of words.

It must not be forgotten, either, that there existed a certain kind of
timidity among the other elements of his character, and that jesting
often helps to season a tiresome conversation, rendering it less
difficult, besides enabling us to hide our real sentiments.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 149: Galt, p. 218.]

[Footnote 150: Kennedy, p. 301.]

[Footnote 151: See Galt, with regard to Hunt.]

[Footnote 152: Moore, Letter 468.]

[Footnote 153: See chapter on "Religion."]

[Footnote 154: Ibid.]

[Footnote 155: "Don Juan," canto xiv.]

[Footnote 156: See Lord Byron's letter to Mrs. Shelley.]

[Footnote 157: See his "Life in Italy."]

[Footnote 158: "Don Juan," canto viii.]

[Footnote 159: "Don Juan," canto ix.]

[Footnote 160: Ibid. canto viii.]

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE MELANCHOLY OF LORD BYRON.

"To know the real cause of our sadness is near akin to knowing what
we are worth."--PARADOL, _Study on Moralists_.

From all that we have said, and judging from that natural tendency of
his mind to look at even serious things on the ridiculous, laughable
side, would it be correct to infer that Lord Byron was always gay, and
never melancholy? Those maintaining such an opinion, would have to bear
too many contradictions. Physiology, psychology, and history, would
together protest against such an assertion. We affirm, on the contrary,
that Lord Byron was often melancholy; but that, in order to judge well
the nature and shades of his melancholy, it is necessary to analyze and
observe it, not only in his writings, but also in his conduct through
life. Whence arose his melancholy? Was it one of those moral
infirmities, incurable and causeless, commencing from the cradle, like
that of Rene, whose childhood was morose, and whose youth disdainful;
who, ere he had known life, seemed to bend beneath its mysteries; who
knowing not how to be young, will no more know how to be old; who in all
things wanted order, proportion, harmony, truth; who had nothing to
produce equilibrium between the power of genius and the indolence of
will? This kind of melancholy is fatal to the practice of any virtue,
and seems like a sacrifice of heart on the altar of pride. Was it a
melancholy like Werther's, whose senses, stimulated by passion, of which
society opposed the development, carried perturbation also into the
moral regions? Was it the deep mysterious ailment of Hamlet, at once
both meek and full of logic? or th