LITMIR.BIZ

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standards as to good taste; Moore gives this as an amusing instance of a young lord's spirit.

      Accordingly, his first attack against this 'lady,' as we Americans should call her, consists in gross statements concerning her having been born poor and in an inferior rank. He begins by stating that she was

      'Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,

       Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;

       Next—for some gracious service unexpressed

       And from its wages only to be guessed—

       Raised from the toilet to the table, where

       Her wondering betters wait behind her chair.

       With eye unmoved and forehead unabashed.

       She dines from off the plate she lately washed;

       Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie,

       The genial confidante and general spy—

       Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess—

       An only infant's earliest governess! What had she made the pupil of her art None knows; but that high soul secured the heart, And panted for the truth it could not hear With longing soul and undeluded ear!'[4]

      The poet here recognises as a singular trait in Lady Byron her peculiar love of truth—a trait which must have struck everyone that had any knowledge of her through life. He goes on now to give what he certainly knew to be the real character of Lady Byron:—

      'Foiled was perversion by that youthful mind,

       Which flattery fooled not, baseness could not blind,

       Deceit infect not, nor contagion soil, Indulgence weaken, or example spoil, Nor mastered science tempt her to look down On humbler talent with a pitying frown, Nor genius swell, nor beauty render vain, Nor envy ruffle to retaliate pain.

      We are now informed that Mrs. Clermont, whom he afterwards says in his letters was a spy of Lady Byron's mother, set herself to make mischief between them. He says:—

      'If early habits—those strong links that bind

       At times the loftiest to the meanest mind,

       Have given her power too deeply to instil

       The angry essence of her deadly will;

       If like a snake she steal within your walls,

       Till the black slime betray her as she crawls;

       If like a viper to the heart she wind,

       And leaves the venom there she did not find—

       What marvel that this hag of hatred works

       Eternal evil latent as she lurks.'

      The noble lord then proceeds to abuse this woman of inferior rank in the language of the upper circles. He thus describes her person and manner:—

      'Skilled by a touch to deepen scandal's tints

       With all the kind mendacity of hints,

       While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers with smiles,

       A thread of candour with a web of wiles;

       A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming,

       To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming;

       A lip of lies; a face formed to conceal,

       And without feeling mock at all who feel;

       With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown—

       A cheek of parchment and an eye of stone.

       Mark how the channels of her yellow blood

       Ooze to her skin and stagnate there to mud,

       Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,

       Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale—

       (For drawn from reptiles only may we trace

       Congenial colours in that soul or face,)

       Look on her features! and behold her mind

       As in a mirror of itself defined:

       Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged

       There is no trait which might not be enlarged.'

      The poem thus ends:—

      'May the strong curse of crushed affections light

       Back on thy bosom with reflected blight,

       And make thee in thy leprosy of mind

       As loathsome to thyself as to mankind!

       Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate,

       Black—as thy will for others would create;

       Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,

       And thy soul welter in its hideous crust.

       O, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed,

       The widowed couch of fire, that thou hast spread

       Then when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer,

       Look on thy earthly victims—and despair!

       Down to the dust! and as thou rott'st away,

       Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.

       But for the love I bore and still must bear To her thy malice from all ties would tear, Thy name—thy human name—to every eye The climax of all scorn, should hang on high, Exalted o'er thy less abhorred compeers, And festering in the infamy of years.'

      March 16, 1816.

      Now, on the 29th of March 1816, this was Lord Byron's story. He states that his wife had a truthfulness even from early girlhood that the most artful and unscrupulous governess could not pollute—that she always panted for truth—that flattery could not fool nor baseness blind her—that though she was a genius and master of science, she was yet gentle and tolerant, and one whom no envy could ruffle to retaliate pain.

      In September of the same year she is a monster of unscrupulous deceit and vindictive cruelty. Now, what had happened in the five months between the dates of these poems to produce such a change of opinion? Simply this:—

      1st. The negotiation between him and his wife's lawyers had ended in his signing a deed of separation in preference to standing a suit for divorce.

      2nd. Madame de Staël, moved by his tears of anguish and professions of repentance, had offered to negotiate with Lady Byron on his behalf, and had failed.

      The failure of this application is the only apology given by Moore and Murray for this poem, which gentle Thomas Moore admits was not in quite as generous a strain as the 'Fare thee well'.

      But Lord Byron knew perfectly well, when he suffered that application to be made, that Lady Byron had been entirely convinced that her marriage relations with him could never be renewed, and that duty both to man and God required her to separate from him. The allowing the negotiation was, therefore, an artifice to place his wife before the public in the attitude of a hard-hearted, inflexible woman; her refusal was what he knew beforehand must inevitably be the result, and merely gave him capital in the sympathy of his friends, by which they should be brought to tolerate and accept the bitter accusations of this poem.

      We have recently heard it asserted that this last-named piece of poetry was the sudden offspring of a fit of ill-temper, and was never intended to be published at all. There were certainly excellent reasons why his friends should have advised him not to publish it at that time. But that it was read with sympathy by the circle of his intimate friends, and believed by them, is evident from the frequency with which allusions to it occur in his confidential letters to them.[5]

      About three months after, under date March 10, 1817, he writes to Moore: 'I suppose now I shall never be able to shake off my sables in public imagination, more particularly since my moral—— clove down my fame.'

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