the pirates would have become, under the united
influence of pleasure and pain, of illness and imagination. Indeed, when I call to mind one
thing about Lord Byron,
* See the picture Cicero
gives of him, as he called him to mind at that time of life; adding his astonishment,
that such a person should have subverted the Roman empire.
as I write this very passage, and think what even his lame foot
might have done to injure the “energetic” person I have described in a former part
of my book, I am forced to use a very strong word (truth must help me out with it); but I feel
as if I ought to blush for not having secreted my doubts on this point. There was, at all
events, no necessity to mention them. I might fairly have let them remain among other things,
which I did not think it warrantable to speak of. Others may even know him to be a man of
courage; and I have nothing to oppose to their knowledge. But Lord
Byron has been so treated in all quarters, as a man of whom every thing was
to be said—gifting him, as it were, with the privileges of an ancient, and making the
least thing in his character, bad or good, a matter of dispassionate, or rather passionate
curiosity, that a biographer is involuntarily led to speculate more upon him than he would
upon another person; and I trust, whatever my spleen may have been sometimes it is not very
visible in the passages here quoted, and that the reader will do me the justice of
supposing that the ardour of my portrait painting was upon me, more than any other
feeling.
After all, my doubt was only a doubt, however strongly expressed. I express
doubts on the other side; I sum up all by saying that he was a “contradiction;” and
the instances I put, on either side, apply only to physical courage. If I doubt whether
circumstances had left him enough of this to hinder him from becoming a victim to a state of
protracted anxiety, exasperated by illness, and if I have too good reason to know that he
wanted moral courage enough to face a part of society upon certain
points, I doubt not, that at any time of life, he had quite sufficient to obey the calls of his
favourite impulses, and to dare any thing for their sake, as long as he could have been kept in
action; and this, perhaps, in sedentary and sophisticate times like the present, is as much as
many men would require to be conceded them. Above all, I pretend to little more myself; and
only to that more, as far as endurance is concerned, and inasmuch as the circumstances of my
life have led me to have greater views of what ought to be endured for mankind. With regard to
physical courage, I lay claim, in some respects, to less than I have attributed to
Lord Byron. I have moral courage, and a good deal of it; but
ill-health, and other circumstances, have often put it to the test.
III. With regard to a mistake liable to be drawn respecting Mr.
Horace Smith.—It has been suggested to me, that in the notice
respecting Mr. Horace Smith, the passage where I
speak of that gentleman’s difference with Mr.
Shelley, “on some points,” may not be explicit enough.
Advantage, it is thought, may be taken of it by the malignant, to aim a very cruel blow at
the peace of a great many worthy people. Unfortunately, persons who despair of being liked
and respected, and therefore seek their importance in giving pain, are but too apt to
insist upon making use of a piece of malignity, the more they know it to be unfounded; but
in the hope that the very different people above mentioned may be consoled for these or any
other mistakes on the subject in the meanwhile, and cautioning
them how they suffer themselves to add to the absurdity by the magnitude of their alarm, I
think it proper to state that Mr. Horace Smith
differed altogether from Mr. Shelley upon points of religion.
I wish I had stated this more explicitly; but I live a good deal out of the world, and in
calling to mind two men who differed extremely with one another, and yet were both of
excellent natures, I really forgot that, with some men, difference of opinion is only a
signal for every thing hostile, hypocritical, and vexatious.
In me convertite ferrum.—It is a monstrous
thing, in my eyes, to find my friend Mr. Shelley made a
bug-bear of, to frighten any portion of the fellow-creatures whom he loved; but allowing, as I
do, that he differed with many excellent and clever people upon points the most important, I
can never suffer his name to be mentioned without adding to it the enthusiastic expression of
my regard; for I know also, that whatever he differed with, he differed with in a spirit as
unhostile as possible, and out of the best intentions and most exalted views. Any burden of
obloquy that may be made up out of these sentiments I shall be proud to bear; and I only wish
Mr. Smith and his friends could have known him as
thoroughly as I did, that they might see how many reasons I have for abiding fast by his
memory.
LETTER TO THE AUTHOR FROM THE REV. MR. LE GRICE.
[The communication here laid before the reader came to hand
unfortunately too late to enable me to alter the passage complained of. The pleasure—the
honour —of receiving a letter from “Le
Grice,”—“a Grecian”—(for all my school-days come over
me at his name, and I still feel like a little boy before him)—was turned into great
pain, when I saw the mistake I had made in speaking of his brother. I acted, I confess, on the mere recollection of a school-report; one
of the millions of reports which are every day disseminating mistake among the children of this
world, young and old. As the case stands, and the chance of paining the venerable eyes in
question still remains (though I hope it may be otherwise provided against) I have thought it
best to print the letter itself. In the perusal of it, if those eyes happen to meet with the
book, the momentary tear occasioned them by an error respecting one son, will assuredly be
changed into balm and pleasure, on seeing the fervour with which it is effaced by another. I
beg pardon of those whom I have thus unwittingly offended; and can only say (what I hope will
not give them a less Christian opinion of me, than is intended) that in being accustomed to
regard the faults of mankind as the result of circumstance, and seeing hopes for them in the
opinion incompatible with no real good or piety, I did not feel that horror in using the word
“rake” which may reasonably startle an aged mother, or indeed any other person who has grown up in the old system of thinking.]
“Penzance, Feb. 10,
1828. “Dear Sir,
“Excuse my writing on this paper, in my haste I can find no
other. Your ‘Recollections’ have just reached me. What could have
induced you to have given such an account of my dear Brother? He died, you say, a
rake. I acquit you of all malignant intention: surely your memoranda of
“Christ’s” were not lately written,
but some old memoranda now thrown in to fill your book. I
hope so: supposing that my brother had been a little inconsiderate, what right can
you have to dig up his frailties from the grave: but it was not
so: the epithet is most unfounded. A rake! I wish, Sir, you were at my
elbow, and could read a packet of his letters written from
Jamaica:—read his first feelings on the scenes in
Jamaica: he was awakened to most serious thoughts, and
meditating a history of the internal state of the island, especially of the
Maroons. If you could see his letters, you would revere
instead of abusing his memory. How delightfully you speak of your Father and Mother. My Mother is still living:
only suppose this page of your book coming before her eyes! Her favourite son
“died a rake.” “Think a moment. I will
copy a passage from a letter written by my brother on his birth-day, 31st August,
1801, in Jamaica, a year before he died; and which I now
keep to inspire solemn thoughts on my birth-day every year:—“I have not
received a letter from my Mother for a long time, which I have before said has
given me great uneasiness: at this
moment on my knees, I pray Almighty God to preserve
and bless her and you, my dear Brother, my uncle and aunt, and all of you, with more peace and happiness than I dare to hope for
myself. Perhaps, and indeed too probably, I am never to
see you in the enjoyment of it” &c. &c. Is this the language
of a rake? Who could have uttered such a sentiment? Even if you had heard such an
ill-founded report, where could be your taste, your feeling, your justice, in
giving it to all the world? You put only the initials of
certain persons from motives of delicacy and respect, even when giving anecdotes
that are not to their discredit: why then should you give the name of my brother at
length, and asperse his character on the brink of the grave! he was affectionate,
brave, and good. I will say nothing of the want of taste and delicacy in your prior
account of his school days. I think that inconsistent, and
as if not written by the same heart and hand as wrote those beautiful, glorious passages, your feelings at a wedding, your visit to
Austin Friars, your holidays at
Merton. “You held your Mother’s hand
tighter.” Your feeling was—Mother, how happy we are to be to-day. How
sorry will you be to think that you have written so of my Brother, whose Mother
still lives.
“I have not looked at other parts of your book; it is only
just come. Of course I turned first to ‘Christ’s.’”—I
could wish some part of this better written, but I must anxiously, earnestly,
demand of your feeling, your honour, your integrity, that, in your next edi-tion, you wipe off the spot from the tomb of my dear
Brother.
I am, Your’s truly, C. V. Le Grice.
“Remember me to Lamb.
“I perfectly recollect you and your Father. I can see him now in Grammar Cloister waiting for you,
leaning on the box near the passage to Mathematica School.”
In closing Mr. le Grice’s letter, I
cannot help again expressing my regret at having done his relative this injustice. It has been
unpleasant enough to me (whatever the reader may think) to say hard things, even of those who
have given me cause of complaint. A hundred times, while writing my book, have I expressed
myself on that point to my family, in no measured terms; and regretted that I must speak the
truth, “now I was about it.” But to have repeated, with whatever want of thought, a
rumour, at once offensive and untrue, and of one against whom I had a quarrel, is on every
account to be regretted; and accordingly I lament it, and dislike, and bite my pen for chagrin.
Should the book be immortal enough to come to a third edition, the mistake shall be rectified
in its proper place, and a copy be sent to Mr. le Grice for the acceptance
of his venerable parent.