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CHAPTER 10.
UPS AND DOWNS.
1812—1814.
Byron arrived in London in the middle of January, 1812, and took up his quarters again in St. James’ Street. Here, perhaps, away from Newstead, he might find some relief in work and pleasure. He had several things in the press—these would keep him busy in the day-time—and at night theatres and entertainments would provide welcome diversion.
Two months before his coming to London an exchange of letters with Tom Moore, the Irish poet, brought about a reconciliation. Relations between them had been strained since the publication of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. They arranged to meet at the house of Samuel Rogers, another poet, and after this meeting they became fast friends.
On February 27, 1812, he made his first speech in the House of Lords. The occasion was the second reading of the Nottingham Frame-breakers Bill. The introduction of machinery into the factories was the cause of serious rioting on the part of the weavers, who thought that their means of livelihood was in danger. Considerable damage was done to the newly-installed machines by the rioters, and the Bill had been introduced for the purpose of quelling the riots by making destruction of machines a capital offence.
Byron, during his stay at Newstead, had been brought into close touch with the unfortunate weavers. He sympathised with them and shared their resentment at the rough treatment they had received at the hands of the local Militia under Mr. Jack Musters, who had stolen his Mary from him.
He prepared his speech against the Bill carefully, and delivered it vigorously. Congratulations were poured upon him by Lord Holland and other representatives of the Whig party, and his friends proclaimed his speech to be a triumph.
This triumph was shortly to be followed by another, a far greater one, in the publication of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. In the literary world there never had been a more rapid rise to fame. “I awoke one morning,” he said, “and found myself famous.” His name was on every lip. He and his poem became the one topic of conversation. London society threw its doors open to this new and brilliant star. Invitations to the gorgeous assemblies in the West End were showered upon him. Numbers of famous ladies begged for introductions, and the leading society ladies, identifying the author with the romantic hero of his wonderful poem, were fascinated by his arresting appearance. He was strikingly handsome—his features were well-defined, his blue-grey eyes full of emotion—his mouth determined but sensitive. Moreover, that strange power which he possessed of being at one moment delightfully familiar, at another coldly reserved, added to his attractiveness. He set himself the task of finding out where his power lay, and made the discovery that it was in people’s identification of the heroes of his poems, all of one type, with his own romantic self. Of course, he would not admit the identity—he emphatically repudiated it—but it was evident that in drawing-room and ballroom he was acting the part of his heroes. His life was a pose, and he found considerable fascination in making it so.
He was only twenty-four years of age. Little wonder that his sudden rise to the top-most pinnacle of fame in the literary world turned his head. He, who previously had but a slender hold on the rudder of his life, now relaxed it altogether, and allowed himself to be driven along by all the evil currents to which his popularity exposed him.
It is a very sad story, but he snatched at the opportunity of escaping from the haunting memories of his early romance. In all the interest and excitement of his new experience he was able for the most part to keep his thoughts on the surface of his life, but in moments of solitude—and perhaps of shame—his thoughts must often have been forced back upon the tragedy of his life. These thoughts goaded him on to recklessness. But what did it matter? Mary could have no interest in his life now. It would be no act of disloyalty to her if he played with those society butterflies which were disporting themselves around him. They would no doubt prove themselves entertaining, but as for trusting them—never again would he put his faith in woman. If he was reckless, he was cautious —a wounded spirit is always cautious. He had learnt his lesson—all tenderness had gone out of his life. His heart was hard and adamant. Women were amusing, their charms were captivating. They might make their appeal to his passions, but never again to his heart.
The first of the society ladies to pass in and out of his life was Lady Caroline Lamb. She was an only child —the daughter of the Earl of Bessborough. She was only nineteen when she was married in 1805 to William Lamb, the son of Lord Melbourne. Caroline was not by any means beautiful, but she had a wonderful charm of manner. She lived with her mother-in-law, Lady Melbourne, at Melbourne House, where Byron was a frequent visitor. It was here their intimacy developed. Caroline’s infatuation led her to show her affection in the most extravagant ways. She even offered him her jewels if he were in need of money. They were guilty of the most flagrant indiscretions, which scandalized the circle in which they moved.
Byron never took her seriously, and very soon began to resent the persistent way in which she followed him about, and thrust herself upon him. If he allowed a day to pass without visiting her, she would dress herself up as a page, and obtain admission to his apartments, and should he attend a social function to which she was not invited, she would wait for him in the street. Her extravagant adoration annoyed him beyond measure.
Lady Bessborough, her mother, at last intervened, and with the help of Lady Melbourne, prevailed upon Caroline to leave London, and accompany her to Ireland. Caroline contrived to keep in touch with Byron, but her letters were unanswered.
There were other society ladies who passed in and out of his life at this time. One was Lady Oxford, who had married Edward Harley, Earl of Oxford, and who lived at Heywood, in Herefordshire. Another was Lady Frances Webster, whose husband he had met at Cambridge, and again later during his pilgrimage in Greece.
These and others were just playthings. They were good company, very entertaining, and their adoration flattered his pride. But he was a fugitive, fleeing from the painful memories of early years, and here in idle dalliance he sought relief.
It was at this time that his friendship with his half- sister Augusta developed. He had not seen her since he returned from his pilgrimage. Augusta lived at Six Mile Bottom in a house in close proximity to Newmarket racecourse. In her home life she was far from happy. Her husband, Colonel Leigh, found his chief interest in racing, and betting. He was always in money difficulties, and in consequence Augusta had the anxiety of having to meet the household expenses out of an all too inadequate allowance. She had three children, and these added to her burden of anxiety as they were almost always ailing. Moreover, her husband was absent from home the greater part of the year, and left her to face her difficulties alone. She showed considerable courage and patience, but at last she felt compelled to leave home on account of her husband’s money troubles, and wrote to her half-brother saying that she was coming to stay with him in London.
She arrived in London on June 27, 1813, and Byron gave her a warm welcome in his rooms in Bennet Street. They soon became close companions. Augusta had found someone at last to whom she could speak quite freely of her home troubles, and she offered to him that kindly understanding and sympathy to which those of Byron’s temperament so readily respond.
She remained in London until the end of July, and then she took him with her to Six Mile Bottom. However, the financial situation there made it impossible for them to stay, and they returned to London.
In the Spring, Byron had published The Giaour— his first publication since that of Childe Harold. His friendship with Augusta inspired him in the autumn to add five hundred lines to it.
If we are right in reading Augusta into the last part of this poem, these and other lines show how great an affection Byron had for her.
By the end of the year another poem, The Corsair, was nearing completion. His manuscript was ready for the publishers by the middle of January, 1814, and this enabled him to plan a visit to Newstead with Augusta. Did he intend to introduce Augusta to Mary Chaworth? There is no doubt that he did, but he hesitated. Only a short time before he had received a letter from her:
He knew what it meant. She was unhappy. She wanted him. Oh! if she had only wanted him before! It was too late now. What could he do if he went? She offered him friendship—would that suffice? He knew that if he saw again one of those far-off smiles of hers, the passion of his love, which he had been trying to repress, would burst into a flame once more. He resisted the temptation. Augusta was with him, and, since the one he loved best in the world had passed out of his life, Newstead with her left nothing to be desired.
At the end of January Augusta returned to her home, and Byron to London. Scandalous tongues were already at work, and Byron found himself assailed from all quarters. The tide of his popularity had turned, and he had come to be regarded as a dangerous influence in politics, religion and morals. The scandal, which his friendship with Augusta had aroused, he fostered, and his desire to make himself out more desperately wicked than he really was, led to his writing and saying the most incriminating things about himself. The publication of The Corsair roused a storm of criticism, and a most violent newspaper attack was made on his politics, his character and his poems, but they increased the popularity of his book, and led to it having an enormous sale. It was read by everybody, and at the very time when he was being scandalized most violently for his relations with Augusta, The Corsair raised him once more to the heights of literary fame.
Was there ground for this scandal which was raging? One who has examined all the evidence, both for and against, writes: “By the rule of an English Court, it is very doubtful whether the most skilful pleading could secure a conviction against Byron in the fact of his own evidence, and the damaging exposure of inconsistency to which that of the prosecution, with all its strength, would be subjected. There would be a rather better than even chance in his favour. While, in Scotland, he would certainly at least get a verdict of ‘not proven.’ To make a personal confession, I may say that, having examined every word of the available evidence as impartially as I could, I would not, as a jury, give a verdict against him.”
The spirit of recklessness was responsible for a great deal in his life and behaviour which we deplore, but there were times when his moral instinct asserted itself, and a desire for better things was in evidence.