when our actions are sometimes frail. No one can feel grand, tender, beautiful, and just sentiments, who is not virtuous at the moment of their impression. The reverse of this, I am aware, must, on the same principle, be true; and for all that are bad in Lord Byron, he must answer. But in this last class many more have been included by a public, not equally nice on other occasions, than strictly and fairly belong to it. "So far, then, Lord Byron had much L thing more in the case,) to make Lord Byron's personal concerns the subject of his conversation. But might not the character of Coleridge have been much misrepresented to Lord Byron ? Might he not have suffered himself to be influenced by that sort of rumour, however absurd, that has always mixed up Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Southey all together, as if they were, both poetically and personally, com stronger reason for his bitterness, his dis-pletely tres juncti in uno? We are content, and his misanthropy, than has been granted to him. It was not all sunshine with him, as has been represented: the situation he is said to have thrown away did not afford so much ground for gratitude, rather than gloom and hatred. He perceived that, while he was treading on flowers, mines of pestilence and destruction were beneath. Doors flew open to voices hailed him but he was of a temperament too ethereal to breathe well in the thick tainted air,-of an ear too nice, to be pleased by the perfidious sounds. him; "All these, however, he would probably have continued to endure; and the dominion of his great intellect, the mellowness and sobriety of added years, the calmness which long intercourse with mankind gives to the irritability of the temper and nerves, might gradually have secured to him a sort of fame and estimation less dangerous, and more satisfactory both to his judgment and his pride. All these were irretrievably defeated by a most ill-assorted combination of domestic events. It is absurd to suppose that any human understanding can command all the complicated trains of human affairs, and be answerable for con sequences which will befall us in spite of wisdom and virtue. There is sometimes domestic misery where there is no fault." The personalities scattered over some of Lord Byron's writings in relation to some living men of letters, have been quoted and commented on as, scarcely less than his allusions to his own domestic affairs, proving unmanly spite to have formed an essential part of his personal character. Some of these personalities-especially those about Mr Coleridge-cannot be pardoned, upon any grounds. Mr Coleridge is, and always was, incapable of injuring any human being; and he, of all men in the world, is totally above the feelings of literary envy. He always, and in all places, did justice to Byron's genius; and he had too much good taste, (even if there had been no afraid that there may have been no want of mean understrappers to poison his lordship's mind with base lies as to Coleridge; and we are certainly quite unable to believe that Lord Byron is chargeable with much more than being a great deal too rash and hasty of belief as to this matter. What motive could he have for abusing the personal character of a brother poet, for whose poetical fame he himself had perhaps done more than any other contemporary? One of the best-natured and kindest-hearted men in the world, Coleridge, will assuredly suffer those ill-advised sarcasms to make no lasting impression upon his rich and noble mind. As to Mr Wordsworth, and still more as to Mr Southey, we confess we take quite a different view of the mat ter. The former, no matter from what causes external to himself, from what long ill-usage received at base hands, and entailing innumerable illustrious poet is unquestionably much consequences of real evil-the former belied if he be not accustomed, on too many occasions, to sneer at, and utterly undervalue, the productions of contemporary genius more fortunate, in the worldly meaning of the word, than his own. We certainly have no sort of doubt that Mr Wordsworth may easily have permitted himself to say things of, even to, Lord Byror, sufficient if not to vindicate and justify, to afford at least no inconsiderable apology for, the few insignificant jokes, which, after all, constitute the sum of Lord Byron's offences against him. And, by the way, we do not recollect that any of these jokes were levelled against Mr Wordsworth otherwise than in his poetical capacity. With regard to Mr Southey, the case is quite of another kind. Here there was a real, rooted antipathy. Lord Byron considered the Laureate as a base renegado in politics and religion. Nothing could be more absurd than that belief-but it was his. He, moreover, believed Mr Southey to be his personal enemy-he believed him to be a man accustomed, in all possible ways, to abuse and vilify him in his conversation and his correspondence. Mr Southey has denied that this was true; but, subsequently to that denial, he has written far more, and far severer things, (in so far as intention goes,) against Lord Byron, than ever Lord Byron wrote against him. He who has dubbed Byron" the chief of the Satanic school," can have no right now to complain of Byron calling him “Renegado," and "Turncoat." They are, at all events, quits. And as little right can he have to find fault with Byron's too easily taking up malevolent misrepresentations of the tone of his conversation in regard to Lord Byron, who himself has, since Lord Byron's death, written a violent diatribe against Lord Byron, merely on the authority of certain passages in Mr Medwin's book-a book which had not been published for a week, ere every man of sense in England was well satisfied as to the utter worthlessness of its authority, -a book, as to the real character of which, knowing as we all do Mr Southey's intimate relations with the publisher of the Quarterly Review, we can with difficulty suppose Mr Southey to have been utterly in the dark for many hours after it came into his hands. As for the squibs, epigrams, &c. about some of his own friends, such as Mr Rogers, Mr Moore, and Mr Hob house, that have, although unpublished, been sufficiently heard of in the world-we really cannot pretend to attach any sort of importance to such things. It is certain that these gentlemen were always the firm friends of Lord Byron, and it is certain that his fame is now as dear to them as it ever was. There are moments in which we all crack jokes at the expense of persons for whom we have the sincerest affection; and the only difference is, that we are not all poets and authors like Lord Byron, that our sarcastic words are forgotten, while his litera scripta manet. The story of his having said to his mother, when he and Mr Hobhouse parted company on their travels, that he " was glad to be alone," amounts to nothing; for who is he, and above all, who is the poet, who does not often feel the departure of his dearest friend as a temporary relief? The man that was composing Childe Harold had other things to entertain him than the conversation of any companion, however pleasant; and we believe there are few pleasanter companions anywhere than Mr Hobhouse. This story, however, has been magnified into a mighty matter by Mr Dallas, whose name has recently been rather wearisomely connected with Lord Byron's. In justice to Mr Hobhouse, we shall quote from the Westminster Review a passage upon this matter, which we cannot doubt to have come from Mr H.'s own pen. Mr Alexander Dallas, in talking of the Chancellor's injunction against the publication of some of Lord Byron's letters, obtained by Mr Hobhouse acting as Lord Byron's executor, has said, "Mr Hobhouse was travelling with Lord Byron during the time when many of these letters were written, and probably he supposes that his lordship may have often mentioned him to his mother. This seems an equally natural supposition with the other; and if it should have entered into Mr Hobhouse's head, he would, by analogy, be equally ready to swear, not that he supposed he was often mentioned, but that he really was so. And yet, after reading Lord Byron's letters to his mother, it would never be gathered from them that he had any companion at all in his travels; except, indeed, that Mr Hobhouse's name is mentioned in an enumeration of his suite; and upon parting with him, Lord Byron expresses his satisfaction at being alone." Mr Hobhouse's comment on this follows. "Of course such persons as Mr Dallas and his son Alexander could have no notion, but that Mr Hobhouse's interference to prevent the publication of the correspondence must have been dictated by some interested motive; and hence, the offer to omit any passage in the letter that might be disagreeable to that gentleman. And here we will remark, that it might have been very possible that two young men, neither of them threeand-twenty, travelling together, might occasionally have had such differences as to give rise to uncomfortable feelings, which one of them might communicate when writing to his own mother; but that it is impossible to believe, that after many years of subsequent intercourse, the writer would make a present of such letters for publication, as contained anything to wound the feelings of him with whom he was living on terms of the most unre served intimacy. Mr R. C. Dallas, in his letter to Mrs Leigh, which his son has published, asserted that Mr Hobhouse had endeavoured to stop the forthcoming volume, because he was alarmed and agitated (so he calls it) for himself-and he hints that he had reason for so feeling as if Lord Byron's letters might contain disagreeable mention of him; yet it afterwards turned out, upon the confession of Dallas, the son, that Mr Hobhouse is ' mentioned throughout the whole of the correspondence with great affection.' Supposing the contrary had been the case, whose character would have suffered ? Mr Hobhouse might have been grieved, but it would not have been for himself; the indiscretion of giving (if he did give) such letters to a third person would have rested with Lord Byron ; but the infamy of publishing them would have belonged only to the seller of the manuscripts. We will show, in this place, another proof of the sort of moral principle which has presided over the publication in question. It answered the purpose of the editor to deal in the strongest insinuations against Mr Hobhouse; but, unfortunately, his father had, in the course of his correspondence with Lord Byron, mentioned that gentleman in very different termswhat does the honest editor do? he gives only the initial of the name, so that the eulogy, such as it is, may serve for any Mr H**. Mr R. C. Dalias's words are, 'I gave Murray your note on M, to be placed in the page with Wingfield. He must have been a very extraordinary young man, and I am sincerely sorry for H⚫, for whom I have felt an increased regard ever since I heard of his intimacy with my son at Cadiz, and that they were mutually pleased.' [p. 165.] The H・・ stands for Hobhouse, and the M * whom R. C. Dallas characterizes here ' as an extraordinary young man,' becomes, in the hands of his honest son, an unhappy Atheist,' [p. 325,] whose name he mentions, in another place, at full length, and characterizes him in such a way as must give the greatest pain to the surviving relations and friends of the deceased. We know of nothing more inexcusable than this conduct. In the blind rage to be avenged of Lord Byron, because he would give no more money or manuscripts to Mr R. C. Dallas, and of his lordship's executor, because he would not permit his private letters to be published; the father and son not only consign the body, soul, and muse' of their · benefactor to perdition, but extend their malediction to those whom he has recorded as being the objects of his affection and regard." Old Mr Dallas appears to have been an inveterate twaddler, and there are even worse things than twaddling alleged against him by Mr Hobhouse, in the article we have been quoting. The worst of these, however, his misstatement as to the amount of his pecuniary obligations to Lord Byron, may perhaps be accounted for in a way much more charitable than has found favour with Mr Hobhouse; and as to the son, (Mr Alexander Dallas,) thing, but what he supposed his filial we assuredly think he has done noduty bound him to, in the whole matter. Angry people will take sneering and perverted views of the subject matter of dispute, without subjecting themselves in the eyes of the disinterested world, to charges so heavy either as Mr Hobhouse has thought fit to bring against Mr A. Dallas, or as Mr A. Dallas has thought fit to bring against Mr Hobhouse. As for the song of which so much has been said, what is it, after all, but a mere jokeWho are now the people's men, My boy Hobbio? And Blackguards, Hunt, and Cobbio! What is this foolery to the jests that passed between Swift and his dearest cronies? As for Messrs Moore and Rogers, we shall see when they are dead,—and their Medwins, or, better still, their MSS. speak out-whether they have not said and written as many good things at Byron's expense as ever he did at theirs. Good Heavens! What is it come to if three distinguished friends, poets and wits by profession, may not exercise occasionally a little of their poetical wit upon each other's foibles? These men loved and respected each other through life-What more has the world any right to know about the matter? Some farther light may be thrown upon these matters, and others of a similar nature, by a note to Count Gamba's Narrative on Lord Byron's last Journey to Greece, in which that gentleman comments upon certain passages in the article on Lord Byron's * A Narrative of Lord Byron's Last Journey to Greece. Extracted from the Journal of Count Peter Gamba, who attended his Lordship on that Expedition. London. Murray. 1825. character, which we have already alluded to as a disgrace even to the London Magazine. Count Gamba speaks "We were in excellent health and spirits during our whole voyage from Italy to Greece; and for this we were partly indebted to our medical man, and partly to that temperance which was observed by every one on board, except at the beginning of the voyage by the captain of our vessel, who, however, ended by adopting our mode of life. I mention this to contradict an idle story told in a magazine, (the London,) that Lord Byron on this voyage passed the principal part of the day drinking with the captain of the ship.' Lord Byron, as we all did, passed his time chiefly in reading. He dined alone on deck; and sometimes in the evening he sat down with us to a glass or two, not more, of light Asti wine. He amused himself in jesting occasionally with the captain, whom he ended, however, by inspiring with a love of reading, such as we thought he had never felt before. "To give some idea of the silly stories that were told to the prejudice of Lord Byron, and which some of his biographers have shewn every inclination to adopt for facts, I will mention, that our young physician confessed, that for the first fifteen days of our voyage he had lived in perpetual terror, having been informed that if he committed the slightest fault, Lord Byron would have him torn to pieces by his dogs, which he kept for that purpose; or would order his Tartar to dash his brains out. This Tartar was Baptista Falsieri the Venetian. In the same manner, the English inhabitants, both civil and military, of Cephalonia, seemed surprised by the kind, affable, open, and humorous disposition of Lord Byron, having formed a preconception of him quite contrary to his real character. The writer in the magazine, who certainly never saw Lord Byron in his life, chooses to insert this fact, and to place the surprise and delight to the account of his Lordship, who, he says, was gratified to a most extravagant pitch.' And at what?—merely because he was 'in good odour,' the writer says, 'with the authorities of the Island.' If his Lordship was ' gratified to a most extravagant pitch,' he concealed his gratification from me, who was with him almost every hour in the day. Pleased he was at the attentions of the Cephalonian English, as it was his nature to be with the attentions of any persons who seemed to wish him well: the rest is fiction. Perhaps I may be pardoned for alluding to one or two other pretended facts introduced by the same writer, in order to finish the features of the portrait which he has given of Lord Byron. It was dangerous,' says that writer, for his friends to rise in the world, if they valued his friendship more than their own fame-he hated them.' This is very easily said, and is with equal difficulty disproved; because the controversialists of both sides may end in saying, in my opinion, he did hate them;' whilst the other can only reply, in my opinion, he did not.' In proportion, however, as the charge is so easily made, and with such difficulty refuted, and as it is a most serious imputation, the writer ought to have some very good grounds for his assertion. I would therefore beg to ask him, which of his friends Lord Byron ever was known to hate, because or when they rose in the world?' Which of his friends, I further ask, was he ever known to hate at all? Those very few individuals who, I have always understood from his Lordship's 's own lips, were his friends, I never heard him talk of, except in terms of the most sincere attachment. My own opinion is just the contrary to that of the writer in the magazine. I think he prided himself on the suc cesses of his friends, and cited them as a proof of discernment in the choice of some of his companions. This I know, that of envy he had not the least spark in his whole disposition: he had strong antipathies, certainly, to one or two individuals; but I have always understood from those most likely to know, that he never broke with any of the friends of his youth, and that his earliest attachments were also his last. "Again, in order to prove the difficulty of living with Lord Byron, it is said, that when Mr Hobhouse and he travelled in Greece together, they were generally a mile asunder.' I have the best authority for saying, that this is not the fact: that two young men, who were continually together, and slept in the same room for many months, should not always have ridden side by side on their journey is very likely; but when Lord Byron and Mr Hobhouse travelled in Greece, it would have been as little safe as comfortable to be generally a mile asunder;' and the truth is, they were generally very near each other. "The writer, wishing to shew how attentive Lord Byron was to his own person, says, 'And in these exercises so careful was he of his hands, (one of those little vanities which beset men,) that he wore gloves even in swimming!' This is certainly not true; and I should say, on the contrary, that he wore gloves (if it be worth while to mention such a circumstance) rather less than most men : I have known him ride without them. "I could contradict other assertions of the magazine-writer, which, though trifling in themselves, have served as a foundation for his personal character of Lord Byron;' but I feel reluctant to enter upon a task, which will doubtless one day or the other be better performed by some fellow-countryman of my illustrious friend. Indeed, I should not have said as much as I have, had I not been informed that the article to which I allude has made some impression upon the English public, having on the first appearance an air of candour and impartiality, as well as of being written after an intimate acquaintance with the great original; whereas, though there is some truth in his statements, it is certain that neither the writer nor his informants were fair judges of the person intended to be pourtray ed." We sincerely hope, that the Count Gamba's expectation of a Life of Lord Byron, written by one of his true and intimate friends, will not long remain unfulfilled. Dallas's book, utterly feeble and drivelling as it is, contains certainly some very interesting particulars as to his feelings when he was a very young author. The whole getting up of the two first cantos of Childe Harold-the diffidence-the fearsthe hopes that alternately depressed and elevated his spirits while the volume was printing, are exhibited, so as to form a picture that all students of literature, at least, will never cease to prize. All the rest of the work is more about old Dallas than young Byron, and is utter trash. Mr Medwin's book, again, has been dissected by Murray, Hobhouse, &c. in such style, that no man can ever henceforth appeal to it as authority. Nevertheless, there are many things in it also which, from internal evidence, one can scarcely doubt to be true, and, perhaps, some of the most interesting of these may be confirmed hereafter on authority of another description. Mr Moore, on dit, is preparing Memoirs of Lord Byron. If he merely endeavours to recall to memory those parts of the burnt autobiography, that never, under any circumstances, should have been burnt, and adds anecdotes and recollections of his own occasional companionship with Byron, and letters, nothing can be better. But we certainly protest altogether against Mr Moore as the formal and complete historian of Byron's life. Mr Hobhouse, by his early intimacy continued uninterrupted to the close, his participation above all in Byron's early and influential travels; and, we may add, even by his sympathy with Lord Byron's opinions, however wrong and dangerous, as to political matters, appears to be clearly designated as the man whose duty it is to undertake a work which the world has an unquestionable title to expect from some one. No set of people can differ more widely from Mr Hobhouse's views as to politics, and perhaps some other matters, than we do, and always have done. But neither can any one, who has read his history of Napoleon's Hundred Days, doubt his capacity to execute a work on this subject worthy of going down to posterity, in conjunction with Lord Byron's own immortal works. This will be the true " Illustrations of Childe Harold." Moore could write a much cleverer, and more sparkling collection of anecdotes than Hobhouse,-but he has, by his Captain Rock, convinced all the world, that he is utterly incapable of taking up a subject essentially serious-and discussing it in a manner at all creditable to himself, and satisfactory to the world. Moreover, Moore is, after all, an Irishmanand it is an Englishman born and bred, who alone can understand thoroughly the feelings and character of this great English poet. Until some such book as this has been published-and until Lord Byron's own correspondence has, in part at least, appeared,—it is sufficiently obvious, that common candour and justice demand from the public the suspension of any final striking of a balance, in regard to the good and the evil which were blended in Lord Byron's character. In the meantime, it is most consolatory to us, and must be so to every mind that is not degraded by bigotry, arrogance, or spleen, to observe, that the last great act of the drama of his life was, whatever may be thought of the former parts of it, throughout characterized by everything that is best, noblest, wisest. Count Gamba's name comes upon our ears, associated with some very disagreeable recollections; and his book is-as a book-but a poor one. It contains, however, quite enough of facts to satisfy all mankind that Lord Byron in Greece was everything that the friends of freedom, and the friends of genius, could have wished him to be. Placed amidst all the perplexities of most vile and worthless, intriguing factions-at the same time exposed to and harassed by the open violence of |
