Lady Byron Vindicated: A History of the Byron Controversy

'Let us not be mistaken. We are not defending the offences of which Lord Byron unquestionably was guilty; neither are we finding fault with those, who, after looking honestly within and around themselves, condemn those offences, no matter how severely: but we are speaking of society in general as it now exists; and we say that there is vile hypocrisy in the tone in which Lord Byron is talked of there. We say, that, although all offences against purity of life are miserable things, and condemnable things, the degrees of guilt attached to different offences of this class are as widely different as are the degrees of guilt between an assault and a murder; and we confess our belief, that no man of Byron's station or age could have run much risk in gaining a very bad name in society, had a course of life similar (in so far as we know any thing of that) to Lord Byron's been the only thing chargeable against him.

'The last poem he wrote was produced upon his birthday, not many weeks before he died. We consider it as one of the finest and most touching effusions of his noble genius. We think he who reads it, and can ever after bring himself to regard even the worst transgressions that have been charged against Lord Byron with any feelings but those of humble sorrow and manly pity, is not deserving of the name of man. The deep and passionate struggles with the inferior elements of his nature (and ours) which it records; the lofty thirsting after purity; the heroic devotion of a soul half weary of life, because unable to believe in its own powers to live up to what it so intensely felt to be, and so reverentially honoured as, the right; the whole picture of this mighty spirit, often darkened, but never sunk, – often erring, but never ceasing to see and to worship the beauty of virtue; the repentance of it; the anguish; the aspiration, almost stilled in despair, – the whole of this is such a whole, that we are sure no man can read these solemn verses too often; and we recommend them for repetition, as the best and most conclusive of all possible answers whenever the name of Byron is insulted by those who permit themselves to forget nothing, either in his life or in his writings, but the good.' – [1825.]

The following letters of Lady Byron's are reprinted from the Memoirs of H. C. Robinson. They are given that the reader may form some judgment of the strength and activity of her mind, and the elevated class of subjects upon which it habitually dwelt.

LADY BYRON TO H. C. R'Dec. 31, 1853.

'Dear Mr. Crabb Robinson, – I have an inclination, if I were not afraid of trespassing on your time (but you can put my letter by for any leisure moment), to enter upon the history of a character which I think less appreciated than it ought to be. Men, I observe, do not understand men in certain points, without a woman's interpretation. Those points, of course, relate to feelings.

'Here is a man taken by most of those who come in his way either for Dry-as-Dust, Matter-of-fact, or for a "vain visionary." There are, doubtless, some defective or excessive characteristics which give rise to those impressions.

'My acquaintance was made, oddly enough, with him twenty-seven years ago. A pauper said to me of him, "He's the poor man's doctor." Such a recommendation seemed to me a good one: and I also knew that his organizing head had formed the first district society in England (for Mrs. Fry told me she could not have effected it without his aid); yet he has always ignored his own share of it. I felt in him at once the curious combination of the Christian and the cynic, – of reverence for man, and contempt of men. It was then an internal war, but one in which it was evident to me that the holier cause would be victorious, because there was deep belief, and, as far as I could learn, a blameless and benevolent life. He appeared only to want sunshine. It was a plant which could not be brought to perfection in darkness. He had begun life by the most painful conflict between filial duty and conscience, – a large provision in the church secured for him by his father; but he could not sign. There was discredit, as you know, attached to such scruples.

'He was also, when I first knew him, under other circumstances of a nature to depress him, and to make him feel that he was unjustly treated. The gradual removal of these called forth his better nature in thankfulness to God. Still the old misanthropic modes of expressing himself obtruded themselves at times. This passed in '48 between him and Robertson. Robertson said to me, "I want to know something about ragged schools." I replied, "You had better ask Dr. King: he knows more about them." – "I?" said Dr. King. "I take care to know nothing of ragged schools, lest they should make me ragged." Robertson did not see through it. Perhaps I had been taught to understand such suicidal speeches by my cousin, Lord Melbourne.

'The example of Christ, imperfectly as it may be understood by him, has been ever before his eyes: he woke to the thought of following it, and he went to rest consoled or rebuked by it. After nearly thirty years of intimacy, I may, without presumption, form that opinion. There is something pathetic to me in seeing any one so unknown. Even the other medical friends of Robertson, when I knew that Dr. King felt a woman's tenderness, said on one occasion to him, "But we know that you, Dr. King, are above all feeling."

'If I have made the character more consistent to you by putting in these bits of mosaic, my pen will not have been ill employed, nor unpleasingly to you.

'Yours truly,'A. Noel Byron.'LADY BYRON TO H. C. R'Brighton, Nov. 15, 1854.

'The thoughts of all this public and private suffering have taken the life out of my pen when I tried to write on matters which would otherwise have been most interesting to me: these seemed the shadows, that the stern reality. It is good, however, to be drawn out of scenes in which one is absorbed most unprofitably, and to have one's natural interests revived by such a letter as I have to thank you for, as well as its predecessor. You touch upon the very points which do interest me the most, habitually. The change of form, and enlargement of design, in "The Prospective" had led me to express to one of the promoters of that object my desire to contribute. The religious crisis is instant; but the man for it? The next best thing, if, as I believe, he is not to be found in England, is an association of such men as are to edit the new periodical. An address delivered by Freeman Clarke at Boston, last May, makes me think him better fitted for a leader than any other of the religious "Free-thinkers." I wish I could send you my one copy; but you do not need, it, and others do. His object is the same as that of the "Alliance Universelle: " only he is still more free from "partialism" (his own word) in his aspirations and practical suggestions with respect to an ultimate "Christian synthesis." He so far adopts Comte's theory as to speak of religion itself under three successive aspects, historically, – 1. Thesis; 2. Antithesis; 3. Synthesis. I made his acquaintance in England; and he inspired confidence at once by his brave independence (incomptis capillis) and self-unconsciousness. J. J. Tayler's address of last month follows in the same path, – all in favour of the "irenics," instead of polemics.

'The answer which you gave me so fully and distinctly to the questions I proposed for your consideration was of value in turning to my view certain aspects of the case which I had not before observed. I had begun a second attack on your patience, when all was forgotten in the news of the day.'

Lady Byron to H. C. R'Brighton, Dec. 25, 1854.

'With J. J. Tayler, though almost a stranger to him, I have a peculiar reason for sympathising. A book of his was a treasure to my daughter on her death-bed.50

'I must confess to intolerance of opinion as to these two points, —eternal evil in any form, and (involved in it) eternal suffering. To believe in these would take away my God, who is all-loving. With a God with whom omnipotence and omniscience were all, evil might be eternal; but why do I say to you what has been better said elsewhere?'

LADY BYRON TO H. C. R'Brighton, Jan. 31, 1855.

… 'The great difficulty in respect to "The Review"51 seems to be to settle a basis, inclusive and exclusive; in short, a boundary question. From what you said, I think you agreed with me, that a latitudinarian Christianity ought to be the character of the periodical; but the depth of the roots should correspond with the width of the branches of that tree of knowledge. Of some of those minds one might say, "They have no root;" and then, the richer the foliage, the more danger that the trunk will fall. "Grounded in Christ" has to me a most practical significance and value. I, too, have anxiety about a friend (Miss Carpenter) whose life is of public importance: she, more than any of the English reformers, unless Nash and Wright, has found the art of drawing out the good of human nature, and proving its existence. She makes these discoveries by the light of love. I hope she may recover, from to-day's report. The object of a Reformatory in Leicester has just been secured at a county meeting… Now the desideratum is well-qualified masters and mistresses. If you hear of such by chance, pray let me know. The regular schoolmaster is an extinguisher. Heart, and familiarity with the class to be educated, are all important. At home and abroad, the evidence is conclusive on that point; for I have for many years attended to such experiments in various parts of Europe. "The Irish Quarterly" has taken up the subject with rather more zeal than judgment. I had hoped that a sound and temperate exposition of the facts might form an article in the "Might-have-been Review."'

LADY BYRON TO H. C. R'Brighton, Feb. 12, 1855.

'I have at last earned the pleasure of writing to you by having settled troublesome matters of little moment, except locally; and I gladly take a wider range by sympathizing in your interests. There is, besides, no responsibility – for me at least – in canvassing the merits of Russell or Palmerston, but much in deciding whether the "village politician" Jackson or Thompson shall be leader in the school or public-house.

'Has not the nation been brought to a conviction that the system should be broken up? and is Lord Palmerston, who has used it so long and so cleverly, likely to promote that object?

'But, whatever obstacles there may be in state affairs, that general persuasion must modify other departments of action and knowledge. "Unroasted coffee" will no longer be accepted under the official seal, – another reason for a new literary combination for distinct special objects, a review in which every separate article should be convergent. If, instead of the problem to make a circle pass through three given points, it were required to find the centre from which to describe a circle through any three articles in the "Edinburgh" or "Westminster Review," who would accomplish it? Much force is lost for want of this one-mindedness amongst the contributors. It would not exclude variety or freedom in the unlimited discussion of means towards the ends unequivocally recognized. If St. Paul had edited a review, he might have admitted Peter as well as Luke or Barnabas…

'Ross gave us an excellent sermon, yesterday, on "Hallowing the Name." Though far from commonplace, it might have been delivered in any church.

'We have had Fanny Kemble here last week. I only heard her "Romeo and Juliet," – not less instructive, as her readings always are, than exciting; for in her glass Shakspeare is a philosopher. I know her, and honour her, for her truthfulness amidst all trials.'

LADY BYRON TO H. C. R'Brighton, March 5, 1855.

'I recollect only those passages of Dr. Kennedy's book which bear upon the opinions of Lord Byron. Strange as it may seem, Dr. Kennedy is most faithful where you doubt his being so. Not merely from casual expressions, but from the whole tenor of Lord Byron's feelings, I could not but conclude he was a believer in the inspiration of the Bible, and had the gloomiest Calvinistic tenets. To that unhappy view of the relation of the creature to the Creator, I have always ascribed the misery of his life… It is enough for me to remember, that he who thinks his transgressions beyond forgiveness (and such was his own deepest feeling) has righteousness beyond that of the self-satisfied sinner, or, perhaps, of the half-awakened. It was impossible for me to doubt, that, could he have been at once assured of pardon, his living faith in a moral duty, and love of virtue ("I love the virtues which I cannot claim"), would have conquered every temptation. Judge, then, how I must hate the creed which made him see God as an Avenger, not a Father! My own impressions were just the reverse, but could have little weight; and it was in vain to seek to turn his thoughts for long from that idée fixe with which he connected his physical peculiarity as a stamp. Instead of being made happier by any apparent good, he felt convinced that every blessing would be "turned into a curse" to him. Who, possessed by such ideas, could lead a life of love and service to God or man? They must, in a measure, realize themselves. "The worst of it is, I do believe," he said. I, like all connected with him, was broken against the rock of predestination. I may be pardoned for referring to his frequent expression of the sentiment that I was only sent to show him the happiness he was forbidden to enjoy. You will now better understand why "The Deformed Transformed" is too painful to me for discussion. Since writing the above, I have read Dr. Granville's letter on the Emperor of Russia, some passages of which seem applicable to the prepossession I have described. I will not mix up less serious matters with these, which forty years have not made less than present still to me.'

LADY BYRON TO H. C. R'Brighton, April 8, 1855.

… 'The book which has interested me most, lately, is that on "Mosaism," translated by Miss Goldsmid, and which I read, as you will believe, without any Christian (unchristian?) prejudice. The missionaries of the Unity were always, from my childhood, regarded by me as in that sense the people; and I believe they were true to that mission, though blind, intellectually, in demanding the crucifixion. The present aspect of Jewish opinions, as shown in that book, is all but Christian. The author is under the error of taking, as the representatives of Christianity, the Mystics, Ascetics, and Quietists; and therefore he does not know how near he is to the true spirit of the gospel. If you should happen to see Miss Goldsmid, pray tell her what a great service I think she has rendered to us soi-disant Christians in translating a book which must make us sensible of the little we have done, and the much we have to do, to justify our preference of the later to the earlier dispensation.'…

LADY BYRON TO H. C. R'Brighton, April 11, 1855.

'You appear to have more definite information respecting "The Review" than I have obtained… It was also said that "The Review" would, in fact, be "The Prospective" amplified, – not satisfactory to me, because I have always thought that periodical too Unitarian, in the sense of separating itself from other Christian churches, if not by a high wall, at least by a wire-gauze fence. Now, separation is to me the αλρεσις. The revelation through Nature never separates: it is the revelation through the Book which separates. Whewell and Brewster would have been one, had they not, I think, equally dimmed their lamps of science when reading their Bibles. As long as we think a truth better for being shut up in a text, we are not of the wide-world religion, which is to include all in one fold: for that text will not be accepted by the followers of other books, or students of the same; and separation will ensue. The Christian Scripture should be dear to us, not as the charter of a few, but of mankind; and to fashion it into cages is to deny its ultimate objects. These thoughts hot, like the roll at breakfast, where your letter was so welcome an addition.'

THREE DOMESTIC POEMS BY LORD BYRON

FARE THEE WELLFare thee well! and if for ever,Still for ever fare thee well!Even though unforgiving, never'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.Would that breast were bared before theeWhere thy head so oft hath lain,While that placid sleep came o'er theeWhich thou ne'er canst know again!Would that breast, by thee glanced over,Every inmost thought could show!Then thou wouldst at last discover'Twas not well to spurn it so.Though the world for this commend thee,Though it smile upon the blow,Even its praises must offend thee,Founded on another's woe.Though my many faults defaced me,Could no other arm be found,Than the one which once embraced me,To inflict a cureless wound?Yet, oh! yet, thyself deceive notLove may sink by slow decay;But, by sudden wrench, believe notHearts can thus be torn away:Still thine own its life retaineth;Still must mine, though bleeding, beatAnd the undying thought which painethIs – that we no more may meet.These are words of deeper sorrowThan the wail above the dead:Both shall live, but every morrowWake us from a widowed bed.And when thou wouldst solace gather,When our child's first accents flow,Wilt thou teach her to say 'Father,'Though his care she must forego?When her little hand shall press thee,When her lip to thine is pressed,Think of him whose prayer shall bless theeThink of him thy love had blessed.Should her lineaments resembleThose thou never more mayst see,Then thy heart will softly trembleWith a pulse yet true to me.All my faults, perchance, thou knowest;All my madness none can know:All my hopes, where'er thou goest,Wither; yet with thee they go.Every feeling hath been shaken:Pride, which not a world could bow,Bows to thee, by thee forsaken;Even my soul forsakes me now.But 'tis done: all words are idle;Words from me are vainer still;But the thoughts we cannot bridleForce their way without the will.Fare thee well! – thus disunited,Torn from every nearer tie,Seared in heart, and lone and blighted,More than this I scarce can die.A SKETCHBorn in the garret, in the kitchen bred;Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;Next – for some gracious service unexpress'd,And from its wages only to be guessed —Raised from the toilette to the table, whereHer wondering betters wait behind her chair,With eye unmoved, and forehead unabashed,She dines from off the plate she lately washed.Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie,The genial confidante and general spy,Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess? —An only infant's earliest governess!She taught the child to read, and taught so well,That she herself, by teaching, learned to spell.An adept next in penmanship she grows,As many a nameless slander deftly shows:What she had made the pupil of her art,None know; but that high soul secured the heart,And panted for the truth it could not hear,With longing breast and undeluded ear.Foiled was perversion by that youthful mind,Which flattery fooled not, baseness could not blind,Deceit infect not, near contagion soil,Indulgence weaken, nor example spoil,Nor mastered science tempt her to look downOn humbler talents with a pitying frown,Nor genius swell, nor beauty render vain,Nor envy ruffle to retaliate pain,Nor fortune change, pride raise, nor passion bow,Nor virtue teach austerity, till now.Serenely purest of her sex that live;But wanting one sweet weakness, – to forgive;Too shocked at faults her soul can never know,She deems that all could be like her below:Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend;For Virtue pardons those she would amend.But to the theme, now laid aside too long, —The baleful burthen of this honest song.Though all her former functions are no more,She rules the circle which she served before.If mothers – none know why – before her quake;If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake;If early habits – those false links, which bindAt times the loftiest to the meanest mind —Have given her power too deeply to instilThe angry essence of her deadly will;If like a snake she steal within your wallsTill the black slime betray her as she crawls;If like a viper to the heart she wind,And leave the venom there she did not find, —What marvel that this hag of hatred worksEternal evil latent as she lurks,To make a Pandemonium where she dwells,And reign the Hecate of domestic hells?Skilled by a touch to deepen scandal's tintsWith all the kind mendacity of hints,While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers with smiles,A thread of candour with a web of wiles;A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming.To hide her bloodless heart's soul-hardened schemingA lip of lies; a face formed to conceal,And, without feeling, mock at all who feel;With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown;A cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone.Mark how the channels of her yellow bloodOoze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud!Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale,(For drawn from reptiles only may we traceCongenial colours in that soul or face,) —Look on her features! and behold her mindAs in a mirror of itself defined.Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged;There is no trait which might not be enlarged:Yet true to 'Nature's journeymen,' who madeThis monster when their mistress left off trade,This female dog-star of her little sky,Where all beneath her influence droop or die.O wretch without a tear, without a thought,Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought!The time shall come, nor long remote, when thouShalt feel far more than thou inflictest now, —Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain,And turn thee howling in unpitied pain.May the strong curse of crushed affections lightBack on thy bosom with reflected blight,And make thee, in thy leprosy of mind,As loathsome to thyself as to mankind,Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hateBlack as thy will for others would create;Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,And thy soul welter in its hideous crust!Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed,The widowed couch of fire, that thou hast spreadThen, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer,Look on thine earthly victims, and despair!Down to the dust! and, as thou rott'st away,Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.But for the love I bore, and still must bear,To her thy malice from all ties would tear,Thy name, thy human name, to every eyeThe climax of all scorn, should hang on high,Exalted o'er thy less abhorred compeers,And festering in the infamy of years.LINESON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILLAnd thou wert sad, yet I was not with thee!And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near!Methought that joy and health alone could beWhere I was not, and pain and sorrow here.And is it thus? It is as I foretold,And shall be more so; for the mind recoilsUpon itself, and the wrecked heart lies cold,While heaviness collects the shattered spoils.It is not in the storm nor in the strifeWe feel benumbed, and wish to be no more,But in the after-silence on the shore,When all is lost except a little life.I am too well avenged! But 'twas my right:Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sentTo be the Nemesis who should requite;Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument.Mercy is for the merciful! – if thouHast been of such, 'twill be accorded now.Thy nights are banished from the realms of sleep!Yes! they may flatter thee; but thou shalt feelA hollow agony which will not heal;For thou art pillowed on a curse too deep:Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reapThe bitter harvest in a woe as real!I have had many foes, but none like thee;For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend,And be avenged, or turn them into friend;But thou in safe implacabilityHadst nought to dread, in thy own weakness shieldedAnd in my love, which hath but too much yielded,And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare.And thus upon the world, – trust in thy truth,And the wild fame of my ungoverned youth,On things that were not and on things that are, —Even upon such a basis hast thou builtA monument, whose cement hath been guilt;The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,And hewed down, with an unsuspected sword,Fame, peace, and hope, and all the better life,Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,And found a nobler duty than to part.But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,For present anger and for future gold,And buying others' grief at any price.And thus, once entered into crooked ways,The early truth, which was thy proper praise,Did not still walk beside thee, but at times,And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,Deceit, averments incompatible,Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwellIn Janus-spirits; the significant eyeWhich learns to lie with silence; the pretextOf prudence, with advantages annexed;The acquiescence in all things which tend,No matter how, to the desired end, —All found a place in thy philosophy.The means were worthy, and the end is wonI would not do by thee as thou hast done.