met him in society, and found his "liveliness and unreserve" confronting them, instead of the gloom and almost inhuman reticence of his heroes (who yet were immutably identified with him), the puzzle may well have been given up as insoluble. Moore found, when they met in town during the spring of 1813, that already the Byron Fever was abated. Those who saw him often were learning the lesson; only strangers or casual acquaintances now believed that "the fierce gloom and sternness of his imaginary characters" was reflected from his own. And yet, despite Moore's testimony to the external truth that it was not so reflected, the deeper, the essential truth is that it was. Somewhere in Byron, melancholy reigned supreme. 1 Neither the gaiety nor the gloom was histrionic; one did not mask the other-both were frankly what they called themselves. There never was a more spontaneous poser-using "pose" in its true sense of poise. His spontaneity in this amounted to simplicity: that is why he puzzled, and continues to puzzle, the world. "The causes", he said (disingenuously), of his separation from his wife, "were too simple to be easily found out". We might use the remark to cover the whole of Byronism, and, so doing, impart to it a veracity which it does not, in the actual connection, possess.

...

the darkness in which one fears to behold spectres'. The remark struck him at least I presume so from his singular commendation of it with the usual mysterious manner. He often said that Lara was the most metaphysical of his works" (pp. 116-117).

CHAPTER XIV

THE MAN'S MAN-1812-1814

Social glories-Introduction to the Prince Regent-Sir Walter ScottByron's beauty- Venetia - Affectations - His relation to the worldThe Man's Man: his letters-Lack of literary jealousy-Don JuanHodgson and Webster contrasted - Mrs. Mule - The Prince Regent: "Fracas" at Carlton House-Lines to a Lady Weeping-Hysterics of the Press - The gloom of Byron's Journal - Byron as lover - His engagement

Τ

HROUGH his friendship with Moore, and the consequent widening of his social relations, Byron first became in the lesser, but not wholly ignoble, sense of the word, "civilised". It was odd that he should enter his natural spheres, both intellectual and social, by favour of the son of an obscure Irish tradesman-the old English Baron chaperoned, as it were, by little Tommy Moore; and his earlier friends regarded the paradoxical development with differing sensations. "This", writes the jealous and exacting Dallas, "was the trying moment of virtue, and no wonder it was shaken". "For some time", says Galt, "after the publication of Childe Harold, the noble author appeared to more advantage than I ever afterwards saw him". William Bankes, remote and touchy, continually nagged him in letters which Byron answered with extraordinary patience and gentleness; Hodgson and Hobhouse, more genial and more "worldly", accepted the new state of things with

amusement and interest. Hobhouse, for that matter, belonged to the same set, though his place in it was naturally less conspicuous. There was no one whom they did not meet, and for all whom they met, no matter how eagerly those were courted, Byron was the cynosure. "Glory darted thick upon him from all sides", continues Dallas; ". . . he was the wonder of greybeards, and the show of fashionable parties".

One of these, in the June of 1812, was so fashionable that the Prince Regent was among the earliest guests, and, noticing Byron, asked who he was. On being told, he at once sent and desired him to be presented. In connection with this social triumph- His Royal Highness was very gracious-a striking instance of how delightful Byron could be with men (for with men he was delightful) comes forth. The illustrious dialogue naturally turned upon poetry, and "after some sayings peculiarly pleasing from royal lips, as to my own attempts", the Prince referred to Walter Scott. About him he was so enthusiastic that a day or two afterwards, Byron called upon John Murray, "merely", wrote Murray to Scott, "to let off the raptures of the Prince concerning you, thinking, as he said, that . . . it might not be ungrateful to you to hear of his praises ". This at once produced a letter from Scott to Byron, wherein he thanked him very warmly for his "flattering communication", and added a kindly reference to the measure of praise and blame which had been awarded him in English Bards. He had been praised for his poetry, but blamed for writing Marmion "on contract for a sum of money". Scott showed, with equal dignity and gentleness, that he had not done this. Byron's answer was worthy of the explanation, and a firm friendship thus began between the great poetic rivals of the age.

But the rivalry was entirely vicarious-a

device of the reviewers and debating societies to add savour to their articles and discussions;1 for Scott and Byron could not be brought to regard one another with any sort of jealousy. Jealousy in literary matters was indeed a thing that never troubled Byron from first to last. He knew this: "I really have no literary envy", he wrote to Moore in 1814.

His interview with the Regent turned his thoughts for a moment towards Court-circles. Soon afterwards, Dallas found him, "with his fine black [sic] hair in powder, which by no means suited his countenance”, ready, in full dress, to attend a levee at Carlton House. But the levee was put off, and he never again donned the livery of the courtier — partly from genuine disinclination, partly because an incident of his literary life (soon to be detailed) made it impossible present himself.

to

Among the most interesting notes upon him at this time of "lionising" is one by Jane Porter, author of The Scottish Chiefs, a novel which even to a period within our own memories enjoyed a sentimental vogue. She met him at the house of William Sotheby, "a man of letters and of fortune", whom in 1818 Byron was to immortalise (in Beppo) as "Botherby", the "solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme". Miss Porter made the following note of Byron's appearance, and after his death sent it to Augusta Leigh. "I was not aware of his being in the room, or even that he had been invited, when I was arrested from listening to the person conversing with me by the Sounds of the most melodious Speaking Voice I had ever heard. . . . I turned round . . . and saw a Gentleman in black, of

1"At the time when they were the two lions of London, Hookham Frere observed, 'Great poets formerly (Homer and Milton) were blind; now they are lame'" (Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers).

an elegant form (for nothing of his lameness could be discovered), and with a face I shall never forget. . . The Eye deep set, but mildly lustrous; and the Complexion ... a sort of moonlight paleness. It was so pale, yet with all so Softly brilliant".

"How very pale you are!" wrote Caroline Lamb to him at the same period. "... E la beltà della morte. . . . I never see you without wishing to cry". Upon other women of the Devonshire House set, he made a less terribly sentimental impression. Elizabeth, Duchess of Devonshire, thought his face "sickly but handsome", and his figure bad; Harriet Cavendish (then Lady H. Leveson-Gower) found him agreeable, but wished for nothing further than mere acquaintance: "His countenance is fine when it is in repose; but the moment it is in play, suspicious, malignant, and consequently repulsive. His manner is either remarkably gracious and conciliatory, with a tinge of affectation, or irritable and impetuous, and then, I am afraid, perfectly natural".

He must often, in this hour of electric triumph, have found it difficult to be natural in any way. Round him at each gathering there was always to be seen “a circle of star-gazers". . . . Lord Beaconsfield, in his Venetia, inimitably presents to us the "new poet, Cadurcis ", as he appeared at the evening-parties of 1812.

"Watch Cadurcis', said Mr. Horace Pole to a fine lady. 'Does not he look sublime? . . . Alone in a crowd, as he says in his last poem. Very interesting!' "Wonderful creature!' exclaimed the dame.

66 6

Charming!' said Mr. Pole. 'Perhaps you will be fortunate enough to be handed in to dinner by him. . . . You must take care, however, not to eat; he cannot endure a woman who eats.'

1 Italics mine.