< Previous | Contents | Next >
CHAPTER 7.
RESIDENCE AT NEWSTEAD.
1808 and 1809.
In September, 1808, Byron went to live at Newstead. The lease of Lord Grey de Ruthyn, to whom it had been let, expired, and this enabled him to take up residence there. His mother, no doubt, expected to be invited to keep house for him, but he wrote: “Dear Madam, I have no beds for the Hansons or anybody else at present. I shall live in my own manner, and as much alone as possible. You can hardly object to my rendering my mansion habitable.”
He was shocked to find Newstead in a terrible state of filth and dilapidation; none the less he felt the thrill of living in the glorious home of his ancestors. He furnished a bedroom for himself, from the window of which he looked out upon the lake and the hills beyond— adjoining his room was a haunted chamber wherein from time to time a black-hooded monk appeared. A winding staircase led down to another room which he used as a study. Apart from these rooms, and a few others which he prepared for friends, the rest of the place was left in its desolation. To carry out an extensive work of repair was at this time out of the question. Funds would not allow it. He was quite content to lead the “simple life.” He loved to lie in a boat on the lake and read, with his dog, Boatswain, his only companion.
Some of the neighbouring gentry called upon him, but their calls were not returned. He had no desire for society. His satisfaction was found in reading and writing poetry. It was at that time that he was preparing his slashing onslaught on his enemies. English Bards and Scotch Reviewers was nearing completion.
All the time he must have been painfully aware of the fact that the one whom he had loved, and loved still, was but three miles distance from him. Were the old wounds being opened again? Had they ever been closed?
An invitation to dine at Annesley Hall came to him. What was he to do? Could he refuse it? Dare he accept it? Would he have enough courage to face the ordeal of seeing his Mary again—now Mrs. Chaworth Musters? Yes—he would go—he would brace himself up, and prove himself valiant. He went, and how did he fare? He tells us himself: “I forgot my valour and my nonchalance, and never opened my lips even to laugh, far less to speak; the lady was almost as absurd as myself, which made us the object of more observation than if we had conducted ourselves with easy indifference.”
The child—a little girl of two years old—was introduced to him. Who was she like? Undoubtedly she had the features of her father. Alas! for him that this should be so—but her eyes—yes—they were the same eyes into which he had so often gazed on Diadem Hill. The child had her mother’s eyes. Byron said not a word, and Mary was silent.
He went back to Newstead. What was he to do? Could he remain in the vicinity of Annesley—in close proximity to the woman he loved? The position was painful, but it would soon become intolerable. He must go. He must leave his beloved Newstead.
What did Mary Chaworth think about it? Did she try and persaude him to stay? She certainly asked him why he wanted to go. He replied to her in verse:
In the month of November his dog, Boatswain, died in a fit of madness. Byron was overwhelmed with grief and prepared a tomb near the site, if not exactly on it, of the high altar of the old monastic Church. The epitaph which he composed for his dead favourite, has, been read by a countless number of visitors to Newstead:
Near this spot
Are deposited the remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity
Strength without Insolence
Courage without Ferocity
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the memory of
BOATSWAIN, a Dog,
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
And died at Newstead Abbey, November 18, 1808.
This epitaph is followed by some lines of poetry, which are characteristically Byronic. Old Joe Murray, the man servant, was offered the honour of being buried at his death in this remarkable sepulchre. He accepted the honour conditionally upon his Lordship giving an undertaking that he would be buried there too! “I should not like,” he said, “to lie alone with the dog.”
On January 22, 1809, Byron came of age. There were local celebrations on his birthday, but not on an extravagant scale, as funds were limited. An ox was roasted for the tenants and dependents, and a dance was arranged at night, but Byron himself did not take part in the celebrations; he left for London three days before, taking with him the manuscript of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.
Two months later, he took his seat in the House of Lords. There were only a few peers present when Byron entered. Lord Eldon was the Lord Chancellor, and Byron, passing in front of the Woolsack, went forward to take the oath. When the ceremony was over, he gave offence to the Lord Chancellor by receiving his greeting coldly. He excused himself to his friend Dallas afterwards by saying: “If I had shaken hands heartily, he would have set me down for one of his own party, but I’ll have nothing to do with any of them on either side. I have taken my seat, and now I will go abroad.”
His plans for his first pilgrimage were maturing. Hobhouse, his friend, had promised to go with him. He had more or less made up his mind to go to the East, but it- did not matter very much whither he went, as long as he could leave Annesley behind. The chief difficulty in the way of going abroad was the financial one. His debts were already very considerable, and Hanson, his lawyer, refused to find the money to meet the expenses of his pilgrimage.
Eventually the difficulty was solved with the help of his friend, Scrope Davies, who advanced him the sum necessary for his travels.
Before leaving England, he entertained some of his Cambridge friends at Newstead, among whom were Hobhouse, who was to accompany him, Matthews, and Scrope Davies. We are told that they found amusement in dressing up as monks, and indulging in all kinds of revels, but most of their time was spent in riding, boxing, fencing, boating, and swimming in the lake. After their evening meal, the celebrated drinking cup, made out of a skull which had been dug up in the grounds, and which Byron had had mounted as a cup by a Nottingham jeweller, was handed round, brimming with claret. The skull cup was inscribed with two verses of his own composition.
This cup was buried by the late Mr. and Mrs. Webb. They buried it together, and never divulged the spot except to the members of the family. The author of this book, however, knows where it is buried, having been entrusted with the secret by Mrs. Fraser shortly before her death.
Nanny Smith, the old house-keeper of Newstead, was visited ten years after the Poet’s death by Washington Irving, the American writer. She contradicted the stories, of the licentious life which it was commonly reported he had led at the Abbey. “A great part of his time,” she said, “used to be passed lying on a sofa reading. Sometimes he had young gentlemen of his acquaintance with him, and they played some mad pranks, but nothing but what young gentlemen may do, and no harm was done.”
Before leaving England, he wrote to his half-sister, Augusta, who was then Mrs. Leigh, to congratulate her on the birth of a daughter. “I return,” he wrote, “my best thanks for making me an uncle, and forgive the sex this time; but the next must be a nephew.” He adds, rather pathetically; “I think I had naturally not a bad heart; but it has been so bent, twisted, and trampled upon, that it has now become as hard as a Highlander’s heelpiece.”
There can be little doubt who was in his mind when he wrote this. And now he was going away. Whither? He could not have answered this question himself. But why?
And on June 26, 1809, he and his friend Hobhouse set sail for Lisbon on Captain Kidd’s packet from Falmouth.