No. LXXXV.]

THERE is not, we feel assured, a single reader of the MIRROR who does not participate in that feeling of regret, which the death of LORD BYRON has occasioned. Born to rank and affluence, and possessing a genius of the highest order, his Lordship was, by domestic circumstances, driven from his home and family, and has died an alien to the country his talents have so much adorned: for, much as the world may differ as to the motive or tendency of some of his recent works, no person can deny that he was the first poet of his age; and his death, at an early age, and in a distant land, would of itself disarm every ingenuous mind, had he not perished in the most sacred of all causes, that of assisting a brave and oppressed people to shake off the yoke, and to rescue a christian people from the dominion of the infidel Turks.

It has been remarked by the sages of ancient and modern times, that the possession of extraordinary mental endowments, or suddenly and fortuitously acquired honours, are seldom conducive to happiness. Whether this may arise from the high-toned and heart-swelling anticipations which genius usually generates, and experience almost as frequently disappoints; or whether, as some eloquent misanthropists have imagined, there is greater misery than felicity in the lot of human life, and the more an individual is exalted above his fellows, the more his calamities are conspicuous, it remains for time and philosophy to determine. Burns has well observed, that although

"A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure's lap carest;
Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest."

And certain it is, that much the greater part of the memoirs of men of genius, and other distinguished characters, presents but too many melancholy proofs that neither the meretricious glittering of popular honours, nor the more esteemed and exalted splendour of intellectual greatness, are calculated to produce to their possessors an unusual portion of human happiness. Perhaps another cause of this lamentable truth may be found in that peculiar pride of soul, which, in the hour of mental or corporeal anguish, scornfully rejects either sympathy or assistance, and rather loves sullenly to brood over its real Ꮓ

VOL. III.

[PRICE 2d.

or imaginary woes in the savage silence of the desert, than to accept the consolatory support which the philanthropy of society generally ready to administer. Such was the disposition of the poet who exclaimed,

66

'O, say 'tis madness, call it folly,

You shall not chase my gloom away;
There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not if I could be gay.'

It is, however, very difficult to account for a feeling of this sort, though of its reality there can be no doubt; and we know, from the amazing intensity of feeling which is observable in some of our early inspired poets, from their invocations of the elements of nature to hear and record their sufferings, from that wild and irresistible haughtiness of spirit which frequently works itself into an awful and horrible sublimity, and from that consequent deep and deadly scepticism which casts its ghastly gloominess over the natural and beautiful pictures of the imagination, that the majority of mankind has no reason to complain because providence has not endowed them with those wonderful intellectual powers.

Few individuals, either of a former or the present age, appear more strongly to illustrate these melancholy truths than Lord Byron, who, though born to fortune and to fame, and possessing talents the most brilliant, was subject to a gloominess of thought, and an intenseness of feeling, which imbittered many an hour in his otherwise cheerful life.

The annals of literature do not furnish a similar instance of extensive literary fame as that of Lord Byron; but, the nearest to it is the history of Pope (whom the noble Lord has so ably vindicated from the attacks of less liberal and less able critics.) Pope was, however, more studiously correct in his compositions, and remarkably musical in the construction of his verse. Byron, on the contrary, was of no pains to polish; and yet his rough and native gems are of the first water, and may often rank with the most matured productions of our best poets.

The distinguishing feature of Lord Byron's poetry is eloquence, and that of the most vehement character. His verse rushes on with the rapidity of a cataract, carrying our ideas impetuously along in such a manner as to prevent any thing

337

like repose or steady contemplation. Yet, amidst the wild variety of objects and obscure disquisitions which this magical genius contrives to bring together, without any regard to appropriate selection or lucid arrangement, there are descriptions and sentiments of exquisite beauty and tenderness, profusely scattered throughout his poems, all of which show that he was (how painfully, for the first time, we speak of him in the past tense) a perfect master of the art. His character produced his poems, and it cannot be doubted that his poems are adapted to produce such a character. His heroes speak a language supplied not more by imagination than consciousness. They are not those machines, which, by a contrivance of the artist, send forth a music of their own; but, instruments through which he breathed his very soul in tones of agonized sensibility, that cannot but give a sympa thetic impulse to those who attend to them. The desolate misanthropy of his mind, rose and threw its dark shade over his poetry like one of his own ruined castles; we feel it to be sublime, and are sometimes lost in admiration unawares.

We have already alluded to the connection between the personal character of Lord Byron and his Poems; and the perusal of his works sufficiently demonstrates the influence of his life over his talents. At every page we recognise the fact in his hero-Lara, Childe Harold, Manfred, and, with some qualification, we might add Don Juan, are all Byron he lives and breathes in every page.

Lord Byron, like his favourite Pope, has been accused of the grossest plagiarism; and some scribblers, envious of his reputation, have been at the pains of collecting numerous passages from various authors, in prose and verse, to discover parellelisms in the writings of this popular poet. One or two of our literary journals were disgraced with these invidious catalogues, the compilers of which might be compared to the critic in Boccalini's fable, who having presented to Apollo an immense volume of the errors of great poets, was directed in return to select the grains from a bushel of wheat, after which he received the chaff for his labour. "It deserves to be known," says the author of "Memoirs of Lord Byron" (who will not be suspected of any partiality)," that the principal person engaged in this attack upon Lord Byron, was one who had servilely courted his favour, and flattered him in the most fulsome manner; but not meeting with the countenance he expected, he became, as is usually the case, the vengeful calumniator of the man whom

he had idolized.

George Gordon, Lord Byron, had not only his own talents, but the pride of illustrious ancestry to boast; for even so early as the conquest his family was distinguished, not merely for their extensive manors in Lancashire and other parts, but for their prowess in arms. When Edward I. was preparing an expedition against the Scots, John de Byron, the representative of the family, was summoned to attend him with his forces, and was afterwards called upon by the same monarch to accompany him in an expedition abroad.

In the feudal ages, the Byrons were always ready with their swords in defence of the sovereign, and seemed proudly to say to the monarch of the time, in the language of their family motto, "Crede Byron.' Two of the Byrons fell at the battle of Cressy, purchasing with their own lives a glorious triumph. Another member of the family, Sir John de Byron, rendered good assistance in the battle of Bosworth to the Earl of Richmond, and contributed by his prowess to transfer the crown from the head of Richard III. to that of Henry. This Sir John de Byron was a man of honour as well as a brave warrior; he was very intimate with his neighbour, Sir Gervase Clifton; and although Byron fought under Henry, and Clifton under Richard, it did not diminish the friendship, but on the contrary, put it to a severer test. Previous to the battle, the prize of which was a kingdom, they had promised each other that "if either of them was vanquished, the other should intercede with the conquefor, that the estate of the loser might not be forfeited, but enjoyed by the family." While Clifton was bravely fighting at the head of his troop, he was struck off his horse, which Byron perceiving, he quitted the ranks, and ran to the relief of his friend, whom he shielded; but it was too late, for he died in his arms, on the field of battle. Sir John de Byron was as good as his word; he interceded with the king, the estate was preserved to the Clifton family, and is now in the possession of a descendant of the gallant Sir Gervase.

In the wars between Charles I. and his Parliament, the Byrons adhered to the royal cause. Sir Nicholas Byron, the eldest member and representative of the family, was an eminent loyalist, who having distinguished himself in the wars of the Low Countries, was appointed governor of Chester, in 1642. Lord Clarendon says he was "a soldier of very good command, who, being a person of great affability and dexterity, as well as martial knowledge, gave great life to the designs of the well-affected there; and

honest endeavours of the said Richard, Lord Byron, that he re-purchased part of their ancient inheritance, which he left to his posterity, with a laudable memory for great piety and charity." This second Lord Byron was succeeded by his eldest son, William, who married Elizabeth, the daughter of John Viscount Chaworth, of the kingdom of Ireland, by whom he had five sons, all of whom died young, except William, whose eldest son, William, succeeded him to the title in the year, 1736.

A melancholy and unfortunate event, in which this nobleman was too fatally concerned, and which is already but too well known, induced him strictly to seclude himself from public notice; so that, beyond the boundaries of his domestic circle, his title, his estate, nay, even his existence, seemed to be entirely swallowed in the deep waves of black oblivion. The remembrance of this sorrowful circumstance is supposed to have had considerable influence at times on the mind of his late Lordship, and that it has cast its bleak shade, not only over many passages in his poems, but has tinged with its melancholy hue many of the scenes in which his moody and misanthropic imagination has been the chief actor. On the maternal side, the ancestry of Lord Byron is also very ancient and illustrious; his mother, from whom he derived the name of Gordon, having been the last branch of that noble family which descended from the union of the Princess Jane Stuart, daughter of James II. king of Scotland, with the Earl of Huntly.

The last Lord Byron, but one, had only one son, who held a commission in the army, and was killed in Corsica several years before the death of his father, which added not a little to the gloominess of the noble recluse, and accelerated the succession of his present Lordship, as the infant grandson of the celebrated Admiral Byron, who was the eldest brother of the late Lord. This nobleman died on the 19th of May, 1791, by which means our hero became entitled to the title and estates of his illustrious ancestry. His Lordship's father married first the Baroness Conyers, daughter of Lord Holderness, by whom he had a daughter; and after her demise the lady already alluded to, Miss Gordon, of Gight, the mother of the noble Lord.

His Lordship spent a considerable portion of his early life in Scotland, where it is supposed the wild and mountainous scenes which surrounded him, contributed not a little to elicit and strengthen the mighty energies of his mind, and to imprint on his vivid imagination those powerful and beautiful images of natural grandeur and wildness which are so observable in

the whole of his writings. At times, his Lordship would exclude himself from his ordinary companions, and wander alone amidst the majestic and sublime scenery of the highlands, until his soul seemed tinged with those elements of real sublimity, and drank a species of inspiration from the mists of the mountains, the wild waves of the ocean, and the black adamant of its terrific boundaries.

The celebrated school at Harrow, and the University of Cambridge, had the honour of adding the polish of education to the innate powers of his mind, and several of his academic companions can relate not a few instances of the precocious talents and strange eccentricities, which even then characterised his Lordship. At this early period of his life he made many voluntary excursions to the Aonian Hill, and drank pretty largely of the Castalian stream, which, the work he published under the title of Hours of Idleness, a Series of Poems, original and translated, sufficiently proves; yet, premature as these poetic attempts might be considered, and notwithstanding the severity with which the great "Northern Luminary,” the Editor of the Edinburgh Review, thought proper to handle them, there are numerous original beauties in many of the pieces, which those, whom a continuance of carping criticism has not blinded to the early glimmerings of genius, would denominate the probable harbingers of the splendid galaxy that succeeded them.

These poems were published at Newark in 1807, when his Lordship was nineteen years of age; and from the dates prefixed, it appears that the majority were written between his sixteenth and eighteenth year. This circumstance the reviewers thought proper to comment upon in very harsh and unbecoming language. They commence their critique by saying," The poesy of this young Lord belongs to that class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We have it in the title-page, and on the very back of the volume; it follows his name like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is laid upon it in the preface, and the poems are connected with this general statement of his case, by particular dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. Now, the law upon the point of minority, we hold

to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the defendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put into court a certain quantity of poetry; and if judgment were given against him, it is highly probable that an exception would be taken, were he to deliver for poetry, the contents of this volume. To this he might plead minority; but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on the point, and we dare say so will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth, is rather with a view to increase our wonder than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, See how a minor can write! This poem was actually composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one only of sixteen!'-But, alas, we all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve! and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving school to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this to be the most common of all occurrences; that it happens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated in England; and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron."

How far this spirit of prophetic criticism has been verified, the public are already pretty well acquainted; and were it not for the influence which it had upon his Lordship's future conduct, and to display the sudden transition from severity to adulation, from gall to honey, on the part of his unmerciful castigators, we should not have distended our pages with these extracts.

This critique elicited from his Lordship's pen one of the bitterest and most powerful satires ever published; a satire in which his Lordship attacks the Reviewers and the Review in general terms, as will be seen by the following extracts :—

"To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,

Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste;
To these when authors bend in humble awe,

And hail their voice as truth, their word as Law;
While these are Censors, 'twould be sin to spare;
While such are Critics, why should I forbear?
But yet so near all modern worthies run,
'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun;
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,
Our Bards and Censors are so much alike.

"Yet say! why should the Bard at once resign
His claim to favour from the sacred Nine?
For ever startled by the mingled howl
Of Northern wolves that still in darkness prowl:

A coward brood which mangle as they prey,

By hellish instinct, all that cross their way: Aged or young, the living or the dead, No mercy find,---these harpies must be fed, Why do the injured, unresisting yield Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, The calm possession of their native field? Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's seat?" neral attacks, his Lordship personally saNot content, however, with these getirized some of the most popular poets of the day.

sions on several of these writers are emiAs the poetic animadverand severity of point, no apology is nenently conspicuous for felicity of language, cessary for making a few quotations from

the best of them :

SOUTHEY.

Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way; "But if, in spite of all the world can say,

If still in Berkeley Ballads most uncivil,
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue:
'God help thee,' Southey, and thy readers too."
WORDSWORTH.

"Thus when he tells the tale of Betty Foy,
The idiot mother of an idiot Boy ;'
A moon-struck silly lad who lost his way,
And, like his bard, confounded night with day,
So close on each pathetic part he dwells,
And each adventure so sublimely tells,
That all who view the idiot in his glory,'
Conceive the Bard the hero of the story."

COLERIDGE.

"If inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a Pixy for a Muse, The Bard who soars to elegize an ass. Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass How well the subject suits his noble mind. 'A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind!'»

His Lordship's pen, however, was not entirely dipped in gall; on the contrary, there are many very beautiful lines eulogizing the productions of Messrs. Gifford, Kirke White, Sotheby, Macneil, Crabbe, Shee, Rogers, and Campbell.

Lord Byron declares towards the termination of the poem, that it was his intention to close, from that period, his newly-formed connexion with the Muses, and that should he return in safety from the "Minarets" of Constantinople, the "Maidens of Georgia,' " and the "sublime snows 99 of Mount Caucasus, nothing on earth should tempt him to resume the pen.

Happily for the republic of letters this resolution was not preserved; and the noble Bard, with that generosity which usually accompanies true genius, has not only forgiven Mr. Jeffrey, the Editor of the Edinburgh Review, but thus flatteringly alludes to him in one of his poems:"And all our little feuds, at least, all mine, Dear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe, (As far as rhyme and criticism combine

To make such puppets of us things below,) Are over; here's a health 'to Auld Lang Syne. I do not know you, and may never know Your face--but you have acted on the whole Most nobly, and I own it from my soul.