LORD BYRON'S LAST PORTRAIT,

With Records of his Conversation, &c. during his sittings.

IT has been a subject of universal regret amongst the admirers of genius, that, in an age in which portrait-painting is approaching so rapidly to the excellence of its best days, and the art of engraving has advanced so far beyond its former limits, we should still want a satisfactory resemblance of one of the most interesting persons who has figured in it. It is far from my wish to underrate the picture of Lord Byron by Phillips, or the drawing of him by Harlow; nor indeed, were it possible that it could be like any thing that ever existed, would I deny the accuracy of the attempt by Westall, exhibited last year in Somerset-house. But these were all made in the outset of his career, when the novelty of reputation transported him to an affectation of singularity in appearance, and he chose to be represented as nothing but corsairs and misanthropes-long too ere the troubles of a life, perhaps not altogether embittered by himself, had blanched a hair of his head, or added a line to his countenance. What we have wanted of Lord Byron is a resemblance of him at a period when his variable character had gone its utmost length towards being fixed. When his assumption of an aching heart controlled by a haughty spirit, had given place to the reality, and the triflings of his pen were used for the far different and more interesting affectation of gaiety and happiness-when his dislikes and his prejudices had been mellowed down by usage in the world, and the things which would once have embittered his life, or roused his indignation, were dismissed with a smile or a sigh of forbearance-a revolution of character like this must necessarily be apparent on the features; and in Lord Byron it was so much so, that they who only knew him latterly, are able to trace scarcely any likeness whatever in the portraits which we have possessed hitherto. It happens most unexpectedly, that there exists another portrait which fully supplies the deficiency of which we have been complaining a portrait for which Lord Byron sat so late as August 1822, and which has remained obscurely in London for many months, from the circumstance of the artist having been a perfect stranger. This gentleman is an importation from the country which has to boast of the artists Alston, Leslie, and Newton. He is a namesake of the late president of the Royal Academy.

As the fidelity of the above memorial is of course the matter of first consideration, it will be gratifying to the public to learn that such of Lord Byron's latter companions as have seen it, have been unanimous in their approval. But, amongst the mass of attestations, by no means the least satisfactory one is that of Lord Byron himself, whose anxiety to have the picture engraved is a sufficient proof that he esteemed it over every other that had been painted of him. The following is from a letter from him to Mr. West, after the latter had left him at Pisa, and returned to his residence at Florence.

Pisa, September 19th, 1822. "Dear Sir, I am anxious to have an engraving from your picture, by Morghen. Would you have the goodness to propose this to the engraver, Morghen, at his own price, and at my expense? You will oblige me by an answer addressed to me at Pisa, as usual."

In consequence of this, Mr. West applied to Morghen, who proved unable to furnish the desired engraving in less than three years, at a

upon

this information, price of 4000 dollars. The next letter, written proves at any rate that Lord Byron was not satisfied with his picture as a mere matter of course.

"Pisa, September 23rd, 1822. "Dear Sir.-Three years!-Of course it is out of the question. However, Will you just I shall not think of any other engraver he is the only one. look at the thing which he has done from Bartolini's bust. I do not mean as a work of art, for the incision is excellent, but for the effect. It is like a superannuated Jesuit. Had he 4000 dollars for that too? You will see it at Bardi's, the print-seller. I wonder who ordered it. I would have given any R. B. thing to have suppressed it altogether.-I am going to Genoa.-Your's ever, "P. S.-Address your answer to Pisa for the present."

There is, however, another evidence more strong perhaps than the foregoing. It is that of the Countess Guiccioli, who, in a letter to Mr. West, says "L'altro giorno li è arrivata da Firenze una incisione di Morghen, che mi ha veramente messa in collera; hanno convertito Mi Lord in uno stupido Prete di 60 anni-ma la colpa è dello scultore; e sono certa che se il Sig. Morghen assume l' impegno (come spero) d' incidere il tuo rittratto di Lord Byron, mi farà dimenticare il dispiacere che mi ha cagionata la prima incisione."

When Mr. West, shortly after the death of Lord Byron, arrived in Paris, on his way to England, his picture was soon sufficiently known and appreciated to fill his rooms with a crowd, and to produce such offers from publishers as perhaps few would have had the resolution to reject. England, however, being the adopted land of his labours, it was naturally his wish to reserve for it so good an introduction to public notice; and it is not to be anticipated that the superior difficulty of being known, where talent, in his branch of the arts, is allowed to be so much more abundant, will leave him ultimate cause to regret his preference. To those who feel an interest in such matters, it will be gratifying to learn that the picture is now at Mr. West's house, in Leicester Square, and that I suppose there will be no difficulty in seeing it. A portrait, painted for Lord Byron, of the Guiccioli, hangs beside it, and will give them an opportunity of settling the doughty disagreement between his biographers and some of their reviewers, respecting the poet's taste in beauty.

As nothing relating to Lord Byron can be devoid of interest, it is to be hoped that Mr. West will think no undue advantage has been taken of his civility in transferring from his mouth to the pages of the New Monthly the following little history of his labours:

In the month of July 1822, Mr. West found a friend at Florence who was personally acquainted with Lord Byron, then living on the sea-shore at a place called Monte Nero, four miles from Leghorn. By this gentleman he was favoured with an application soliciting that his lordship would sit to him for his portrait, in order that it might be Lord Byron politely returned for answer, transmitted to America. that he considered the request an honour, and would sit to Mr. West when and where he pleased. In consequence of this reply, Mr. West repaired to Leghorn, to which place Lord Byron sent his carriage for him on the day following, that they might make arrangements for the sittings. My reverence," such is Mr. West's account," for Lord Byron's genius made me almost afraid to encounter him; I expected to see a

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person somewhat thin and swarthy, with a high forehead and black curly hair-a stern countenance, and lofty and reserved manners, -perhaps, a black mantle and a diamond-hilted dagger. I thought, moreover, to hear the most common topics of conversation uttered with the purest eloquence, if not in poetry: I was much surprised to find almost the reverse. His manners were altogether without ceremony; his person inclining to fat, and, apparently, effeminate; his complexion delicate, his eyes light blue, or grey, and his hair dark brown, combed smoothly over his forehead and falling with a few curls down about his neck. He was dressed in a sky-blue bombasin or camlet frock coat, with a cape descending over his shoulders, boots and pantaloons, and had, indeed, a considerable deal of the dandy in his appearance.

After some general conversation, in the course of which he talked much of his wrongs and persecutions in England, and observed that either England would not do for him, or he should not do for England; he mentioned the portrait, and was very delicate in ascertaining whether I preferred attending him at Monte Nero, or his coming to me at Leghorn. I wished to leave it entirely to him, but was, in the end, obliged to settle the matter myself; and it was determined that I should go to Monte Nero. We then looked about for a suitable room. Amongst other apartments, we went into a little Catholic chapel, in coming out of which he crossed himself in jest, and said, "A religion generally lasts about two thousand years."

A day or two after was fixed for his first sitting. He expressed regret that he could not keep me at his house altogether, there being a family of friends with him at the time, and his accommodation being very small. He would, however, send a carriage every day to convey me thither.

On the day appointed I arrived at two o'clock, and began the picture. I found him a bad sitter. He talked all the time, and asked a multitude of questions about America-how I liked Italy, what I thought of the Italians, &c. When he was silent, he was a worse sitter than before; for he assumed a countenance which did not belong to him, as though he were thinking of a frontispiece for Childe Harold. In about an hour our first sitting terminated, and I returned to Leghorn, scarcely able to persuade myself that this was the haughty misanthrope whose character had always appeared so enveloped in gloom and mystery, for I do not remember ever to have met with manners more gentle and attractive.

The next day I returned and had another sitting of an hour, during which he seemed anxious to know what I should make of my undertaking. Whilst I was painting, the window from which I received my light became suddenly darkened, and I heard a voice exclaim" è troppo bello!" I turned and discovered a beautiful female stooping down to look in, the ground on the outside being on a level with the bottom of the window. Her long, golden hair hung down about her face and shoulders, her complexion was exquisite, and her smile completed one of the most romantic-looking heads, set off as it was by the bright sun behind it, which I had ever beheld. Lord Byron invited her to come in, and introduced her to me as the Countess Guiccioli. He seemed very fond of her, and I was glad of her presence, for the playful manner which he assumed towards her, made him a much better sitter.

I went on the following morning: he never came from his bed-room

until two o'clock. This day, for the first time, he appeared rather gloomy, but soon began to talk in his jocose way, though sometimes a little passionately, when the subject gave him occasion. He had just received a review of his works, supposed to be written by Mr. Jeffrey, who spoke unfavourably of his tragedies, and placed him, in point of genius, below Sir Walter Scott. He complained bitterly, because it was done, he said, under the cloak of friendship. As he gave me the review to read, he added, "I do not know whether to attack him or not; if I do, I know I shall be very savage, but if I can let it three days, I shall forget it. I never think of these things for more than three days, however savage I may be at first."

pass for

The next day, I was pleased to find that the progress which I had made in his likeness had given satisfaction, for, when we were alone, he said that he had a particular favour to request of me-would I grant it? I said that I should be happy to oblige him, and he enjoined me to the flattering task of painting the Countess Guiccioli's portrait for him. On the following morning I began it, and, after this, they sat alternately. He gave me the whole history of his connexion with her, and said that he hoped it would last for ever; at any rate, it should not be his fault if it did not. His other attachments had been broken off by no fault of his.

In one of our conversations at the dinner-table, at which we always sat by ourselves, he wished to know who was the favourite poet of the Americans. I told him that he himself was, but he seemed to think that I meant to compliment him. He was anxious to procure all the American books he could. I brought him one from Leghorn, written, I think, by a Miss Wright. In turning it over, shortly afterwards, whilst the Guiccioli was sitting, he came to a passage, wherein it was stated that "Lord Byron was the favourite poet of the Americans." He pointed it out; said, "I see you were not flattering me;" and talked more and more of going to America, a place to which he had frequently alluded before. I advised him to go, and the Guiccioli, who was anxious that he should do so, often desired me privately to urge his Lordship to it. On these occasions he would sometimes laugh at the idea of his becoming an American citizen, and ask me if I thought that they would make him a judge of a ten-pound court. He frequently talked of, and quoted, Washington Irving; particularly his Knickerbocker, and one day, when my friend, who had made me acquainted with him, replied to one of his questions respecting an American whom he had known, "that he was a young man of very good family," he answered, "you will talk about family, I see, and Knickerbocker says that he is a fortunate man in America who knows his grandfather." He then added more seriously, that, though an Aristocrat by birth and education, he was a firm Republican in principle, and gave his idea of what an American ought to be: spoke of straight-forward simplicity of manners, incorruptibility, deference for customs and governments of other countries, but no affection for them. But he never was serious long, and turned off to his favourite amusement of convicting me of Americanisms, for which he frequently laid traps. Once or twice he caught the word "expect," but expressed discontent that he never could make me say, "I guess."

I once asked him how he ever could have conceived such a scene as that described in his poem called "Darkness." He replied that he wrote it in 1815 at Geneva, where there was a celebrated dark day, on

"is a

which the fowls went to roost at noon, and the candles were lighted as at midnight. "The best thing I ever wrote," he continued, piece, never published, on the King's visit to Ireland." After a pause to recall it to his memory, he began to repeat it with slow and solemn pathos, but could only remember a few verses of it. Some time after, he gave me a copy of it at his house at Pisa. On the same occasion, he talked much of his writings, and said that he had never felt a turn for poetry until he was seventeen years of age, and probably, but for love, should not have felt it then: perhaps never. He showed me the 6th and 7th (I think) Cantos of Don Juan in manuscript. They were written on large sheets of paper, put together like a schoolboy's copybook. Here and there I observed alterations of words, but seldom of a whole line, and just so, he told me, it was written down at once, and sent off for publication. It was all gin, he said; meaning thereby that he drank nothing but gin when he wrote it. The Guiccioli was present, and said, "She wished my lord would leave off writing that ugly Don Juan." "I cannot give up my Don Juan," he replied; "I do not know what I should do without my Don Juan."

At different stages of my picture of the Guiccioli, he appeared to think that I had made her too handsome: on one of which occasions I told him that, in the eyes of a painter, no picture could be so beautiful as the object for which it was meant. He seemed a little surprised at the observation, and said, "Do I not then see with a painter's eye?" Nevertheless, he did not pretend to be much a judge of painting, for he felt no great passion for it, and had never made it his study; though he piqued himself upon his taste in sculpture, and would criticize the works of Bartolini without mercy. As a proof of his light opinion of this artist, he requested, as a particular favour, of Mr. Hobhouse, when he parted with him at Genoa, that he would go to Bartolini's, and break his (Lord B's) bust to pieces. His chief pride, however, was in his judgment of living beauty, of which he was always pleased to talk, saying, that there was nothing on earth which he prized more than the love of a beautiful woman.

I was by this time sufficiently intimate with him to answer his question as to what I thought of him before I had seen him. He laughed much at the idea which I had formed of him, and said, "Well, you find me like other people, do you not?" He often afterwards repeated, "And so you thought me a finer fellow, did you?" I remember once telling him, that notwithstanding his vivacity, I thought myself correct in at least one estimate which I had made of him, for I still conceived that he was not a happy man. He inquired earnestly what reason I had for thinking so, and I asked him if he had never observed in little children, after a paroxysm of grief, that they had at intervals a convulsive or tremulous manner of drawing in a long breath. Wherever I had observed this, in persons of whatever age, I had always found that it came from sorrow. He said the thought was new to him, and that he would make use of it.

Of Lord Byron's usual mode of passing his time, I was prevented, by the business which I had in hand, from making much observation. I only know he had in the harbour of Leghorn, a yacht which he called the Bollivar, and which was a constant source of trouble to him. The police were much exasperated by such an avowal of republican principles, and would not suffer the vessel to sail out of the port and