outh made you the hypocritical confession. An
Atheist it is impossible to find--to admit his existence is to outrage the
Sovereign of the World, who, in perfecting his noblest work, did not
forget to engrave there the name of its immortal Author. Passions may
arouse doubts; but when the Atheist questions himself, the evidence of a
God confounds his incredulity, and the truth of the sentiment which fills
his thoughts absolves him of the crime of Atheism. It is easy for you, my
father, never to murmur against the Author of your being; you, who, in the
gentle quiet of a life exempt from storms; have acquired the conviction
that the sun of your old age will illumine the same scenes as did that of
your youth. As for me--thrown on the earth like a disinherited child, born
to feel happiness, and never finding it--I wander from climate to climate,
with the sentiment of my everlasting misery. Since reason has unfolded to
me the feeling of my wretchedness, nothing has yet tempered the bitterness
of my distress. Fed with the hate of men--betrayed by those whose kindness
I compared to that of angels--attacked by an incurable disease, which has
swept away my ancestors--tell me, man of truth, if murmurs excited by
despair can characterize an Atheist, and bring upon him the anger of
Heaven. Oh! unhappy Byron!! if after so many mortal trials thy last hope
of salvation is taken from thee--well!!"--Here the voice of my lord
faltered.

His gloomy silence lasted nearly a quarter of an hour. All on a sudden he
rose from his chair with eagerness, and walked round the room, stopping
before the holy pictures which adorned it. A moment after he came to me,
and said, "Do you remember that you promised a month ago to give me
certain things which you possess?"--"I possess very little, and that
little has nothing which can tempt you: however, speak!"--"I remember the
words of your answer, and you can no longer refuse me anything." Then he
advanced towards a corner of my room, and taking down a beautiful crucifix
which I had brought from Rome, he placed it in my hands. I offered it to
Byron, saying, "_This is the consoler of the unhappy_." He seized it
with transport, and kissing it several times, he added, with eyes bathed
in tears, "My hands shall not long profane it, and my mother will soon be
the guardian of your precious relic!"

* * * * *

To griefs congenial prone,
More wounds than nature gave he knew,