Lady Byron Vindicated | Page 7

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 Stael, 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,