The Life of Lord Byron

They rambled some time through the shaggy woods, with which the country is covered, and the first vestiges of antiquity which attracted their attention were two large granite sarcophagi; a little beyond they found two or three fragments of granite pillars, one of them about twenty-five feet in length, and at least five in diameter. Near these they saw arches of brick-work, and on the east of them those magnificent remains, to which early travellers have given the name of the palace of Priam, but which are, in fact, the ruins of ancient baths. An earthquake in the course of the preceding winter had thrown down large portions of them, and the internal divisions of the edifice were, in consequence, choked with huge masses of mural wrecks and marbles.

The visitors entered the interior through a gap, and found themselves in the midst of enormous ruins, enclosed on two sides by walls, raised on arches, and by piles of ponderous fragments. The fallen blocks were of vast dimensions, and showed that no cement had been used in the construction – an evidence of their great antiquity. In the midst of this crushed magnificence stood several lofty portals and arches, pedestals of gigantic columns and broken steps and marble cornices, heaped in desolate confusion.

From these baths the distance to the sea is between two and three miles – a gentle declivity covered with low woods, and partially interspersed with spots of cultivated ground. On this slope the ancient city of Alexandria Troas was built. On the north-west, part of the walls, to the extent of a mile, may yet be traced; the remains of a theatre are also still to be seen on the side of the hill fronting the sea, commanding a view of Tenedos, Lemnos, and the whole expanse of the Ægean.

Having been conducted by the guide, whom they had brought with them from Tenedos, to the principal antiquities of Alexandria Troas, the visitors returned to the frigate, which immediately after got under way. On the 14th of April she came to anchor about a mile and a half from Cape Janissary, the Sygean promontory, where she remained about a fortnight; during which ample opportunity was afforded to inspect the plain of Troy, that scene of heroism, which, for three thousand years, has attracted the attention and interested the feelings and fancy of the civilized world.

Whether Lord Byron entertained any doubt of Homer’s Troy ever having existed, is not very clear. It is probable, from the little he says on the subject, that he took no interest in the question. For although no traveller could enter with more sensibility into the local associations of celebrated places, he yet never seemed to care much about the visible features of antiquity, and was always more inclined to indulge in reflections than to puzzle his learning with dates or dimensions. His ruminations on the Troad, in Don Juan, afford an instance of this, and are conceived in the very spirit of Childe Harold.

And so great names are nothing more than nominal,And love of glory’s but an airy lust,Too often in its fury overcoming allWho would, as ’twere, identify their dustFrom out the wide destruction which, entombing all,Leaves nothing till the coming of the just,Save change. I’ve stood upon Achilles’ tomb,And heard Troy doubted – time will doubt of Rome.The very generations of the deadAre swept away, and tomb inherits tomb,Until the memory of an age is fled,And buried, sinks beneath its offspring’s doom.Where are the epitaphs our fathers read,Save a few glean’d from the sepulchral gloom,Which once named myriads, nameless, lie beneath,And lose their own in universal death?

No task of curiosity can indeed be less satisfactory that the examination of the sites of ancient cities; for the guides, not content with leading the traveller to the spot, often attempt to mislead his imagination, by directing his attention to circumstances which they suppose to be evidence that verifies their traditions. Thus, on the Trojan plain, several objects are still shown which are described as the self-same mentioned in the Iliad. The wild fig-trees, and the tomb of Ilus, are yet there – if the guides may be credited. But they were seen with incredulous eyes by the poet; even the tomb of Achilles appears to have been regarded by him with equal scepticism; still his description of the scene around is striking, and tinted with some of his happiest touches.

There on the green and village-cotted hill isFlanked by the Hellespont, and by the sea,Entomb’d the bravest of the brave, Achilles —They say so. Bryant says the contrary.And farther downward tall and towering still isThe tumulus, of whom Heaven knows it may be,Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus, —All heroes, who, if living still, would slay us.High barrows without marble or a name,A vast untill’d and mountain-skirted plain,And Ida in the distance still the same,And old Scamander, if ’tis he, remain;The situation seems still form’d for fame,A hundred thousand men might fight againWith ease. But where I sought for Ilion’s wallsThe quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls.Troops of untended horses; here and thereSome little hamlets, with new names uncouth,Some shepherds unlike Paris, led to stareA moment at the European youth,Whom to the spot their schoolboy feelings bear;A Turk with beads in hand and pipe in mouth,Extremely taken with his own religion,Are what I found there, but the devil a Phrygian.

It was during the time that the Salsette lay off Cape Janissary that Lord Byron first undertook to swim across the Hellespont. Having crossed from the castle of Chanak-Kalessi, in a boat manned by four Turks, he landed at five o’clock in the evening half a mile above the castle of Chelit-Bauri, where, with an officer of the frigate who accompanied him, they began their enterprise, emulous of the renown of Leander. At first they swam obliquely upwards, rather towards Nagara Point than the Dardanelles, but notwithstanding their skill and efforts they made little progress. Finding it useless to struggle with 1 the current, they then turned and went with the stream, still however endeavouring to cross. It was not until they had been half an hour in the water, and found themselves in the middle of the strait, about a mile and a half below the castles, that they consented to be taken into the boat, which had followed them. By that time the coldness of the water had so benumbed their limbs that they were unable to stand, and were otherwise much exhausted. The second attempt was made on the 3rd of May, when the weather was warmer. They entered the water at the distance of a mile and a-half above Chelit-Bauri, near a point of land on the western bank of the Bay of Maito, and swam against the stream as before, but not for so long a time. In less than half an hour they came floating down the current close to the ship, which was then anchored at the Dardanelles, and in passing her steered for the bay behind the castle, which they soon succeeded in reaching, and landed about a mile and a-half below the ship. Lord Byron has recorded that he found the current very strong and the water cold; that some large fish passed him in the middle of the channel, and though a little chilled he was not fatigued, and performed the feat without much difficulty, but not with impunity, for by the verses in which he commemorated the exploit it appears he incurred the ague.

WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOSIf in the month of dark DecemberLeander who was nightly wont(What maid will not the tale remember)To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont,If when the wintry tempest roar’dHe sped to Hero nothing loath,And thus of old thy current pour’d,Fair Venus! how I pity both.For me, degenerate modern wretch,Though in the genial month of May,My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,And think I’ve done a feat to-day.But since he crossed the rapid tide,According to the doubtful story,To woo, and – Lord knows what beside,And swam for love as I for glory,’Twere hard to say who fared the best;Sad mortals thus the gods still plague you;He lost his labour, I my jest —For he was drown’d, and I’ve the ague.

“The whole distance,” says his Lordship, “from the place whence we started to our landing on the other side, including the length we were carried by the current, was computed by those on board the frigate at upwards of four English miles, though the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that no boat can row directly across, and it may in some measure be estimated from the circumstance of the whole distance being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, and by the other (Byron) in an hour and ten minutes. The water was extremely cold from the melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt; but having ridden all the way from the Troad the same morning, and the water being of an icy chilliness, we found it necessary to postpone the completion till the frigate anchored below the castles, when we swam the straits as just stated, entering a considerable way above the European, and landing below the Asiatic fort. Chevallier says that a young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress; and Oliver mentions it having been done by a Neapolitan; but our consul (at the Dardanelles), Tarragona, remembered neither of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the Salsette’s crew were known to have accomplished a greater distance and the only thing that surprised me was, that as doubts had been entertained of the truth of Leander’s story, no traveller had ever endeavoured to ascertain its practicability.”

While the Salsette lay off the Dardanelles, Lord Byron saw the body of a man who had been executed by being cast into the sea, floating on the stream, moving to and fro with the tumbling of the water, which gave to his arms the effect of scaring away several sea-fowl that were hovering to devour. This incident he has strikingly depicted in The Bride of Abydos.

The sea-birds shriek above the preyO’er which their hungry beaks delay,As shaken on his restless pillow,His head heaves with the heaving billow;That hand whose motion is not life,Yet feebly seems to menace strife,Flung by the tossing tide on high,Then levell’d with the wave —What reeks it tho’ that corse shall lieWithin a living grave.The bird that tears that prostrate formHath only robb’d the meaner worm.The only heart, the only eye,That bled or wept to see him die,Had seen those scatter’d limbs composed,And mourned above his turban stone;That heart hath burst – that eye was closed —Yea – closed before his own.

Between the Dardanelles and Constantinople no other adventure was undertaken or befel the poet. On the 13th of May, the frigate came to anchor at sunset, near the headland to the west of the Seraglio Point; and when the night closed in, the silence and the darkness were so complete “that we might have believed ourselves,” says Mr Hobhouse, “moored in the lonely cove of some desert island, and not at the foot of a city which, from its vast extent and countless population, is fondly imagined by its present masters to be worthy to be called ‘The Refuge of the World.’”

CHAPTER XXIII

Constantinople—Description—The Dogs and the Dead—Landed at Tophana—The Masterless Dogs—The Slave Market—The Seraglio—The Defects in the Description

The spot where the frigate came to anchor affords but an imperfect view of the Ottoman capital. A few tall white minarets, and the domes of the great mosques only are in sight, interspersed with trees and mean masses of domestic buildings. In the distance, inland on the left, the redoubted Castle of the Seven Towers is seen rising above the gloomy walls; and, unlike every other European city, a profound silence prevails over all. This remarkable characteristic of Constantinople is owing to the very few wheel-carriages employed in the city. In other respects the view around is lively, and in fine weather quickened with innumerable objects in motion. In the calmest days the rippling in the flow of the Bosphorus is like the running of a river. In the fifth canto of Don Juan, Lord Byron has seized the principal features, and delineated them with sparkling effect.

The European with the Asian shore,Sprinkled with palaces, the ocean streamHere and there studded with a seventy-four,Sophia’s cupola with golden gleam;The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar;The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream,Far less describe, present the very viewWhich charm’d the charming Mary Montague.

In the morning, when his Lordship left the ship, the wind blew strongly from the north-east, and the rushing current of the Bosphorus dashed with great violence against the rocky projections of the shore, as the captain’s boat was rowed against the stream.

The wind swept down the Euxine, and the waveBroke foaming o’er the blue Symplegades.’Tis a grand sight, from off the giant’s grave,To watch the progress of those rolling seasBetween the Bosphorus, as they lash and laveEurope and Asia, you being quite at ease.

“The sensations produced by the state of the weather, and leaving a comfortable cabin, were,” says Mr Hobhouse, “in unison with the impressions which we felt, when, passing under the palace of the sultans, and gazing at the gloomy cypresses, which rise above the walls, we saw two dogs gnawing a dead body.” The description in The Siege of Corinth of the dogs devouring the dead, owes its origin to this incident of the dogs and the body under the walls of the seraglio.

And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall,Hold o’er the dead their carnival.Gorging and growling o’er carcase and limb,They were too busy to bark at him.From a Tartar’s scull they had stripp’d the flesh,As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh,And their white tusks crunched on the whiter scull,As it slipp’d through their jaws when their edge grew dull.As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead,When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed.So well had they broken a lingering fast,With those who had fallen for that night’s repast.And Alp knew by the turbans that rolled on the sand,The foremost of these were the best of his band.Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear,And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,All the rest was shaven and bare.The scalps were in the wild dogs’ maw,The hair was tangled round his jaw.But close by the shore on the edge of the gulf,There sat a vulture flapping a wolf,Who had stolen from the hills but kept away,Scared by the dogs from the human prey;But he seized on his share of a steed that lay,Pick’d by the birds on the sands of the bay.

This hideous picture is a striking instance of the uses to which imaginative power may turn the slightest hint, and of horror augmented till it reach that extreme point at which the ridiculous commences. The whole compass of English poetry affords no parallel to this passage. It even exceeds the celebrated catalogue of dreadful things on the sacramental table in Tam O’ Shanter. It is true, that the revolting circumstances described by Byron are less sublime in their associations than those of Burns, being mere visible images, unconnected with ideas of guilt, and unlike

The knife a father’s throat had mangled,Which his ain son of life bereft:The gray hairs yet stuck to the heft.

Nor is there in the vivid group of the vulture flapping the wolf, any accessory to rouse stronger emotions, than those which are associated with the sight of energy and courage, while the covert insinuation, that the bird is actuated by some instigation of retribution in pursuing the wolf for having run away with the bone, approaches the very point and line where the horrible merges in the ludicrous. The whole passage is fearfully distinct, and though in its circumstances, as the poet himself says, “sickening,” is yet an amazing display of poetical power and high invention.

The frigate sent the travellers on shore at Tophana, from which the road ascends to Pera. Near this landing-place is a large fountain, and around it a public stand of horses ready saddled, attended by boys. On some of these Lord Byron and his friend, with the officers who had accompanied them, mounted and rode up the steep hill, to the principal Frank Hotel, in Pera, where they intended to lodge. In the course of the ride their attention was attracted to the prodigious number of masterless dogs which lounge and lurk about the corners of the streets; a nuisance both dangerous and disagreeable, but which the Turks not only tolerate but protect. It is no uncommon thing to see a litter of puppies with their mother nestled in a mat placed on purpose for them in a nook by some charitable Mussulman of the neighbourhood; for notwithstanding their merciless military practices, the Turks are pitiful-hearted Titans to dumb animals and slaves. Constantinople has, however, been so often and so well described, that it is unnecessary to notice its different objects of curiosity here, except in so far as they have been contributory to the stores of the poet.

The slave market was of course not unvisited, but the description in Don Juan is more indebted to the author’s fancy, than any of those other bright reflections of realities to which I have hitherto directed the attention of the reader. The market now-a-days is in truth very uninteresting; few slaves are ever to be seen in it, and the place itself has an odious resemblance to Smithfield. I imagine, therefore, that the trade in slaves is chiefly managed by private bargaining. When there, I saw only two men for sale, whites, who appeared very little concerned about their destination, certainly not more than English rustics offering themselves for hire to the farmers at a fair or market. Doubtless, there was a time when the slave market of Constantinople presented a different spectacle, but the trade itself has undergone a change – the Christians are now interdicted from purchasing slaves. The luxury of the guilt is reserved for the exclusive enjoyment of the Turks. Still, as a description of things which may have been, Byron’s market is probable and curious.

A crowd of shivering slaves of every nationAnd age and sex were in the market ranged,Each busy with the merchant in his station.Poor creatures, their good looks were sadly changed.All save the blacks seem’d jaded with vexation,From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged.The negroes more philosophy displayed,Used to it no doubt, as eels are to be flayed.Like a backgammon board, the place was dottedWith whites and blacks in groups, on show for sale,Though rather more irregularly spotted;Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale.No lady e’er is ogled by a lover,Horse by a black-leg, broadcloth by a tailor,Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailer,As is a slave by his intended bidder.’Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures,And all are to be sold, if you considerTheir passions, and are dext’rous, some by featuresAre bought up, others by a warlike leader;Some by a place, as tend their years or natures;The most by ready cash, but all have prices,From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.

The account of the interior of the seraglio in Don Juan is also only probably correct, and may have been drawn in several particulars from an inspection of some of the palaces, but the descriptions of the imperial harem are entirely fanciful. I am persuaded, by different circumstances, that Byron could not have been in those sacred chambers of any of the seraglios. At the time I was in Constantinople, only one of the imperial residences was accessible to strangers, and it was unfurnished. The great seraglio was not accessible beyond the courts, except in those apartments where the Sultan receives his officers and visitors of state. Indeed, the whole account of the customs and usages of the interior of the seraglio, as described in Don Juan, can only be regarded as inventions; and though the descriptions abound in picturesque beauty, they have not that air of truth and fact about them which render the pictures of Byron so generally valuable, independent of their poetical excellence. In those he has given of the apartments of the men, the liveliness and fidelity of his pencil cannot be denied; but the Arabian tales and Vathek seem to have had more influence on his fancy in describing the imperial harem, than a knowledge of actual things and appearances. Not that the latter are inferior to the former in beauty, or are without images and lineaments of graphic distinctness, but they want that air of reality which constitutes the singular excellence of his scenes drawn from nature; and there is a vagueness in them which has the effect of making them obscure, and even fantastical. Indeed, except when he paints from actual models, from living persons and existing things, his superiority, at least his originality, is not so obvious; and thus it happens, that his gorgeous description of the sultan’s seraglio is like a versified passage of an Arabian tale, while the imagery of Childe Harold’s visit to Ali Pasha has all the freshness and life of an actual scene. The following is, indeed, more like an imitation of Vathek, than anything that has been seen, or is in existence. I quote it for the contrast it affords to the visit referred to, and in illustration of the distinction which should be made between beauties derived from actual scenes and adventures, and compilations from memory and imagination, which are supposed to display so much more of creative invention.

And thus they parted, each by separate doors,Raba led Juan onward, room by room,Through glittering galleries and o’er marble floors,Till a gigantic portal through the gloomHaughty and huge along the distance towers,And wafted far arose a rich perfume,It seem’d as though they came upon a shrine,For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine.The giant door was broad and bright and high,Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise;Warriors thereon were battling furiously;Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish’d lies;There captives led in triumph droop the eye,And in perspective many a squadron flies.It seems the work of times before the lineOf Rome transplanted fell with Constantine.This massy portal stood at the wide closeOf a huge hall, and on its either sideTwo little dwarfs, the least you could suppose,Were sate, like ugly imps, as if alliedIn mockery to the enormous gate which roseO’er them in almost pyramidic pride.

CHAPTER XXIV

Dispute with the Ambassador—Reflections on Byron’s Pride of Rank—Abandons his Oriental Travels—Re-embarks in the “Salsette”—The Dagger Scene—Zea—Returns to Athens—Tour in the Morea—Dangerous Illness—Return to Athens—The Adventure on which “The Giaour” is founded

Although Lord Byron remained two months in Constantinople, and visited every object of interest and curiosity within and around it, he yet brought away with him fewer poetical impressions than from any other part of the Ottoman dominions; at least he has made less use in his works of what he saw and learned there, than of the materials he collected in other places.

From whatever cause it arose, the self-abstraction which I had noticed at Smyrna, was remarked about him while he was in the capital, and the same jealousy of his rank was so nervously awake, that it led him to attempt an obtrusion on the ambassadorial etiquettes – which he probably regretted.

It has grown into a custom, at Constantinople, when the foreign ministers are admitted to audiences of ceremony with the Sultan, to allow the subjects and travellers of their respective nations to accompany them, both to swell the pomp of the spectacle, and to gratify their curiosity. Mr Adair, our ambassador, for whom the Salsette had been sent, had his audience of leave appointed soon after Lord Byron’s arrival, and his Lordship was particularly anxious to occupy a station of distinction in the procession. The pretension was ridiculous in itself, and showed less acquaintance with courtly ceremonies than might have been expected in a person of his rank and intelligence. Mr Adair assured him that he could obtain no particular place; that in the arrangements for the ceremonial, only the persons connected with the embassy could be considered, and that the Turks neither acknowledged the precedence, nor could be requested to consider the distinctions of our nobility. Byron, however, still persisted, and the minister was obliged to refer him on the subject to the Austrian Internuncio, a high authority in questions of etiquette, whose opinion was decidedly against the pretension.

The pride of rank was indeed one of the greatest weaknesses of Lord Byron, and everything, even of the most accidental kind, which seemed to come between the wind and his nobility, was repelled on the spot. I recollect having some debate with him once respecting a pique of etiquette, which happened between him and Sir William Drummond, somewhere in Portugal or Spain. Sir William was at the time an ambassador (not, however, I believe, in the country where the incident occurred), and was on the point of taking precedence in passing from one room to another, when Byron stepped in before him. The action was undoubtedly rude on the part of his Lordship, even though Sir William had presumed too far on his riband: to me it seemed also wrong; for, by the custom of all nations from time immemorial, ambassadors have been allowed their official rank in passing through foreign countries, while peers in the same circumstances claim no rank at all; even in our own colonies it has been doubted if they may take precedence of the legislative counsellors. But the rights of rank are best determined by the heralds, and I have only to remark, that it is almost inconceivable that such things should have so morbidly affected the sensibility of Lord Byron; yet they certainly did so, and even to a ridiculous degree. On one occasion, when he lodged in St James’s Street, I recollect him rating the footman for using a double knock in accidental thoughtlessness.