bourne over a period of sixteen years, Murray has combed two volumes which are supplemental, but not invaluable. By far the best are those addressed to Lady Melbourne, who was, it will be remembered, at once the mother-in-law of Lady Caroline Lamb and the aunt of the future Lady Byron, a strategic, if delicate position. To her the bard sent a running commentary on the courtship, the wedding, and the "treacle moon," his one definite objection to the actual ceremony being cushions "stuffed with peach stones." Incidentally, whoever is sufficiently curious to consult in Appendix C two letters containing Miss Milbanke's opinion of Byron's poetry, will require no sexual details for explanation of why Lord and Lady Byron failed to get on.
Yet lovers of Byron may relish all the chatter and cross references of these books. With them, possibly, his memory lies in trust, for among latter-day poets the tendency of Byron is decidedly bearish. Our own damp-handed priggishness of art and intellect recoils not only from the huge grasp of this vulgarly self-conscious man, but also from the indolent grand manner of his verse. Poets out for a Sunday swim, cool-tongued critics, cautious despite the bigotry of youth, artists-in-general, all shudder before this shouting, splashing nakedness, this salt-water splutter. Our own heroes go down to the sea, circumspectly. Indecent Byron was—personally and mentally: he snatched at fame as he snatched at Newstead Abbey, eagerly and without poise. Aesthetically, mentally, and morally, he is thought a bit of a joke.
Tragically enough, for us, our fathers thought so too. Carlyle, for instance, devoted a considerable portion of his career to writing down this man he dubbed a "surly dandy." "Close"—he concludes in his imposing pulpit manner—"close thy Byron, open thy Goethe." Whoever does so will be a trifle confused as to what to do next, once confronted with Goethe's opinion of Byron:
"A character of such eminence has never existed, and probably will never come again. The beauty of Cain is such as we shall not see a second time in the world." . . . "Byron is the burning bush."
Trailing Byron throughout Europe, one can pick up flowers like these almost anywhere, for critics and brides throw their bouquets backward.
