This poem was the olive-branch that Robert was about to snatch from the tomb. All evil passions were now let loose against Lord Byron.
The Tory party—so influential then, and which saw with displeasure the future promise of a great orator held out in the person of a young Whig peer—gladly seized a pretext for displaying its hostility. The higher clergy naturally clung to the interests of the aristocracy, as identical with their own: moreover, they were vexed with the young lord for attacking intolerancy, hypocrisy, and similar anti-Christian qualities, and consequently espoused with ardor Tory grievances. Pretending even to discover danger to religion in some philosophical verses,[205] they denounced the young poet as an atheist and a rebel. At the same time his admiration for foreign beauties wounded feminine self-love at home.
In thus placing the interests of truth above every other consideration, not only from the necessity he experienced of expressing it, but also with the design of serving justice, Lord Byron by no means ignored the formidable amount of burning coals he was piling upon his head. He knew well that the secret war going on against him delighted all his rivals, who, not having dared to show their spite at the time of his triumphs, had bided patiently the day of vengeance.
He was aware of it all, but did not therefore draw back; and looking fearlessly at the pile heaped with all these combustible materials intended for his martyrdom, he did not any the more cease from his work. He resisted, and accepted martyrdom like a hero.
"You can have no conception of the uproar the eight lines on the little Royalty's weeping in 1812 (now republished) have occasioned.... The 'Morning Post,' 'Sun,' 'Herald,' 'Courier,' have all been in hysterics.... I am an atheist, a rebel, and at last the devil (boiteux, I presume). My demonism seems to be a female's conjecture.... The abuse against me in all directions is vehement, unceasing, loud."[206]
The editor, alarmed, proposed to have them disavowed.
"Take any course you please to vindicate yourself," Lord Byron answered him; "but leave me to fight my own way, and, as I before said, do not compromise me by any thing which may look like shrinking on my part; as for your own, make the best of it.... I have already done all in my power by the suppression" (of the satire). "If that is not enough, they must act as they please; but I will not 'teach my tongue a most inherent baseness,' come what may.... I shall bear what I can, and what I can not I shall resist. The worst they could do would be to exclude me from society. I have never courted it, nor, I may add, in the general sense of the word, enjoyed it; and there is a world elsewhere!
"Any thing remarkably injurious I have the same means of repaying as other men, with such interest as circumstances may annex to it."
After this first great explosion, of which the verses addressed to the Princess Charlotte had formed the occasion and the pretext, the commotion appeared to subside. But the fire in the mine had not gone out. It still circulated obscurely, gathering strength in the quiet darkness. Another occasion was alone wanting for a second explosion, and a hand to strike the spark. The circumstance of his unhappy marriage, which had taken place in the interval, presented this occasion; and the hand to strike the spark was the one which had received the nuptial ring a year before. The explosion was brutal, abominable, insensate—unworthy of the society that tolerated it.
Then came another interval; the good who had been drawn into this stormy current were seized with regret and remorse. "Why did we thus rise against our spoilt and favorite child?" The wicked knew well wherefore they had done it, but the good did not. Macaulay told it them one day, twenty years afterward, better than any one else has, in one of those passages where the beauty of his style, far from injuring truth, lends it a double charm, enhancing it just as nature's beauty is set off by a profusion of light.