Life of Lord Byron, With His Letters And Journals, Vol. 5 | Page 4

much for 'the general voice of his countrymen:' I will now speak of
some in particular.
"In the beginning of the year 1817, an article appeared in the Quarterly
Review, written, I believe, by Walter Scott, doing great honour to him,
and no disgrace to me, though both poetically and personally more than
sufficiently favourable to the work and the author of whom it treated. It
was written at a time when a selfish man would not, and a timid one
dared not, have said a word in favour of either; it was written by one to
whom temporary public opinion had elevated me to the rank of a
rival--a proud distinction, and unmerited; but which has not prevented
me from feeling as a friend, nor him from more than corresponding to
that sentiment. The article in question was written upon the third Canto
of Childe Harold, and after many observations, which it would as ill
become me to repeat as to forget, concluded with 'a hope that I might
yet return to England.' How this expression was received in England
itself I am not acquainted, but it gave great offence at Rome to the
respectable ten or twenty thousand English travellers then and there
assembled. I did not visit Rome till some time after, so that I had no
opportunity of knowing the fact; but I was informed, long afterwards,
that the greatest indignation had been manifested in the enlightened

Anglo-circle of that year, which happened to comprise within it--amidst
a considerable leaven of Welbeck Street and Devonshire Place, broken
loose upon their travels--several really well-born and well-bred families,
who did not the less participate in the feeling of the hour. 'Why should
he return to England?' was the general exclamation--I answer _why_? It
is a question I have occasionally asked myself, and I never yet could
give it a satisfactory reply. I had then no thoughts of returning, and if I
have any now, they are of business, and not of pleasure. Amidst the ties
that have been dashed to pieces, there are links yet entire, though the
chain itself be broken. There are duties, and connections, which may
one day require my presence--and I am a father. I have still some
friends whom I wish to meet again, and, it may be, an enemy. These
things, and those minuter details of business, which time accumulates
during absence, in every man's affairs and property, may, and probably
will, recall me to England; but I shall return with the same feelings with
which I left it, in respect to itself, though altered with regard to
individuals, as I have been more or less informed of their conduct since
my departure; for it was only a considerable time after it that I was
made acquainted with the real facts and full extent of some of their
proceedings and language. My friends, like other friends, from
conciliatory motives, withheld from me much that they could, and
some things which they should have unfolded; however, that which is
deferred is not lost--but it has been no fault of mine that it has been
deferred at all.
"I have alluded to what is said to have passed at Rome merely to show
that the sentiment which I have described was not confined to the
English in England, and as forming part of my answer to the reproach
cast upon what has been called my 'selfish exile,' and my 'voluntary
exile.' 'Voluntary' it has been; for who would dwell among a people
entertaining strong hostility against him? How far it has been 'selfish'
has been already explained."
[Footnote 2: While these sheets are passing through the press, a printed
statement has been transmitted to me by Lady Noel Byron, which the
reader will find inserted in the Appendix to this volume. (First
Edition.)]

* * * * *
The following passages from the same unpublished pamphlet will be
found, in a literary point of view, not less curious.
"And here I wish to say a few words on the present state of English
poetry. That this is the age of the decline of English poetry will be
doubted by few who have calmly considered the subject. That there are
men of genius among the present poets makes little against the fact,
because it has been well said, that 'next to him who forms the taste of
his country, the greatest genius is he who corrupts it.' No one has ever
denied genius to Marino, who corrupted not merely the taste of Italy,
but that of all Europe for nearly a century. The great cause of the
present deplorable state of English poetry is to be attributed to that
absurd and systematic depreciation of Pope, in which, for the last few
years, there has been a kind