Byron’s bad opinion of mankind is not, I am convinced, genuine; and it certainly does not operate on his actions, as his first impulses are always good, and his heart is kind and charitable. His good deeds are never the result of reflection, as the heart acts before the head has had time to reason. This cynical habit of decrying human nature is one of the many little affectations to which he often descends, and this impression has become so fixed in my mind, that I have been vexed with myself for attempting to refute opinions of his that, on reflection, I was convinced were not his real sentiments, but uttered either from a foolish wish of display, or from a spirit of contradiction which much influences his conversation. I have heard him assert opinions one day, and maintain the most opposite, with equal warmth, the day after; this arises not so much from insincerity, as from being wholly governed by the feeling of the moment; he has no fixed principle of conduct or of thought, and the want of it leads him into errors and inconsistencies from which he is only rescued by a natural goodness of heart that redeems, in some degree, what it cannot prevent. Violence of temper tempts him into expressions that might induce people to believe him vindictive and rancorous; he exaggerates all his feelings when he gives utterance to them, and here the imagination, that has led to his triumph in poetry, operates less happily, by giving a darker shade to his sentiments and expressions. When he writes or speaks at such moments, the force of his language imposes a belief that the feeling that gives birth to it must be fixed in his mind; but see him in a few hours after, and not only no trace of this angry excitement remains, but, if recurred to by another, he smiles at his own exaggerated warmth of expression, and proves, in a thousand ways, that the temper only is responsible for his defects, and not the heart.
“I think it is Diderot (said Byron) who says that, to describe woman, one ought to dip one’s pen in the rainbow; and, instead of sand, use the dust from the wings of butterflies to dry the paper. This is a concetto worthy of a Frenchman; and, though meant as complimentary, is really by no means so to your sex. To describe woman, the pen should be dipped, not in the rainbow, but in the heart of man, ere more than eighteen summers have passed over his head; and, to dry the paper, I would allow only the sighs of adolescence. Women are best understood by men whose feelings have not been hardened by a contact with the world, and who believe in virtue because they are unacquainted with the world, and who believe in virtue because they are unacquainted with
* Continued from No. CLI. p. 315 |
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‘Vice is a monster of such hideous mien, That, to be hated, needs but to be seen.’ |
This would be most gratifying could I be sure that, to-morrow or next day, some sweeping sarcasm against my sex may not escape from the lips that have now praised them, and that my credulity, in believing the praise, may not be quoted as an additional proof of their weakness. This instability of opinion, or expression of opinion of Byron, destroys all confidence in him, and precludes the possibility of those who live much in his society feeling that sentiment of confiding security in him, without which a real regard cannot subsist. It has always appeared a strange anomaly to me, that Byron, who possesses such acuteness in discerning the foibles and defects of others, should have so little power either in conquering or concealing his own, that they are evident even to a superficial observer; it is also extraordinary that the knowledge of human nature that enables him to discover, at a glance, such defects, should not dictate the wisdom of concealing his discoveries, at least from those in whom he has made them; but in this he betrays a total want of tact, and must often send away his associates dissatisfied with themselves, and still more so with him, if they happen to possess discrimination or susceptibility.
“To let a person see that you have discovered his faults, is to
make him an enemy for life,” (says
Byron), and yet this he does continually: he says, “that the only
truths a friend will tell you, are your faults; and the only thing he will give you, is
advice.” Byron’s affected display of
knowledge of the world deprives him of commiseration for being its
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Byron talked to-day of Campbell the poet: said that he was a warm-hearted and honest man; praised his works, and quoted some passages from the “Pleasures of Hope,” which he said was a poem full of beauties. “I differ, however, (said Byron,) with my friend Campbell on some points. Do you remember the passage—
“But mark the wretch whose wanderings never knew The world’s regard, that soothes though half untrue; His erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, But found not pity when it erred no more.” |
| CONVERSATIONS WITH LORD BYRON | 37 |
“Having compared Rogers’s poem to a flower-garden (continued Byron) to what shall I compare Moore’s—to the Valley of Diamonds, where all is brilliant and attractive, but where one is so dazzled by the sparkling on every side that one knows not where to fix, each gem beautiful in itself, but overpowering to the eye from their quantity. Or, to descend to a more homely comparison, though really (continued Byron) so brilliant a subject hardly admits of any thing homely, Moore’s Poems (with the exception of the Melodies) resemble the fields in Italy, covered by such myriads of fire-flies shining and glittering around, that if one attempts to seize one, another still more brilliant attracts, and one is bewildered from too much brightness. I remember reading somewhere (said Byron) a concetto of designating different living poets, by the cups Apollo gives them to drink out of. Wordsworth is made to drink from a wooden bowl, and my melancholy self from a skull, chased with gold. Now, I would add the following cups:—To Moore, I would give a cup formed like the lotus flower, and set in brilliants; to Crabbe, a scooped pumpkin; to Rogers, an antique vase, formed of agate; and to Colman, a champagne glass, as descriptive of their different styles. I dare say none of them would be satisfied with the appropriation; but who ever is satisfied with any thing in the shape of criticism? and least of all, poets.”
Talking of Shakspeare, Byron said, that he owed one-half of his popularity to his low origin,
which, like charity, covereth a multitude of sins with the multitude, and the other
half, to the remoteness of the time at which he wrote from our own days. All his
vulgarisms (continued Byron) are attributed to the circumstances
of his birth and breeding depriving him of a good education; hence they are to be
excused, and the obscurities with which his works abound are all easily ex-
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Byron takes a peculiar pleasure in opposing himself to popular opinion on all points; he wishes to be thought as dissenting from the multitude, and this affectation is the secret source of many of the incongruities ho expresses. One cannot help lamenting that so great a genius should be sullied by this weakness; but he has so many redeeming points that we must pardon what we cannot overlook, and attribute this error to the imperfectibility of human nature. Once thoroughly acquainted with his peculiarities, much that appeared incomprehensible is explained, and one knows when to limit belief to assertions that are not always worthy of commanding it, because uttered from the caprice of the moment. He declares that such is his bad opinion of the taste and feelings of the English, that he should form a bad opinion of any work that they admired, or any person that they praised; and that their admiration of his own works has rather confirmed than softened his bad opinion of them. “It was the exaggerated praises of the people in England (said he) that indisposed me to the Duke of Wellington. I know that the same herd, who were trying to make an idol of him, would, on any reverse, or change of opinions, hurl him from the pedestal to which they had raised him, and lay their idol in the dust. I remember (continued Byron) enraging some of his Grace’s worshippers, after the battle of Waterloo, by quoting the lines from Ariosto:—
“Fù il vincer sempre mai laudabil
cosa, Vincasi ò per fortuna ò per
ingregno,” |
I told Byron that his quotation was insidious, but that the Duke had gained too many victories to admit the possibility of any of them being achieved more by chance than ability; and that, like his attacks on Shakspeare, he was not sincere in disparaging Wellington, as I was sure he must au fond be as proud of him as all other Englishmen are. “What! (said Byron) could a Whig be proud of Wellington? could this be consistent?”
The whole of Byron’s manner, and his countenance on this and other occasions, when the name of the Duke of Wellington has been mentioned, conveyed the impression, that he had not been de bonne foi in his censures on him. Byron’s words and feelings are so often opposed, and both so completely depend on the humours of the moment, that those who know him well could never attach much confidence to the stability of his sentiments, or the force of his expressions; nor could they feel surprised, or angry, at hearing that he had spoken unkindly of some for whom he really felt friendship. This habit of censuring is his ruling passion, and he is now too old to correct it.
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“I have been amused (said Byron) in reading ‘Les Essais de Montaigne,’ to find how severe he is on the sentiment of tristesse; we are always severe on that particular passion to which we are not addicted, and the French are exempt from this. Montaigne says, that the Italians were right in translating their word tristezza, which means tristesse, into malignité; and this (continued Byron) explains my méchanceté, for that I am subject to tristesse cannot be doubted; and if that means, as Le Sieur de Montaigne states, la malignité, this is the secret of all my evil doings, or evil imaginings, and probably is also the source of my inspiration.” This idea appeared to amuse him very much, and he dwelt on it with apparent satisfaction, saying that it absolved him from a load of responsibility, as he considered himself, according to this, as no more accountable for the satires he might write or speak, than for his personal deformity. Nature, he said, had to answer for malignité as well as for deformity, she gave both, and the unfortunate persons on whom she bestowed them were not to be blamed for their effects. Byron said, that Montaigne was one of the French writers that amused him the most, as, independently of the quaintness with which he made his observations, a perusal of his works was like a repetition at school, they rubbed up the reader’s classical knowledge. He added, that “Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy” was also excellent, from the quantity of desultory information it contained, and was a mine of knowledge that, though much worked, was inexhaustible. I told him that he seemed to think more highly of Montaigne than did some of his own countrymen; for that when Le Cardinal du Perron “appelloit les Essais de Montaigne le bréviaire des honnêtes gens; le célèbre Huet, évêque d'Avranche, les disoit celui des honnêtes paresseux et des ignorans, qui veulent s'enfariner de quelque teinture des lettres,”—Byron said that the critique was severe, but just; for that Montaigne was the greatest plagiarist that ever existed, and certainly had turned his reading to the most account. “But (said Byron) who is the author that is not, intentionally or unintentionally, a plagiarist? Many more, I am persuaded, are the latter than the former; and if one has read much, it is difficult, if not impossible, to avoid adopting, not only the thoughts, but the expressions of others, which, after they have been some time stored in our minds, appear to us to come forth ready formed, like Minerva from the brain of Jupiter, and we fancy them our own progeny, instead of being those of adoption. I met lately a passage in a French book (continued Byron) that states, à propos of plagiaries, that it was from the preface to the works of Montaigne, by Mademoiselle de Gournay, his adopted daughter, that Pascal stole his image of the Divinity:—‘C'est un cercle, dont la circonférence est par-tout, et le centre nulle part.’ So you see that even the saintly Pascal could steal as well as another, and was probably unconscious of the theft.
To be perfectly original, (continued Byron,) one
should think much
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“The book you lent me, Dr. Richardson’s ‘Travels along the Mediterranean,’ (said Byron,) is an excellent work. It abounds in information, sensibly and unaffectedly conveyed, and even without Lord B.’s praises of the author, would have led me to conclude that he was an enlightened, sensible, and thoroughly good man. He is always in earnest, (continued Byron,) and never writes for effect: his language is well chosen and correct; and his religious views unaffected and sincere without bigotry. He is just the sort of man I should like to have with me for Greece—clever, both as a man and a physician; for I require both—one for my mind, and the other for my body, which is a little the worse for wear, from the bad usage of the troublesome tenant that has inhabited it, God help me!
“It is strange (said Byron) how
seldom one meets with clever, sensible men in the professions of divinity or physic;
and yet they are precisely the professions that most peculiarly demand intelligence and
ability,—as to keep the soul and body in good health requires no ordinary
talents. I have, I confess, as little faith in medicine as
Napoleon had. I think it has many remedies, but few specifics. I do not
know if we arrived at the same conclusion by the same road. Mine has been drawn from
observing that the medical men who fell in my way were, in general, so deficient in
ability, that even had the science of medicine been fifty times more simplified than it
ever will be in our time, they had not intelligence enough to comprehend or reduce it
to practice, which has given me a much greater dread of remedies than diseases. Medical
men do not sufficiently attend to idiosyncrasy, (continued Byron,)
on which so much depends, and often hurry to the grave one patient, by a treatment that
has succeeded with another. The moment they ascertain a disease to be the same as one
they have known, they conclude the same remedies that cured the first must remove the
second, not making allowance for the peculiarities of temperament, habits, and
disposition, which last has a great influence in maladies. All that I have seen of
physicians has given me a dread of them, which dread, will
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“There is nothing I so much dread as flattery, (said Byron;) not that I mean to say I dislike it,—for, on the contrary, if well administered, it is very agreeable,—but I dread it because I know, from experience, we end by disliking those we flatter: it is the mode we take to avenge ourselves for stooping to the humiliation of flattering them. On this account, I never flatter those I really like; and, also, I should be fearful and jealous of owing their regard for me to the pleasure my flattery gave them. I am not so forbearing with those I am indifferent about; for seeing how much people like flattery, I cannot resist giving them some, and it amuses me to see how they swallow even the largest doses. Now, there is —— and ——; who could live on passable terms with them, that did not administer to their vanity? One tells you all his bonnes fortunes, and would never forgive you if you appeared to be surprised at their extent; and the other talks to you of prime ministers and dukes by their surnames, and cannot state the most simple fact or occurrence without telling you that Wellington or Devonshire told him so. One does not (continued Byron) meet this last foiblesse out of England, and not then, I must admit, except among parvenus.
“It is doubtful which, vanity or conceit, is the most offensive,
(said Byron;) but I think conceit is, because the
gratification of vanity depends on the suffrages of others, to gain which vain people
must endeavour to please; but as conceit is content with its own approbation, it makes
no sacrifice, and is not susceptible of humiliation. I confess that I have a spiteful
pleasure (continued Byron) in mortifying conceited people; and the
gratification is enhanced by the difficulty of the task. One of the reasons why I
dislike society is, that its contact excites all the evil qualities of my nature,
which, like the fire in the flint, can only be elicited by friction. My philosophy is
more theoretical than practical: it is never at hand when I want it; and the puerile
passions that I witness in those whom I encounter excite disgust when examined near,
though, viewed at a distance, they only create pity,—that is to say, in
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“When I recommend solitude, (said Byron,) I do not mean the solitude of country neighbourhood, where people pass their time à dire, redire, et médire. No! I mean a regular retirement, with a woman that one loves, and interrupted only by a correspondence with a man that one esteems, though if we put plural of man, it would be more agreeable for the correspondence. By this means, friendships would not be subject to the variations and estrangements that are so often caused by a frequent personal intercourse; and we might delude ourselves into a belief that they were sincere, and might be lasting—two difficult articles of faith in my creed of friendship. Socrates and Plato (continued Byron) ridiculed Laches, who defined fortitude to consist in remaining firm in the ranks opposed to the enemy; and I agree with those philosophers in thinking that a retreat is not inglorious, whether from the enemy in the field or in the town, if one feels one’s own weakness, and anticipates a defeat. I feel that society is my enemy, in even more than a figurative sense: I have not fled, but retreated from it; and if solitude has not made me better, I am sure it has prevented my becoming worse, which is a point gained.
“Have you ever observed (said
Byron) the extreme dread that parvenus have of aught that approaches to vulgarity?
In manners, letters, conversation, nay, even in literature, they are always superfine;
and a man of birth would unconsciously hazard a thousand dubious phrases, sooner than a
parvenu would risk the possibility of
being suspected of one. One of the many advantages of birth is, that it saves one from
this hypercritical gentility, and he of noble blood may be natural without the fear of
being accused of vulgarity. I have left an assembly filled with all the names of haut ton in London, and where little but
names were to be found, to seek relief from the ennui that overpowered me, in
a—cyder cellar—are you not shocked?—and have found there more food
for speculation than in the vapid circles of glittering dulness had left.
——
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“Does the cant of sentiment still continue in England? (asked
Byron.) ‘Childe Harold’ called it forth; but my Juan was well calculated to cast it into shade, and had
that merit, if it had no other; but I must not refer to the Don, as that, I remember, is a prohibited subject between us. Nothing
sickens me so completely (said Byron) as women who affect
sentiment in conversation. A woman without sentiment is not a woman; but I have
observed, that those who most display it in words have least of the reality. Sentiment,
like love and grief, should be reserved for privacy; and when I hear women affichant their sentimentality, I look upon
it as an allegorical mode of declaring their wish of finding an object on whom they
could bestow its superfluity. I am of a jealous nature, (said
Byron,) and should wish to call slumbering sentiment into life
in the woman I love, instead of finding that I was chosen, from its excess and activity
rendering a partner in the firm indispensable. I should hate a woman (continued
Byron) who could laugh at or ridicule sentiment, as I should,
and do, women who have not religious feelings; and, much as I dislike bigotry, I think
it a thousand times more pardonable in a woman than irreligion. There is something
unfeminine in the want of religion, that takes off the peculiar charm of woman. It
inculcates mildness, forbearance, and charity,—those graces that adorn them more
than all others, (continued Byron,) and whose beneficent effects
are felt, not only on their minds and manners, but are visible in their countenances,
to which they give their own sweet character. But when I say that I admire religion in
women, (said Byron,) don’t fancy that I like sectarian
ladies, distributors of tracts, armed and ready for controversies, many of whom only
preach religion, but do not practise it. No! I like to know that it is the guide of
woman’s actions, the softener of her words, the soother of her cares, and those
of all dear to her, who are comforted by her,—that it is, in short, the animating
principle to which all else is referred. When I see women professing religion and
violating its duties,—mothers turning from erring daughters, instead of staying
to reclaim,—sisters deserting sisters, whom, in their hearts, they know to be
more pure than themselves,—and wives abandoning husbands on the ground of faults
that they should have wept over, and redeemed by the force of love,—then it is
(continued Byron) that I exclaim against the cant of false
religion, and laugh at the credulity of those who can reconcile such conduct with the
dictates of a creed that ordains forgiveness, and commands that ‘if a man be
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It appears to me that Byron has reflected much on religion, and that many, if not all, the doubts and sarcasms he has expressed on it are to he attributed only to his enmity against its false worshippers. He is indignant at seeing people professing it governed wholly by worldly principles in their conduct; and fancies that he is serving the true cause, by exposing the votaries that he thinks dishonour it. He forgets that in so exposing and decrying them, he is breaking through the commandments of charity he admires, and says ought to govern our actions towards our erring brethren; but that he reflects deeply on the subject of religion and its duties, is, I hope, a step gained in the right path, in, which I trust he will continue to advance; and which step I attribute, as does he, to the effect the prayer of Mrs. Sheppard had on his mind, and which, it is evident, has made a lasting impression, by the frequency and seriousness with which he refers to it.