



Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Canada
Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net









[Illustration: A Day with Byron]

[Illustration]

  SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

  "She walks in beauty, like the night
       Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
   And all that's best of dark and bright
       Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
   Thus mellow'd to that tender light
       Which heaven to gaudy day denies."
                       (_Hebrew Melodies._)




A DAY WITH LORD BYRON


_by_


M.C.
GILLINGTON

LONDON
HODDER & STOUGHTON


_In the same Series._

  _Longfellow._
  _Tennyson._
  _Keats._
  _Browning._
  _Wordsworth._
  _Burns._
  _Scott._
  _Shelley._




A DAY WITH BYRON.


One February afternoon in the year 1822, about two o'clock,--for this
is the hour at which his day begins,--"the most notorious personality
of his century" arouses himself, in the Palazzo Lanfranchi at Pisa.
George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron, languidly arises and dresses, with the
assistance of his devoted valet Fletcher. Invariably he awakes in very
low spirits, "in actual despair and despondency," he has termed it: this
is in part constitutional, and partly, no doubt, a reaction after the
feverish brain-work of the previous night. It is, at any rate, in
unutterable melancholy and _ennui_ that he surveys in the mirror that
slight and graceful form, which had been idolised by London drawing-rooms,
and that pale, scornful, beautiful face, "like a spirit, good or evil,"
which the enthusiastic Walter Scott has termed a thing to dream of. He
notes the grey streaks already visible among his dark brown locks, and
mutters his own lines miserably to himself,--

  Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty,
  I have dragg'd to three-and-thirty.
  What have these years left to me?
    Nothing--except thirty-three.

An innumerable motley crowd of reminiscences--most of them bitter,
sorrowful, or contemptuous, throng across his mind, shaping themselves
into poignant verse:

  There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,
  When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
  'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,
  But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh! could I feel as I have felt,--or be what I have been,
  Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanished scene;
  As springs in desert found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
  So,'midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

A meagre breakfast,--of claret and soda with a few mouthfuls of some
Italian dish,--somewhat restores his natural vivacity: and he listens
with cynical amusement to Fletcher's blood-curdling stories of the
phantoms who have made night hideous. For the famous old feudal Palazzo,
with its dungeons and secret chambers, has been immemorially infested
with ghosts, and harassed by inexplicable noises. Fletcher has already
begged leave to change his room, and then refused to occupy his new
room, because, as his master reports, "there are more ghosts there than
in the other!... There is one place where people were evidently walled
up... I am bothered about these spectres, as they say the last occupants
were too." However, he is laughing as he descends the magnificent
staircase,--the reputed work of Michael Angelo,--laughing until the
shrill querulous cries of peevish children make him stop and frown. He
has allowed the Leigh Hunts, with their large and fractious family, to
occupy for the present the ground-floor of the Palazzo; and children
are his pet abhorrence. "I abominate the sight of them so much," he has
already told Moore, "that I have always had the greatest respect for
the character of Herod!" No child figures in any of his poems: his own
paternal feeling towards "Ada, sole daughter of my house and home," is
merely a fluctuating sentiment.

He shrugs his shoulders and enters his great _salon_, again moody and
with a downcast air: and throws himself upon a couch in gloomy reverie.
Snatches of poetry wander through his thoughts--poetry intrinsically
autobiographical, for "the inequalities of his style are those of his
career," and his imaginary heroes are endless reproductions of himself,
"the wandering outlaw of his own dark mind." He has drawn his own
picture more effectively in _Lara_ than any strange hand could do.

  In him, inexplicably mix'd, appear'd
  Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd;
  Opinion, varying o'er his hidden lot,
  In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot....

  There was in him a vital scorn of all:
  As if the worst had fall'n which could befall;
  He stood a stranger in this breathing world,
  An erring spirit from another hurl'd....

  His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth,
  And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth.

His men, in short, as has been observed, are "made after his own image,
and his women after his own heart." Yet the inveterate family likeness
of these heroes is not shared by the heroines of his romantic stanzas:
for Byron has an eclectic taste in beauty. One can hardly imagine a
wider dissimilarity than between the _Bride of Abydos_, the gentle
Zuleika, with