By John Dolan, The Exiled
“Polidori once asked Byron what, besides scribble verses, he could do better than Polidori himself. Byron icily replied: 'Three things. First, I can hit with a pistol the keyhole of that door. Secondly, I can swim across that river to yonder point. And thirdly, I can give you a damned good thrashing.'”
OK, somebody go find a black goat somewhere, sharpen me a steak knife, and buy us some spray paint for a pentagram, 'cause we're gonna resurrect us a champion who can kick the necessary ignorant Protestant ass and make it look easy.
And lucky for you, folks, I've pre-selected us a perfect demon: George Gordon, Lord Byron. He's dead at the moment, but that's a minor problem. Like his avatar, Prometheus, Byron can die and come back as often as you need him. Hell, he likes getting killed; he was a fighter. Single-handed, he took on the Wordsworth gang and kicked the sticks they had jammed up their asses right up through their teeth.
Byron's time was like ours, a scared time, a period of reaction and retreat. His England ran the world without knowing or wanting to know a thing about it, just like our America. Our climate is in fact the same nasty Wordsworthian weather Byron fought all his life: humorless, sanctimonious, xenophobic, factional, and cruel. He spent his life firing back at that world in a long fighting retreat that saw him always heading South and East, away from “the moral North” where the Wordsworthian consensus was metastasizing.
And that, of course, is why Byron was adored in Europe but snubbed in England and America. He was everything Wordsworth's gang was not. They were utterly humorless-a Romanticist once told me that “there are three jokes in Wordsworth, or so they say…but I can't recall them.”
Byron has thousands of jokes-and better still, they're actually funny. Not that he was simply trying to amuse. On the contrary, he meant to do great harm. Jokes were, for him, simply weapons against the solemn hicks-humor to sprinkle on their high seriousness like salt on slugs.
Byron was a fighter from childhood, a clubfoot semi-cripple who made himself a boxer and with typically Olympian kindness and disdain made himself the defender of nerds at his public school. He came from serious craziness, his father earning the nickname “Mad Jack” in an era when it took real ambition to seem more mad than the run of male aristocrats.
Probability bowed quickly to him, giving him a title he was never supposed to inherit, then making him instantly famous for Childe Harolde, his first and worst album. With fame, money and sex settled, he had to find something else to fight, and like any honorable man he chose to fight his own people. And that was how Byron the sentimental poet of graveyards and lost loves became the Satanic joker all England loved to hate.
He chose to be noisily “immoral” not because he was any worse (or any better) than the average aristocrat of his time but as a weapon against the moralism of Wordsworth. I don't mean “moralism” in a normative sense-God no. I remember sifting through the elderly Wordsworth's letters looking for any comment at all on the Great Famine which was extirpating the Irish, and finding only one remark, in which the great moralist earnestly prays that England will not weaken, ie provide any aid whatsoever. It's one of the curiosities of English literary history that you'll never find the least particle of compassion for the Irish in “moral” poets like Wordsworth.
Only the “mad, bad and dangerous” Byron mentioned the slaughter of 1798, attacking the PM, Castlereagh, for “dabbling [his] sleek young hands in Erin's gore” and, as Pope would have recommended, delivering an extra kick to his enemy's corpse in this epitaph: “Posterity will never survey a nobler grave than this: here lie the bones of Castlereagh: stop, traveler, and piss.”
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