had drawn himself in painting his Pilgrim, the book grew still more popular. It went into every house in England, was translated into all the languages, and Byron enjoyed that foretaste of the comments and praises of posterity by reading criticisms on his work published among such people as the Javanese. It was at that time that he assumed the divinity.
Then came the ill-fated marriage, the scandal, "the British public in one of its periodical fits of morality," and the banishment. This was a plea for Byron to to grow more Byronic than ever. He found that out readily enough, and, of course, took advantage of it. His Italian life was certainly as demoniac as his most ardent admirer could have possibly desired. He plunged into the wildest dissipations, became consequently more wretched and withered and blighted, and, to remind the world that such a thing should not be so, as he had one of the finest intellects that ever astonished humanity, he published, on an average, two books a year all about himself, and calmly noted what an agreeable sensation each one made as it appeared. It is tolerably safe to say, that if there had not been such an interest taken in him he would have soon packed up and come home. He was just that kind of a person. He did everything—even the most insignificant things, such as living after the Brahminical fashion—for effect, and if his object had failed he would have ceased his follies and pretended that he never wished to create any effect at all.
Nothing shows this so well as his attachment to Miss Chaworth. The disappointment that grew out of it was excellent capital with which to start his speculations in "sublime coxcombry." He knew well enough that a certain class of people would feel an immense interest in him if he had, in addition to his other misfortunes, the unhappiness of having been crossed in his youthful love. So he wrote a great deal on the purity of his passion and what good results might have come out of it if it had been reciprocated. Now as to both these matters, it is not altogether wrong to say that either may be very justly called into question. The first cannot be discussed for reasons which will be obvious at once. The second may be disposed of in a few words.
Byron always said that a marriage between himself and the heiress of Annesley "would have healed feuds in which blood had been shed by their fathers; it would have joined lands broad and rich; it would have joined at least one heart and two persons not ill-matched in years." Besides all this he has left us to understand that, better than the rest, it would have made him an entirely different man. A great many young gentlemen and ladies to this day believe it, too. To say the least, it will be found on examination rather doubtful. He was by nature, if we may use a strong phrase applied to him by two writers of considerable celebrity, a blackguard. He drank to excess, took delight in the lowest amusements, and, what is really wonderful, had not a single passion of which the intellect partook to give zest to its enjoyment. Like Shelley, he was a person apt to get tired of everything after a certain time. Unquestionably, to a measured extent we are all so. But Byron had this failing in an extreme degree. There can be no doubt that separation from his wife was rather satisfactory to him than not, if his real feelings had been known. He proves that he was weary of her by his letters and journals published so long after the separation. But the event gave him a chance for being a little more withered and blighted, so in all the poetry he wrote afterward he made the public believe it. He then fell in with Guiccioli. This time he declared the attachment was to be lasting. He assured Mr. West, the painter, that unless the countess wished it, nothing would part them till death.
