dark sorrow before his soul was
rescued and purified. I do not care for him when he is grinning and
merry. He could play the buffoon when he willed--and a very unpleasant
buffoon he was in his day; but Sorrow claimed him, and he came forth
purified to speak to us by Prospero's lips. He had his struggle to
compass resignation, he even seems to have felt himself degraded, and
there is almost a weak complaint in that terrible sonnet, "No longer
mourn for me when I am dead;" but his heart-strings held; he kept his
dignity at the last, and he gave us the splendours of "The Tempest." I
have no manner of superstition about the great poet--indeed I feel
sure that at one time of his life he was what we call a bad man, his
self-reproaches hinting all too plainly at forms of wickedness, moral
wickedness, which pass far beyond the ordinary vice which society
condemns--but I am sure that he became as good as he was serene; and I
like to trace the phases of his sorrow up to the time of his triumph.

Of late it has been the fashion to talk about Byron's theatrical
sorrow. One much-advertised critic went so far as to speak of "Byron's
vulgar selfishness." It might have been supposed that incontestable
evidence had come before him; but a careful perusal of the documents
will prove that, though Byron was as selfish as most other men during
his mad misguided youth, yet, after sorrow had blanched his noble
head, he cast off all that was vile in him and emerged from the
fire-discipline as the most helpful and utterly unselfish of men. His
last calm gentle letter to the woman who drove him out of England is
simply perfect in its dignified humility; and the poorest creature
that ever snarled may see from that letter that grief had turned the
wayward fierce poet into a gentle and forbearing man who had suffered
so much that he could not find it in his heart to inflict suffering on
his worst enemy. I call the Byron of the Abbey a bad man; the Byron
whose home became the home of pure charity--charity done in
secret--was a good man.

Sorrow may appear repulsive and men bid her "Avaunt!" Yet out of
sorrow all that is noblest and highest in poesy and art has arisen;
and all that is noblest in life has been achieved by the
sorrow-stricken. Joy has given us much; and those who have once known
what real earthly joy means should be content to pass unrepining to
the Shades; but Sorrow's gifts are priceless, and no man can appraise
their worth. Even p