killed. On the 6th of October Byron and Hobhouse started via Milan and Verona for Venice, which was reached early in November. For the next three years Byron lived in or near Venice—at first, 1816–1817, in apartments in the Frezzeria, and after January 1818 in the central block of the Mocenigo palace. Venice appealed both to his higher and his lower nature. He set himself to study her history, to understand her constitution, to learn her language. The sights and scenes with which Shakespeare and Otway, Schiller’s Ghostseer, and Madame de Staël’s Corinne had made him familiar, were before his eyes, not dreams but realities. He would “repeople” her with her own past, and “stamp her image” on the creations of his pen. But he had no one to live for but himself, and that self he gave over to a reprobate mind. He planned and pursued a life of deliberate profligacy. Of two of his amours we learn enough or too much from his letters to Murray and to Moore—the first with his landlord’s wife, Marianna Segati, the second with Margarita Cogni (the “Fornarina”), a Venetian of the lower class, who amused him with her savagery and her wit. But, if Shelley may be trusted, there was a limit to his candour. There is abundant humour, but there is an economy of detail in his pornographic chronicle. He could not touch pitch without being defiled. But to do him justice he was never idle. He kept his brains at work, and for this reason, perhaps, he seems for a time to have recovered his spirits and sinned with a good courage. His song of carnival, “So we'll go no more a-roving,” is a hymn of triumph. About the middle of April he set out for Rome. His first halt was at Ferrara, which inspired the “Lament of Tasso” (published July 17, 1817). He passed through Florence, where he saw “the Venus” (of Medici) in the Uffizi Gallery, by reedy Thrasymene and Term’s “matchless cataract” to “Rome the Wonderful.” At Rome, with Hobhouse as companion and guide, he stayed three weeks. He returned to Venice on the 28th of May, but shortly removed to a villa at Mira on the Brenta, some 7 m. inland. A month later (June 26) when memory had selected and reduced to order the first impressions of his tour, he began to work them up into a fourth canto of Childe Harold. A first draft of 126 stanzas was finished by the 29th of July; the 60 additional stanzas which made up the canto as it stands were written up to material suggested by or supplied by Hobhouse, “who put his researches” at Byron’s disposal and wrote the learned and elaborate notes which are appended to the poem. Among the books which Murray sent out to Venice was a copy of Hookham Frere’s Whistlecraft. Byron took the hint and produced Beppo, a Venetian Story (published anonymously on the 28th of February 1818). He attributes his choice of the mock heroic ottava-rima to Frere’s example, but he was certainly familiar with Casti’s Novelle, and, according to Stendhal, with the poetry of Buratti. The success of Beppo and a growing sense that “the excellent manner of Whistlecraft” was the manner for him, led him to study Frere’s masters and models, Berni and Pulci. An accident had led to a great discovery.
The fourth canto of Childe Harold was published on the 28th of April 1818. Nearly three months went by before Murray wrote to him, and he began to think that his new poem was a failure. Meanwhile he completed an “Ode on Venice,” in which he laments her apathy and decay, and contrasts the tyranny of the Old World with the new birth of freedom in America. In September he began Don Juan. His own account of the inception of his last and greatest work is characteristic but misleading. He says (September 9) that his new poem is to be in the style of Beppo, and is “meant to be a little quietly facetious about everything.” A year later (August 12, 1819), he says that he neither has nor had a plan—but that “he had or has materials.” By materials he means books, such as Dalzell’s Shipwrecks and Disasters by Sea, or de Castelnau’s Histoire de la nouvelle Russie, &c., which might be regarded as poetry in the rough. The dedication to Robert Southey (not published till 1833) is a prologue to the play. The “Lakers” had given samples of their poetry, their politics and their morals, and now it was his turn to speak and to speak out. He too would write “An Excursion.” He doubted that Don Juan might be “too free for these modest days.” It was too free for the public, for his publisher, even for his mistress; and the “building up of the drama,” as Shelley puts it, was a slow and gradual process. Cantos I., II. were published (4to) on the 15th of July 1819; Cantos III., IV., V., finished in November 1820, were not published till the 8th of August 1821. Cantos VI.-XVI., written between June 1822 and March 1823, were published at intervals between the 15th of July 1823 and the 26th of March 1824. Canto XVII. was begun in May 1823, but was never finished. A fragment of fourteen stanzas, found in his room at Missolonghi, was first published in 1903.
He did not put all his materials into Don Juan. “Mazeppa, a tale of the Russian Ukraine,” based on a passage in Voltaire’s Charles XII., was finished by the 30th of September 1818 and published with “An Ode” (on Venice) on the 28th of June 1819. In the spring of 1819 Byron met in Venice, and formed a connexion with, an Italian lady of rank, Teresa (born Gamba), wife of the Cavaliere Guiccioli. She was young and beautiful, well-read and accomplished. Married at sixteen to a man nearly four times her age, she fell in love with Byron at first sight, soon became and for nearly four years remained his mistress. A good and true wife to him in all but name, she won from Byron ample devotion and a prolonged constancy. Her volume of Recollections (Lord Byron jugé par les témoins de sa vie, 1869), taken for what it is worth, is testimony in Byron’s favour. The countess left Venice for Ravenna at the end of April; within a month she sent for Byron, and on the 10th of June he arrived at Ravenna and took rooms in the Strada di Porto Sisi. The house (now No. 295) is close to Dante’s tomb, and to gratify the countess and pass the time he wrote the “Prophecy of Dante” (published April 21, 1821). According to the preface the poem was a metrical experiment, an exercise in terza rima; but it had a deeper significance. It was “intended for the Italians.” Its purport was revolutionary. In the fourth canto of Childe Harold, already translated into Italian, he had attacked the powers, and “Albion most of all” for her betrayal of Venice, and knowing that his word had weight he appeals to the country of his adoption to strike a blow for freedom—to “unite.” It is difficult to realize the force or extent of Byron’s influence on continental opinion. His own countrymen admired his poetry, but abhorred and laughed at his politics. Abroad he was the prophet and champion of liberty. His hatred of tyranny—his defence of the oppressed—was a word spoken in season when there were few to speak but many to listen. It brought consolation and encouragement, and it was not spoken in vain. It must, however, be borne in mind that Byron was more of a king-hater than a people-lover. He was against the oppressors, but he disliked and despised the oppressed. He was aristocrat by conviction as well as birth, and if he espoused a popular cause it was de haut en bas. His connexion with the Gambas brought him into touch with the revolutionary movement, and thenceforth he was under the espionage of the Austrian embassy at Rome. He was suspected and “shadowed,” but he was left alone.
Early in September Byron returned to La Mira, bringing the countess with him. A month later he was surprised by a visit from Moore, who was on his way to Rome. Byron installed Moore in the Mocenigo palace and visited him daily. Before the final parting (October 11) Byron placed in Moore’s hands the MS. of his Life and Adventures brought down to the close of 1816. Moore, as Byron suggested, pledged the MS. to Murray for 2000 guineas, to be Moore’s property if redeemed in Byron’s lifetime, but if not, to be forfeit to Murray at Byron’s death. On the 17th of May 1824, with Murray’s assent and goodwill, the MS. was burned in the drawing-room of 50 Albemarle Street. Neither Murray nor Moore lost their money. The Longmans lent Moore a sufficient sum to repay Murray, and were themselves repaid out of the receipts of Moore’s Life of Byron. Byron told Moore that the memoranda were not “confessions,” that they were “the truth but not the whole truth.” This, no doubt, was the truth, and the whole truth. Whatever they may or may
