Chapter 89

"Pisa, March 6. 1822.

"The enclosed letter from Murray hath melted me; though I think it is against his own interest to wish that I should continue his connection. You may, therefore, send him the packet of _Werner,_ which will save you all further trouble. And pray, _can you_ forgive me for the bore and expense I have already put upon you? At least, _say_ so--for I feel ashamed of having given you so much for such nonsense.

"The fact is, I cannot _keep_ my _resentments,_ though violent enough in their onset. Besides, now that all the world are at Murray on my account, I neither can nor ought to leave him; unless, as I really thought, it were better for _him_ that I should.

"I have had no other news from England, except a letter from Barry Cornwall, the bard, and my old school-fellow. Though I have sickened you with letters lately, believe me

"Yours, &c.

"P.S. In your last letter you say, speaking of Shelley, that you would almost prefer the 'damning bigot' to the 'annihilating infidel.'[75] Shelley believes in immortality, however--but this by the way. Do you remember Frederick the Great's answer to the remonstrance of the villagers whose curate preached against the eternity of hell's torments? It was thus:--'If my faithful subjects of Schrausenhaussen prefer being eternally damned, let them.'

"Of the two, I should think the long sleep better than the agonised vigil. But men, miserable as they are, cling so to any thing like life, that they probably would prefer damnation to quiet. Besides, they think themselves so _important_ in the creation, that nothing less can satisfy their pride--the insects!"

[Footnote 75: It will be seen from the extract I shall give presently of the passage to which he refers, that he wholly mistook my meaning.]

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It is Dr. Clarke, I think, who gives, in his Travels, rather a striking account of a Tartar whom he once saw exercising a young, fiery horse, upon a spot of ground almost surrounded by a steep precipice, and describes the wantonness of courage with which the rider, as if delighting in his own peril, would, at times, dash, with loose rein, towards the giddy verge. Something of the same breathless apprehension with which the traveller viewed that scene, did the unchecked daring of Byron's genius inspire in all who watched its course,--causing them, at the same moment, to admire and tremble, and, in those more especially who loved him, awakening a sort of instinctive impulse to rush forward and save him from his own headlong strength. But, however natural it was in friends to give way to this feeling, a little reflection upon his now altered character might have forewarned them that such interference would prove as little useful to him as safe for themselves; and it is not without some surprise I look back upon my own temerity and presumption in supposing that, let loose as he was now, in the full pride and consciousness of strength, with the wide regions of thought outstretching before him, any representations that even friendship could make would have the power--or _ought_ to have--of checking him. As the motives, however, by which I was actuated in my remonstrances to him may be left to speak for themselves, I shall, without dwelling any further upon the subject, content myself with laying before the reader a few such extracts from my own letters at this period[76] as may serve to explain some allusions in those just given.

In writing to me under the date January 24th, it will be recollected that he says--"be assured that there is no such coalition as you apprehend." The following extracts from my previous communication to him will explain what this means:--"I heard some days ago that Leigh Hunt was on his way to you with all his family; and the idea seems to be, that you and Shelley and he are to conspire together in the Examiner. I cannot believe this,--and deprecate such a plan with all my might. Alone you may do any thing; but partnerships in fame, like those in trade, make the strongest party answerable for the deficiencies or delinquencies of the rest, and I tremble even for you with such a bankrupt >i>Co._--* * *. They are both clever fellows, and Shelley I look upon as a man of real genius; but I must again say, that you could not give your enemies (the * * *'s, 'et hoc genus omne') a greater triumph than by forming such an unequal and unholy alliance. You are, single-handed, a match for the world,--which is saying a good deal, the world being, like Briareus, a very many-handed gentleman,--but, to be so, you must stand alone. Recollect that the scurvy buildings about St. Peter's almost seem to overtop itself."

[Footnote 76: It should have been mentioned before, that to the courtesy of Lord Byron's executor, Mr. Hobhouse, who had the kindness to restore to me such letters of mine as came into his hands, I am indebted for the power of producing these and other extracts.]

The notices of Cain, in my letters to him, were, according to their respective dates, as follow:--

"September 30. 1821.

"Since writing the above, I have read Foscari and Cain. The former does not please me so highly as Sardanapalus. It has the fault of all those violent Venetian stories, being unnatural and improbable, and therefore, in spite of all your fine management of them, appealing but remotely to one's sympathies. But Cain is wonderful--terrible--never to be forgotten. If I am not mistaken, it will sink deep into the world's heart; and while many will shudder at its blasphemy, all must fall prostrate before its grandeur. Talk of Æschylus and his Prometheus!--here is the true spirit both of the Poet--and the Devil."

"February 9. 1822.

"Do not take it into your head, my dear B. that the tide is at all turning against you in England. Till I see some symptoms of people _forgetting_ you a little, I will not believe that you lose ground. As it is, 'te veniente die, te, decedente,'--nothing is hardly talked of but you; and though good people sometimes bless themselves when they mention you, it is plain that even _they_ think much more about you than, for the good of their souls, they ought. Cain, to be sure, _has_ made a sensation; and, grand as it is, I regret, for many reasons, you ever wrote it. * * For myself, I would not give up the _poetry_ of religion for all the wisest results that _philosophy_ will ever arrive at. Particular sects and creeds are fair game enough for those who are anxious enough about their neighbours to meddle with them; but our faith in the Future is a treasure not so lightly to be parted with; and the dream of immortality (if philosophers will have it a dream) is one that, let us hope, we shall carry into our last sleep with us."[77]

[Footnote 77: It is to this sentence Lord Byron refers at the conclusion of his letter, March 4.]

"February 19. 1822.

"I have written to the Longmans to try the ground, for I do _not_ think Galignani the man for you. The only thing he can do is what we can do, ourselves, without him,--and that is, employ an English bookseller. Paris, indeed, might be convenient for such refugee works as are set down in the _Index Expurgatorius_ of London; and if you have any political catamarans to explode, this is your place. But, _pray_, let them be only political ones. Boldness, and even licence, in politics, does good,--actual, present good; but, in religion, it profits neither here nor hereafter; and, for myself, such a horror have I of both extremes on this subject, that I know not _which_ I hate most, the bold, damning bigot, or the bold, annihilating infidel. 'Furiosa res est in tenebris impetus;'--and much as we are in the dark, even the wisest of us, upon these matters, a little modesty, in unbelief as well as belief, best becomes us. You will easily guess that, in all this, I am thinking not so much of you, as of a friend and, at present, companion of yours, whose influence over your mind (knowing you as I do, and knowing what Lady B. _ought_ to have found out, that you are a person the most tractable to those who live with you that, perhaps, ever existed) I own I dread and deprecate most earnestly."[78]

[Footnote 78: This passage having been shown by Lord Byron to Mr. Shelley, the latter wrote, in consequence, a letter to a gentleman with whom I was then in habits of intimacy, of which the following is an extract. The zeal and openness with which Shelley always professed his unbelief render any scruple that might otherwise be felt in giving publicity to such avowals unnecessary; besides which, the testimony of so near and clear an observer to the state of Lord Byron's mind upon religious subjects is of far too much importance to my object to be, from any over-fastidiousness, suppressed. We have here, too strikingly exemplified,--and in strong contrast, I must say, to the line taken by Mr. Hunt in similar circumstances,--the good breeding, gentle temper, and modesty for which Shelley was so remarkable, and of the latter of which Dualities in particular the undeserved compliment to myself affords a strong illustration, as showing how little this true poet had yet learned to know his own place.

"Lord Byron has read me one or two letters of Moore to him, in which Moore speaks with great kindness of me; and of course I cannot but feel flattered by the approbation of a man, my inferiority to whom I am proud to acknowledge. Amongst other things, however, Moore, after giving Lord B, much good advice about public opinion, &c. seems to deprecate my influence on his mind on the subject of religion, and to attribute the tone assumed in Cain to my suggestions. Moore cautions him against any influence on this particular with the most friendly zeal, and it is plain that his motive springs from a desire of benefiting Lord B. without degrading me. I think you know Moore. Pray assure him that I have not the smallest influence over Lord Byron in this particular; if I had, I certainly should employ it to eradicate from his great mind the delusions of Christianity, which, in spite of his reason, seem perpetually to recur, and to lay in ambush for the hours of sickness and distress. Cain was _conceived_ many years ago, and begun before I saw him last year at Ravenna. How happy should I not be to attribute to myself, however indirectly, any participation in that immortal work!"]

"March 16. 1822.

"With respect to our Religious Polemics, I must try to set you right upon one or two points. In the first place, I do _not_ identify you with the blasphemies of Cain no more than I do myself with the impieties of my Mokanna,--all I wish and implore is that you, who are such a powerful manufacturer of these thunderbolts, would not _choose_ subjects that make it necessary to launch them. In the next place, were you even a decided atheist, I could not (except, perhaps, for the _decision_ which is always unwise) blame you. I could only pity,--knowing from experience how dreary are the doubts with which even the bright, poetic view I am myself inclined to take of mankind and their destiny is now and then clouded. I look upon Cuvier's book to be a most desolating one in the conclusions to which it may lead some minds. But the young, the simple,--all those whose hearts one would like to keep unwithered, trouble their heads but little about Cuvier. _You_, however, have embodied him in poetry which every one reads; and, like the wind, blowing 'where you list,' carry this deadly chill, mixed up with your own fragrance, into hearts that should be visited only by the latter. This is what I regret, and what with all my influence I would deprecate a repetition of. _Now_, do you understand me?

"As to your solemn peroration, 'the truth is, my dear Moore, &c. &c.' meaning neither more nor less than that I give into the cant of the world, it only proves, alas! the melancholy fact, that you and I are hundreds of miles asunder. Could you hear me speak my opinions instead of coldly reading them, I flatter myself there is still enough of honesty and fun in this face to remind you that your friend Tom Moore--whatever else he may be,--is no Canter."

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