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single mind a plurality of characters, all different and all vigorous, might have been furnished."

Moore is, I think, the best and most truthful of Byron's biographers; yet he has been accused of time-serving, and certainly he seems to have lacked courage to be inva riably just and candid.

Countess Guiccioli, with too partial pen, in a work of nearly seven hundred weary pages not only undertakes to show that Byron was not a bit of a sinner, but to prove him, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the most consummate of saints.

An American authoress next tries her hand at him, and in a miserably ill-judged article hastens to informs us that he is no saint nor even sinner in the common acceptation of the word, but simply a monster, an incarnate fiend! The public, in view of the enormity of her accusation, ventures upon remonstrance, and suggests proof. Hereupon, with the admirable consistency of a certain famous “wise” man in "Mother Goose," who, having lost both his eyes by a disastrous jump into a "brier bush," "with all his might and main jumps straight into another bush to scratch them in again," she gives us another and a "True Story of Lady Byron's Life," which only serves to bewilder us in a labyrinth of conjecture and to bring Byron into fashion again, does a little harm to Lady Byron and her cause, and a great deal to one whom we all love and admire,— its author.

And after all has been said, a wise and candid judgment which "naught extenuates, nor aught sets down in malice," must still accord to Byron a noble though faulty nature. His peculiar nervous organization made him a medium for all exquisite poetical sensibilities, for all fine and subtle harmonies of being, and all intense sensual emotions that stir this mortal frame. Such an inflammable, uncertain,

fascinating creature Nature made at her own sweet will, her beautiful and wayward child.

In no wise becoming apologists for the sins of Byron, candor still compels his critics to acknowledge his generosity, his truthfulness, his sincere attachment to the few whom he really loved, his tender solicitude for his mother, his yearning fondness for his daughter Ada, his watchful care for his illegitimate child Allegra, and his idolatrous affection for his only sister, who was, as he affirms, "the purest, the most angelic of beings, goodness itself" (and until we really have proof to the contrary, let us not violate the ashes of a dead woman by doubting him), and last, but not least, his kind and almost paternal care for his servants. Filial and paternal love are instinctive, and may in some degree exist in natures otherwise mean and barren; but delicate, thoughtful recognition of the claims and needs of the poor and the lowly can only emanate from a truly noble soul. To "Mr. Ruskin," he writes of his servants, "I have sent Robert home with Mr. Murray, because the country through which I am about to travel is in a state which renders it unsafe for one so young. Let every care be taken of him, and let him be sent to school. In case of my death, I have provided enough in my will to render him independent." And again to his mother, "Fletcher is well; pray take care of my boy Robert and the old man Murray. It is fortunate they returned; neither the youth of the one nor the age of the other would have suited the changes of climate and fatigues of travelling." And later he writes to her, "Pray take some notice of Robert, who will miss his master, poor boy!"

While rendering due homage to the purity and goodness of Lady Byron, one cannot fail to admit that his marriage was the great mistake of Byron's life. Eccentric to the

verge of insanity, his "blood all meridian," organically impatient of conventional restraint, and ever feverishly restless, small affinity (if I may use a misused word) had he with this serene, matter-of-fact Englishwoman, — lovely and perfect in her own way, no doubt, but by those very perfections rendered infinitely antagonistic to this wild, irregular nature. As well put a royal eagle in a hen-coop as such a man within the quiet paling of domestic life. Later, when years had tamed his erratic nature, when the real and nobler Byron was in the ascendant, it might have been well, for, eminently tender and affectionate where he really loved, he could have rarely blest where he only wounded and outraged; but as it was, all was wrong from beginning to end, and the fatal result of this marriage was foreseen by all who understood him.

To sum up this estimate of Byron's character, we must accord to him rare virtues and glaring vices; yet let us ever remember that whatever he was, he was at least no hypocrite. Not only was it his fixed purpose ever to disavow his virtues, but morbidly to delight in the imputation to himself of imaginary crimes.

"This should have been a noble creature: he
Hath all the energy which might have made

A goodly frame of glorious elements,

Had they been wisely mingled; as it is,

It is an awful chaos, - light and darkness,

And mind and dust, and passions and pure thoughts,
Mixed, and contending without end or order,

All dormant or destructive."

In view of the disgraceful controversy which has disturbed the ashes of one of England's greatest poets, it can only be said that Byron asked of life as its final boon, "sleep." Let him then sleep, accusing world!

"It is enough; for him there are

No fruits to pluck, no palms for winning,
No triumph, and no labor, and no lust,
Only dead yew-leaves, and a little dust.
O quiet eyes wherein the light saith naught,
Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night
With obscure finger silences your sight;

Nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought,
Sleep, and have sleep for light!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

MINOR POETS OF HUMBLE BIRTH.

7ORDSWORTH, Coleridge, Southey, Scott, Campbell, Moore, and Byron, whatever discordance there may have been in public opinion in regard to their relative or absolute merits, were oracles to whom all listened, whose inspiration all men acknowledged; yet many other voices there were from which divine words were now heard.

To the humbler bards of this time,

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we owe that reverence and admiration which our Longfellow has thus beautifully expressed,

"Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

"Who through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

"Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer."

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