Without even speaking of his childhood, when he was really so charming, of his docility toward his nurses and preceptors, toward good Dr. Glennie at Dulwich, and afterward at Harrow, toward the excellent Dr. Drury; let us consider him at that solemn moment for a boy of eighteen, when he was about to publish his poetic compositions. Did he not burn the whole edition, because a friend whom he respected, disapproved some parts?[130] See him again accepting the blame of another friend about "Childe Harold," and when, before publishing it, yielding to the advice of Dallas and Gifford, he suppressed the stanzas that most pleased him. See him also ceasing to write "Don Juan," because the person he loved had expressed disapprobation of it, not even substantiated by reasons.
Was it Lord Byron who would have been incapable of forgiving? Why, the pardon of injuries was, on the contrary, a habit with him, a necessity, his sole vengeance, even when such conduct might appear almost superhuman. It was thus, that when cruelly wounded in his self-love, even more than in his heart, by Lady Byron's behavior, he wrote that touching "Farewell," which might have disarmed the fiercest resentment: and that afterward, yielding to Madame de Staël's entreaties, he consented to propose a reconciliation, which was refused: and not even that aggravation prevented him from often speaking well of Lady Byron.
Gratitude, that proves such an insupportable load to the proud man, did it not rather seem a happiness to him?
When he had done some wrong, far from refusing to make excuses, was he not the first to think of it, saying that he could not go to rest, with resentment in his heart? While a mere boy, and when he had been wounded in his most enthusiastic feelings by a fortunate rival, Mr. Musters, was not Byron the first to hold out his hand and express regret for the bitterness of a few words?
Far from hiding his faults, and not satisfied with avowing them, did he not magnify them, exaggerate them to such a degree that this generous impulse became a real fault in him?
Far from having been too proud and reserved in his habits of life, have we not seen him reproached with being too familiar?
Did envy or rivalry ever enter into his soul?
And lastly, far from conceiving too much self-satisfaction, far from rendering his own mind the homage characteristic of pride, did not Lord Byron, looking at himself through the weaknesses of other men, constantly depreciate himself?
All the ways in which genius is wont to manifest itself were assuredly alike familiar to him; neither philosophy nor art had any secrets for him. But he only made use of them to produce continual acts of humility instead of pride; saying, that if philosophy were blind, art was no less incapable of fulfilling the aspirations of mind, and realizing the ideal beheld in imagination.
His very skepticism, or rather what has been called by this name, affords another great proof of his modesty. "Skepticism," says Bacon, "is the great antagonist of pride."