Lavengro by George Borrow (read me a book txt) 📕

turned my eyes upon the hearse proceeding slowly up the almost endless street. This man, this Byron, had for many years past been the demigod of England, and his verses the daily food of those who read, from the peer to the draper’s assistant; all were admirers, or rather worshippers, of Byron, and all doted on his verses; and then I thought of those who, with genius as high as his, or higher, had lived and died neglected. I thought of Milton abandoned to poverty and blindness; of witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs; and starving Otway: they had lived neglected and despised, and, when they died, a few poor mourners only had followed them to the grave; but this Byron had been made a half-god of when living, and now that he was dead he was followed by worshipping crowds, and the very sun seemed to come out on purpose to grace his funeral. And, indeed, the sun, which for many days past had hidden its face in clouds, shone out that morn with wonderful brilliancy, flaming upon the black hearse and its tall ostrich plumes, the mourning coaches, and the long train of aristocratic carriages which followed behind.

“Great poet, sir,” said the dapper-looking man, “great poet, but unhappy.”

Unhappy? yes, I had heard that he had been unhappy; that he had roamed about a fevered, distempered man, taking pleasure in nothing⁠—that I had heard; but was it true? was he really unhappy? was not this unhappiness assumed, with the view of increasing the interest which the world took in him? and yet who could say? He might be unhappy and with reason. Was he a real poet, after all? might he not doubt himself? might he not have a lurking consciousness that he was undeserving of the homage which he was receiving? that it could not last? that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame? He was a lordling, a glittering, gorgeous lordling: and he might have had a consciousness that he owed much of his celebrity to being so; he might have felt that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame. Fashion soon changes, thought I eagerly to myself; a time will come, and that speedily, when he will be no longer in the fashion; when this idiotic admirer of his, who is still grinning at my side, shall have ceased to mould his style on Byron’s; and this aristocracy, squirearchy, and whatnot, who now send their empty carriages to pay respect to the fashionable corpse, shall have transferred their empty worship to some other animate or inanimate thing. Well, perhaps after all it was better to have been mighty Milton in his poverty and blindness⁠—witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs, and starving Otway; they might enjoy more real pleasure than this lordling; they must have been aware that the world would one day do them justice⁠—fame after death is better than the top of fashion in life. They have left a fame behind them which shall never die, whilst this lordling⁠—a time will come when he will be out of fashion and forgotten. And yet I don’t know; didn’t he write Childe Harold and that ode? Yes, he wrote Childe Harold and that ode. Then a time will scarcely come when he will be forgotten. Lords, squires and cockneys may pass away, but a time will scarcely come when Childe Harold and that ode will be forgotten. He was a poet, after all, and he must have known it; a real poet, equal to⁠—to⁠—what a destiny! rank, beauty, fashion, immortality⁠—he could not be unhappy; what a difference in the fate of men⁠—I wish I could think he was unhappy.

I turned away.

“Great poet, sir,” said the dapper man, turning away too, “but unhappy⁠—fate of genius, sir; I, too, am frequently unhappy.”

Hurrying down the street to the right, I encountered Francis Ardry.

“What means the multitude yonder?” he demanded.

“They are looking after the hearse which is carrying the remains of Byron up Tottenham Road.”

“I have seen the man,” said my friend, as he turned back the way he had come, “so I can dispense with seeing the hearse⁠—I saw the living man at Venice⁠—ah, a great poet.”

[“I don’t think so,” said I.

“Hey!” said Francis Ardry.155

“A perfumed lordling.”

“Ah!”

“With a white hand loaded with gawds.”

“Ah!”

“Who wrote verses.”

“Ah!”

“Replete with malignity and sensualism.”

“Yes!”

“Not half so great a poet as Milton.”

“No?”

“Nor Butler.”

“No?”

“Nor Otway.”

“No?”

“Nor that poor boy Chatterton, who, maddened by rascally patrons and publishers, took poison at last.”

“No?” said Francis Ardry.

“Why do you keep saying ‘No’? I tell you that I am no admirer of Byron.”

“Well,” said Frank, “don’t say so to anyone else. It will be thought that you are envious of his glory, as indeed I almost think you are.”

“Envious of him!” said I; “how should I be envious of him? Besides, the man’s dead, and a live dog, you know⁠—”

“You do not think so,” said Frank, “and at this moment I would wager something that you would wish for nothing better than to exchange places with that lordling, as you call him, cold as he is.”

“Well, who knows?” said I. “I really think the man is overvalued. There is one thing connected with him which must ever prevent anyone of right feelings from esteeming him; I allude to his incessant abuse of his native land, a land, too, which had made him its idol.”

“Ah! you are a great patriot, I know,” said Frank. “Come, as you are fond of patriots, I will show you the patriot, par excellence.”

“If you mean Eolus Jones,” said I, “you need not trouble yourself; I have seen him already.”

“I don’t mean him,” said Frank. “By the by, he came to me the other day to condole with me, as he said, on the woes of my bleeding country. Before he left me he made me bleed, for he persuaded me to