illain
never knows that he is villainous; if he did, he would cease to be a
villain.

Perhaps Byron's own peculiar disposition--his constitution--prevented
him from understanding the undoubted truth which I have stated. Like
all other men, he possessed a dual nature; there was bad in him and
good, and his force was such that the bad was very bad indeed, and the
good was as powerful in its way as the evil. During the brief time
that Byron employed in behaving as a bad man, his conduct reached
almost epic heights--or depths--of misdoing; but he never in his heart
seemed to recognise the fact that he had been a bad man. At any rate,
he was wrong; and the commonest knowledge of our wild world suffices
to show any reasoning man the gravity of the error propounded in my
quotation. As we study the history of the frivolous race of men, it
sometimes seems hard to disbelieve the theory of Descartes. The great
Frenchman held that man and other animals are automata; and, were it
not that such a theory strikes at the root of morals, we might almost
be tempted to accept it in moments of weakness, when the riddle of the
unintelligible earth weighs heavily on the tired spirit. I find that
every prominent scoundrel known to us pursued his work of sin with an
absolute unconsciousness of all moral law until pain or death drew
near; then the scoundrel cringed like a cur under the scourges of
remorse. Thackeray, in a fit of spasmodic courage, painted the
archetypal scoundrel once and for all in "Barry Lyndon," and he
practically said the last word on the subject; for no grave analysis,
no reasoning, can ever improve on that immortal and most moving
picture of a wicked man. Observe the masterpiece. Lyndon goes on with
his narrative from one horror to another; he exposes his inmost soul
with cool deliberation; and the author's art is so consummate that we
never for a moment sympathise with the fiend who talks so
mellifluously--the narrative of ill-doing unfolds itself with all the
inevitable precision of an operation of nature, and we see the human
soul at its worst. But Thackeray did not make Byron's mistake; and
throughout the book the Chevalier harps with deadly persistence on his
own virtues. He does not exactly whine, but he lets you know that he
regards himself as being very much wronged by the envious caprices of
his fellow-men. His tongue is the tongue of a saint, and, even when he
owns to any doubtful transaction, he takes care to l