Lady Byron Vindicated

It is alleged that she parted from him in apparent affection and good-humour, wrote him a playful, confiding letter upon the way, but, after reaching her father’s house, suddenly, and without explanation, announced to him that she would never see him again; that this sudden abandonment drew down upon him a perfect storm of scandalous stories, which his wife never contradicted; that she never in any way or shape stated what the exact reasons for her departure had been, and thus silently gave scope to all the malice of thousands of enemies.  The sensitive victim was actually driven from England, his home broken up, and he doomed to be a lonely wanderer on foreign shores.

In Italy, under bluer skies, and among a gentler people, with more tolerant modes of judgment, the authoress intimates that he found peace and consolation.  A lovely young Italian countess falls in love with him, and, breaking her family ties for his sake, devotes herself to him; and, in blissful retirement with her, he finds at last that domestic life for which he was so fitted.

Soothed, calmed, and refreshed, he writes ‘Don Juan,’ which the world is at this late hour informed was a poem with a high moral purpose, designed to be a practical illustration of the doctrine of total depravity among young gentlemen in high life.

Under the elevating influence of love, he rises at last to higher realms of moral excellence, and resolves to devote the rest of his life to some noble and heroic purpose; becomes the saviour of Greece; and dies untimely, leaving a nation to mourn his loss.

The authoress dwells with a peculiar bitterness on Lady Byron’s entire silence during all these years, as the most aggravated form of persecution and injury.  She informs the world that Lord Byron wrote his Autobiography with the purpose of giving a fair statement of the exact truth in the whole matter; and that Lady Byron bought up the manuscript of the publisher, and insisted on its being destroyed, unread; thus inflexibly depriving her husband of his last chance of a hearing before the tribunal of the public.

As a result of this silent persistent cruelty on the part of a cold, correct, narrow-minded woman, the character of Lord Byron has been misunderstood, and his name transmitted to after-ages clouded with aspersions and accusations which it is the object of this book to remove.

* * * * *

Such is the story of Lord Byron’s mistress,—a story which is going the length of this American continent, and rousing up new sympathy with the poet, and doing its best to bring the youth of America once more under the power of that brilliant, seductive genius, from which it was hoped they had escaped.  Already we are seeing it revamped in magazine-articles, which take up the slanders of the paramour and enlarge on them, and wax eloquent in denunciation of the marble-hearted insensible wife.

All this while, it does not appear to occur to the thousands of unreflecting readers that they are listening merely to the story of Lord Byron’s mistress, and of Lord Byron; and that, even by their own showing, their heaviest accusation against Lady Byron is that she has not spoken at all.  Her story has never been told.

For many years after the rupture between Lord Byron and his wife, that poet’s personality, fate, and happiness had an interest for the whole civilized world, which, we will venture to say, was unparalleled.  It is within the writer’s recollection, how, in the obscure mountain-town where she spent her early days, Lord Byron’s separation from his wife was, for a season, the all-engrossing topic.

She remembers hearing her father recount at the breakfast-table the facts as they were given in the public papers, together with his own suppositions and theories of the causes.

Lord Byron’s ‘Fare thee well,’ addressed to Lady Byron, was set to music, and sung with tears by young school-girls, even in this distant America.

Madame de Staël said of this appeal, that she was sure it would have drawn her at once to his heart and his arms; she could have forgiven everything: and so said all the young ladies all over the world, not only in England but in France and Germany, wherever Byron’s poetry appeared in translation.

Lady Byron’s obdurate cold-heartedness in refusing even to listen to his prayers, or to have any intercourse with him which might lead to reconciliation, was the one point conceded on all sides.

The stricter moralists defended her; but gentler hearts throughout all the world regarded her as a marble-hearted monster of correctness and morality, a personification of the law unmitigated by the gospel.

Literature in its highest walks busied itself with Lady Byron.  Hogg, in the character of the Ettrick Shepherd, devotes several eloquent passages to expatiating on the conjugal fidelity of a poor Highland shepherd’s wife, who, by patience and prayer and forgiveness, succeeds in reclaiming her drunken husband, and making a good man of him; and then points his moral by contrasting with this touching picture the cold-hearted pharisaical correctness of Lady Byron.

Moore, in his ‘Life of Lord Byron,’ when beginning the recital of the series of disgraceful amours which formed the staple of his life in Venice, has this passage:—

‘Highly censurable in point of morality and decorum as was his course of life while under the roof of Madame –, it was (with pain I am forced to confess) venial in comparison with the strange, headlong career of licence to which, when weaned from that connection, he so unrestrainedly, and, it may be added, defyingly abandoned himself.  Of the state of his mind on leaving England, I have already endeavoured to convey some idea; and among the feelings that went to make up that self-centred spirit of resistance which he then opposed to his fate was an indignant scorn for his own countrymen for the wrongs he thought they had done him.  For a time, the kindly sentiments which he still harboured toward Lady Byron, and a sort of vague hope, perhaps, that all would yet come right again, kept his mind in a mood somewhat more softened and docile, as well as sufficiently under the influence of English opinions to prevent his breaking out into open rebellion against it, as he unluckily did afterward.

‘By the failure of the attempted mediation with Lady Byron, his last link with home was severed: while, notwithstanding the quiet and unobtrusive life which he led at Geneva, there was as yet, he found, no cessation of the slanderous warfare against his character; the same busy and misrepresenting spirit which had tracked his every step at home, having, with no less malicious watchfulness, dogged him into exile.’

We should like to know what the misrepresentations and slanders must have been, when this sort of thing is admitted in Mr. Moore’s justification.  It seems to us rather wonderful how anybody, unless it were a person like the Countess Guiccioli, could misrepresent a life such as even Byron’s friend admits he was leading.

During all these years, when he was setting at defiance every principle of morality and decorum, the interest of the female mind all over Europe in the conversion of this brilliant prodigal son was unceasing, and reflects the greatest credit upon the faith of the sex.

Madame de Staël commenced the first effort at evangelization immediately after he left England, and found her catechumen in a most edifying state of humility.  He was, metaphorically, on his knees in penitence, and confessed himself a miserable sinner in the loveliest manner possible.  Such sweetness and humility took all hearts.  His conversations with Madame de Staël were printed, and circulated all over the world; making it to appear that only the inflexibility of Lady Byron stood in the way of his entire conversion.

Lady Blessington, among many others, took him in hand five or six years afterwards, and was greatly delighted with his docility, and edified by his frank and free confessions of his miserable offences.  Nothing now seemed wanting to bring the wanderer home to the fold but a kind word from Lady Byron.  But, when the fair countess offered to mediate, the poet only shook his head in tragic despair; ‘he had so many times tried in vain; Lady Byron’s course had been from the first that of obdurate silence.’

Any one who would wish to see a specimen of the skill of the honourable poet in mystification will do well to read a letter to Lady Byron, which Lord Byron, on parting from Lady Blessington, enclosed for her to read just before he went to Greece.  He says,—

‘The letter which I enclose I was prevented from sending by my despair of its doing any good.  I was perfectly sincere when I wrote it, and am so still.  But it is difficult for me to withstand the thousand provocations on that subject which both friends and foes have for seven years been throwing in the way of a man whose feelings were once quick, and whose temper was never patient.’

* * * * *

‘TO LADY BYRON, CARE OF THE HON. MRS. LEIGH, LONDON.

‘PISA, Nov. 17, 1821.

‘I have to acknowledge the receipt of “Ada’s hair,” which is very soft and pretty, and nearly as dark already as mine was at twelve years old, if I may judge from what I recollect of some in Augusta’s possession, taken at that age.  But it don’t curl—perhaps from its being let grow.

‘I also thank you for the inscription of the date and name; and I will tell you why: I believe that they are the only two or three words of your handwriting in my possession.  For your letters I returned; and except the two words, or rather the one word, “Household,” written twice in an old account book, I have no other.  I burnt your last note, for two reasons: firstly, it was written in a style not very agreeable; and, secondly, I wished to take your word without documents, which are the worldly resources of suspicious people.

‘I suppose that this note will reach you somewhere about Ada’s birthday—the 10th of December, I believe.  She will then be six: so that, in about twelve more, I shall have some chance of meeting her; perhaps sooner, if I am obliged to go to England by business or otherwise.  Recollect, however, one thing, either in distance or nearness—every day which keeps us asunder should, after so long a period, rather soften our mutual feelings; which must always have one rallying point as long as our child exists, which, I presume, we both hope will be long after either of her parents.

‘The time which has elapsed since the separation has been considerably more than the whole brief period of our union, and the not much longer one of our prior acquaintance.  We both made a bitter mistake; but now it is over, and irrevocably so.  For at thirty-three on my part, and few years less on yours, though it is no very extended period of life, still it is one when the habits and thought are generally so formed as to admit of no modification; and, as we could not agree when younger, we should with difficulty do so now.

‘I say all this, because I own to you, that notwithstanding everything, I considered our reunion as not impossible for more than a year after the separation; but then I gave up the hope entirely and for ever.  But this very impossibility of reunion seems to me at least a reason why, on all the few points of discussion which can arise between us, we should preserve the courtesies of life, and as much of its kindness as people who are never to meet may preserve,—perhaps more easily than nearer connections.  For my own part, I am violent, but not malignant; for only fresh provocations can awaken my resentments.  To you, who are colder and more concentrated, I would just hint, that you may sometimes mistake the depth of a cold anger for dignity, and a worse feeling for duty.  I assure you that I bear you now (whatever I may have done) no resentment whatever.  Remember, that, if you have injured me in aught, this forgiveness is something; and that, if I have injured you, it is something more still, if it be true, as the moralists say, that the most offending are the least forgiving.

‘Whether the offence has been solely on my side, or reciprocal, or on yours chiefly, I have ceased to reflect upon any but two things; viz., that you are the mother of my child, and that we shall never meet again.  I think, if you also consider the two corresponding points with reference to myself, it will be better for all three.

‘Yours ever,‘NOEL BYRON.’

The artless Thomas Moore introduces this letter in the ‘Life,’ with the remark,—

‘There are few, I should think, of my readers, who will not agree with me in pronouncing, that, if the author of the following letter had not right on his side, he had at least most of those good feelings which are found in general to accompany it.’

The reader is requested to take notice of the important admission; that the letter was never sent to Lady Byron at all.  It was, in fact, never intended for her, but was a nice little dramatic performance, composed simply with the view of acting on the sympathies of Lady Blessington and Byron’s numerous female admirers; and the reader will agree with us, we think, that, in this point of view, it was very neatly done, and deserves immortality as a work of high art.  For six years he had been plunged into every kind of vice and excess, pleading his shattered domestic joys, and his wife’s obdurate heart, as the apology and the impelling cause; filling the air with his shrieks and complaints concerning the slander which pursued him, while he filled letters to his confidential correspondents with records of new mistresses.  During all these years, the silence of Lady Byron was unbroken; though Lord Byron not only drew in private on the sympathies of his female admirers, but employed his talents and position as an author in holding her up to contempt and ridicule before thousands of readers.  We shall quote at length his side of the story, which he published in the First Canto of ‘Don Juan,’ that the reader may see how much reason he had for assuming the injured tone which he did in the letter to Lady Byron quoted above.  That letter never was sent to her; and the unmanly and indecent caricature of her, and the indelicate exposure of the whole story on his own side, which we are about to quote, were the only communications that could have reached her solitude.

In the following verses, Lady Byron is represented as Donna Inez, and Lord Byron as Don José; but the incidents and allusions were so very pointed, that nobody for a moment doubted whose history the poet was narrating.

‘His mother was a learned lady, famed   For every branch of every science knownIn every Christian language ever named,   With virtues equalled by her wit alone:She made the cleverest people quite ashamed;   And even the good with inward envy groaned,Finding themselves so very much exceededIn their own way by all the things that she did..          .          .          .Save that her duty both to man and GodRequired this conduct; which seemed very odd.She kept a journal where his faults were noted,   And opened certain trunks of books and letters,(All which might, if occasion served, be quoted);   And then she had all Seville for abettors,Besides her good old grandmother (who doted):   The hearers of her case become repeaters,Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges,—Some for amusement, others for old grudges.And then this best and meekest woman bore   With such serenity her husband’s woes!Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore,   Who saw their spouses killed, and nobly choseNever to say a word about them more.   Calmly she heard each calumny that rose,And saw his agonies with such sublimity,That all the world exclaimed, “What magnanimity!”’

This is the longest and most elaborate version of his own story that Byron ever published; but he busied himself with many others, projecting at one time a Spanish romance, in which the same story is related in the same transparent manner: but this he was dissuaded from printing.  The booksellers, however, made a good speculation in publishing what they called his domestic poems; that is, poems bearing more or less relation to this subject.

Every person with whom he became acquainted with any degree of intimacy was made familiar with his side of the story.  Moore’s Biography is from first to last, in its representations, founded upon Byron’s communicativeness, and Lady Byron’s silence; and the world at last settled down to believing that the account so often repeated, and never contradicted, must be substantially a true one.

The true history of Lord and Lady Byron has long been perfectly understood in many circles in England; but the facts were of a nature that could not be made public.  While there was a young daughter living whose future might be prejudiced by its recital, and while there were other persons on whom the disclosure of the real truth would have been crushing as an avalanche, Lady Byron’s only course was the perfect silence in which she took refuge, and those sublime works of charity and mercy to which she consecrated her blighted early life.

But the time is now come when the truth may be told.  All the actors in the scene have disappeared from the stage of mortal existence, and passed, let us have faith to hope, into a world where they would desire to expiate their faults by a late publication of the truth.

No person in England, we think, would as yet take the responsibility of relating the true history which is to clear Lady Byron’s memory; but, by a singular concurrence of circumstances, all the facts of the case, in the most undeniable and authentic form, were at one time placed in the hands of the writer of this sketch, with authority to make such use of them as she should judge best.  Had this melancholy history been allowed to sleep, no public use would have been made of them; but the appearance of a popular attack on the character of Lady Byron calls for a vindication, and the true story of her married life will therefore now be related.

Lord Byron has described in one of his letters the impression left upon his mind by a young person whom he met one evening in society, and who attracted his attention by the simplicity of her dress, and a certain air of singular purity and calmness with which she surveyed the scene around her.

On inquiry, he was told that this young person was Miss Milbanke, an only child, and one of the largest heiresses in England.

Lord Byron was fond of idealising his experiences in poetry; and the friends of Lady Byron had no difficulty in recognising the portrait of Lady Byron, as she appeared at this time of her life, in his exquisite description of Aurora Raby:—

                                      ‘There wasIndeed a certain fair and fairy one,   Of the best class, and better than her class,—Aurora Raby, a young star who shone   O’er life, too sweet an image for such glass;A lovely being scarcely formed or moulded;A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded..          .          .          .Early in years, and yet more infantine   In figure, she had something of sublimeIn eyes which sadly shone as seraphs’ shine;   All youth, but with an aspect beyond time;Radiant and grave, as pitying man’s decline;Mournful, but mournful of another’s crime,She looked as if she sat by Eden’s door,And grieved for those who could return no more..          .          .          .She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew,   As seeking not to know it; silent, lone,As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew,   And kept her heart serene within its zone.There was awe in the homage which she drew;   Her spirit seemed as seated on a throne,Apart from the surrounding world, and strongIn its own strength,—most strange in one so young!’

Some idea of the course which their acquaintance took, and of the manner in which he was piqued into thinking of her, is given in a stanza or two:—

‘The dashing and proud air of Adeline   Imposed not upon her: she saw her blazeMuch as she would have seen a glow-worm shine;   Then turned unto the stars for loftier rays.Juan was something she could not divine,   Being no sibyl in the new world’s ways;Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor,Because she did not pin her faith on feature.His fame too (for he had that kind of fame   Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind,—A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame,   Half virtues and whole vices being combined;Faults which attract because they are not tame;   Follies tricked out so brightly that they blind),—These seals upon her wax made no impression,Such was her coldness or her self-possession.Aurora sat with that indifference   Which piques a preux chevalier,—as it ought.Of all offences, that’s the worst offence   Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought..          .          .          .To his gay nothings, nothing was replied,   Or something which was nothing, as urbanityRequired.  Aurora scarcely looked aside,   Nor even smiled enough for any vanity.The Devil was in the girl!  Could it be pride,   Or modesty, or absence, or inanity?.          .          .          .Juan was drawn thus into some attentions,   Slight but select, and just enough to express,To females of perspicuous comprehensions,   That he would rather make them more than less.Aurora at the last (so history mentions,   Though probably much less a fact than guess)So far relaxed her thoughts from their sweet prisonAs once or twice to smile, if not to listen..          .          .          .But Juan had a sort of winning way,   A proud humility, if such there be,Which showed such deference to what females say,   As if each charming word were a decree.His tact, too, tempered him from grave to gay,    And taught him when to be reserved or free.He had the art of drawing people out,Without their seeing what he was about.Aurora, who in her indifference,   Confounded him in common with the crowdOf flatterers, though she deemed he had more sense   Than whispering foplings or than witlings loud,Commenced (from such slight things will great commence)   To feel that flattery which attracts the proud,Rather by deference than compliment,And wins even by a delicate dissent.And then he had good looks: that point was carried   Nem. con. amongst the women..          .          .          .   Now, though we know of old that looks deceive,And always have done, somehow these good looks,Make more impression than the best of books.Aurora, who looked more on books than faces,   Was very young, although so very sage:Admiring more Minerva than the Graces,   Especially upon a printed page.But Virtue’s self, with all her tightest laces,   Has not the natural stays of strict old age;And Socrates, that model of all duty,Owned to a penchant, though discreet for beauty.’

The presence of this high-minded, thoughtful, unworldly woman is described through two cantos of the wild, rattling ‘Don Juan,’ in a manner that shows how deeply the poet was capable of being affected by such an appeal to his higher nature.

For instance, when Don Juan sits silent and thoughtful amid a circle of persons who are talking scandal, the poet says,—

‘’Tis true, he saw Aurora look as though   She approved his silence: she perhaps mistookIts motive for that charity we owe,   But seldom pay, the absent..          .          .          .He gained esteem where it was worth the most;   And certainly Aurora had renewedIn him some feelings he had lately lost   Or hardened,—feelings which, perhaps ideal,Are so divine that I must deem them real:—The love of higher things and better days;   The unbounded hope and heavenly ignoranceOf what is called the world and the world’s ways;   The moments when we gather from a glanceMore joy than from all future pride or praise,   Which kindled manhood, but can ne’er entranceThe heart in an existence of its ownOf which another’s bosom is the zone.And full of sentiments sublime as billows   Heaving between this world and worlds beyond,Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows   Arrived, retired to his.’ . . .

In all these descriptions of a spiritual unworldly nature acting on the spiritual and unworldly part of his own nature, every one who ever knew Lady Byron intimately must have recognised the model from which he drew, and the experience from which he spoke, even though nothing was further from his mind than to pay this tribute to the woman he had injured, and though before these lines, which showed how truly he knew her real character, had come one stanza of ribald, vulgar caricature, designed as a slight to her:—

‘There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer’s sea,   That usual paragon, an only daughter,Who seemed the cream of equanimity   ‘Till skimmed; and then there was some milk and water;With a slight shade of blue, too, it might be,   Beneath the surface: but what did it matter?Love’s riotous; but marriage should have quiet,And, being consumptive, live on a milk diet.’

The result of Byron’s intimacy with Miss Milbanke and the enkindling of his nobler feelings was an offer of marriage, which she, though at the time deeply interested in him, declined with many expressions of friendship and interest.  In fact, she already loved him, but had that doubt of her power to be to him all that a wife should be, which would be likely to arise in a mind so sensitively constituted and so unworldly.  They, however, continued a correspondence as friends; on her part, the interest continually increased; on his, the transient rise of better feelings was choked and overgrown by the thorns of base unworthy passions.