and pose like figures in an old tapestry. But when he describes
characters like Jeanie Deans, in _The Heart of Midlothian_, and the old
clansman, Evan Dhu, in _Waverley_, we know the very soul of Scotch
womanhood and manhood.

Perhaps one thing more should be said, or rather repeated, of Scott's
enduring work. He is always sane, wholesome, manly, inspiring. We know the
essential nobility of human life better, and we are better men and women
ourselves, because of what he has written.

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824)

There are two distinct sides to Byron and his poetry, one good, the other
bad; and those who write about him generally describe one side or the other
in superlatives. Thus one critic speaks of his "splendid and imperishable
excellence of sincerity and strength"; another of his "gaudy charlatanry,
blare of brass, and big bow-wowishness." As both critics are fundamentally
right, we shall not here attempt to reconcile their differences, which
arise from viewing one side of the man's nature and poetry to the exclusion
of the other. Before his exile from England, in 1816, the general
impression made by Byron is that of a man who leads an irregular life,
poses as a romantic hero, makes himself out much worse than he really is,
and takes delight in shocking not only the conventions but the ideals of
English society. His poetry of this first period is generally, though not
always, shallow and insincere in thought, and declamatory or bombastic in
expression. After his exile, and his meeting with Shelley in Italy, we note
a gradual improvement, due partly to Shelley's influence and partly to his
own mature thought and experience. We have the impression now of a
disillusioned man who recognizes his true character, and who, though
cynical and pessimistic, is at least honest in his unhappy outlook on
society. His poetry of this period is generally less shallow and
rhetorical, and though he still parades his feelings in public, he often
surprises us by being manly and sincere. Thus in the third canto of _Childe
Harold_, written just after his exile, he says:

In my youth's summer I did sing of one,
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;

and as we read on to the end of the splendid fourth canto--with its poetic
feeling for nature, and its stirring rhythm that grips and holds the reader
like martial music--we lay down the book with profound regret that this
gifted man should have devoted so much of