lt in the shape of axioms, was well calculated to lead a
youthful mind astray, and make a relative appear an absolute truth. For
a while, Lord Byron also seemed to confound the self-love that merges
into real hateful egotism, with that which constitutes the principle of
life, and which, under the influence of heart and intelligence, claims
the high name of virtue. He seemed to doubt of many things, and to be
uneasy at the best impulses of his heart. We may remember that he
accused himself of selfishness, because he took pleasure in the exercise
of amiable virtues. But then that was only the passing error of a
youthful mind, filled with an ideal of excellence too high for reality;
and therefore coming into rude contact with deceptions and sorrows. In
those days, recalling the fine pictures of life and mankind that had
been presented to him as realities, especially at his first onset, and
perceiving how different things actually were, seeing men pursue their
fellow-men, and ascribe vices to the good and virtues to the bad, not
even finding in his friends the qualities that distinguished his own
heart, indignant at seeing so many persons sought after for their
attractions, despite the vices that defaced them, his soul revolted at
the sight--saddened too--and he exclaimed, sorrowfully, in his
memoranda:--"_Yes, La Rochefoucault is right._"

An illusion might find place in Lord Byron's mind, but it could not
last; and if people will read with attention what he has written, they
will soon understand the great difference existing between him and the
author of the "Maxims." Without even speaking of that which separates
prose from poetry, an axiom from a hasty expression, grave from gay,
maxims from satire, the difference is still enormous. Lord Byron had not
received from nature, any more than the author of the "Maxims," the gift
of seeing things in a roseate hue. On the contrary, from his habit of
profound observation, he too often saw them enveloped in sombre colors.
But, on the other hand, he had received such a great gift of
perspicacity and exactness that things false and fictitious could no
more resist his glance than fog can resist the rays of the sun. La
Rochefoucault is certainly an admirable painter, but he never takes a
likeness otherwise than by profile. Just as our satellite turns round
our planet, only showing us its volcanoes and calcined summits, and
leaving us in ignorance of the other side; just so did La Roche