udgment," and many other things; that the fifth
act of "Sardanapalus" was the work of forty-eight hours, and the fifth
act of "Werner" of one night; that during another year passed between
Pisa and Genoa, in the midst of annoyances, sorrows, perpetual changes,
he wrote ten cantos of "Don Juan," his admirable mystery of "Heaven and
Earth," his delightful poem of the "Island," the "Age of Bronze," etc.
When we see all that, it must be acknowledged that if Lord Byron, in
devoting himself to poetry, took a false step for his own happiness, it
did not mar the manifestation of his genius. But if the world had cause
to applaud, he did not share this sentiment. It might almost be said
that he always wrote unwillingly; and certainly it may be added that
fame never inspired him with vanity. That noble desire might, doubtless,
have made his heart beat for a while, but it yielded to his
philosophical spirit. If at twenty-six, being repelled from public
business by the political bias of the day, and from a military career by
other circumstances, he could write in his memoranda "I am not
ambitious," how much more disposed did he feel to renounce every kind of
ambition two years later, when he was leaving England, full of disgust,
and having sounded all the depths of the human soul.

"The wise man is cured of ambition by ambition itself," says La
Bruyere; "he tends toward such great things that he can not confine
himself to what are called treasures, high posts, fortune, and favor. He
sees nothing in such poor advantages _good_ or _solid_ enough to fill
_his heart_, to deserve his cares and desires; and it even requires
strong efforts for him not to disdain them too much. The only good
capable of tempting him is that sort of fame which ought to be the meed
of pure, simple virtue; but men are not wont to give it, and he is fain
to go without it."

The only advantage Lord Byron wished to derive from his reputation was
to render it subservient to his heart--the true focus of his noble
existence. Even in the first days of youth, when his pulses beat
strongly for glory, it is evident that he would make it tributary to
heart--a means rather than an end. But this became more and more
conspicuous when he had really attained to fame. In Italy especially he
had become quite indifferent to the pompous praise accorded by reviews,
while a single word emanating from the heart made an impression on him,
ofttimes causing tears to start. He wrote to