hich he moved; that the idols he had believed of precious metal,
were, in reality, made of vile clay. Then he also resolved on taking his
degrees in vice; but, unlike others, he did so _with disgust_, and he
called satiety, not the _quantity_, but the _quality_ of the aliment. A
year before he had also said: "_I have found that a friend may promise
and yet deceive._"

Magnanimous as he was, he made advances to the guilty friend, and took
half the blame on himself; but in vain was he generous, saying, with
tears that flowed from his heart to his pen:--

"You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence,
If danger demanded, were wholly your own;
You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance,
Devoted to love and to friendship alone."

And then:--

"Repentance will cancel the vow you have made."

And again:

"With me no corroding resentment shall live:
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection,
That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive."

The friend did not return, and Lord Byron's generous, pure, delicate
nature--fearful lest he might be in the wrong--could only find peace in
trying to offer reparation. He wrote to Lord Clare:--

"I have, therefore, made all the reparation in my power, by apologizing
for my mistake, though with very faint hopes of success. His answer has
not arrived, and, most probably, never will. However, I have eased my
own conscience by the atonement, which is humiliating enough to one of
my disposition; yet I could not have slept satisfied with the reflection
of having, even unintentionally, injured any individual. I have done all
that could be done to repair the injury, and there the affair must rest.
Whether we renew our intimacy or not is of very trivial consequence."

But although he could no longer rely entirely upon his heart for
defending his loved illusions so cruelly attacked by reality, yet it was
not possible for him to put out of sight his ideal of all the beauties
of soul whose presence was a condition of his being. And it was this
presence that made material dissipated life, and also the intellectual
routine existence at Granta, both appear so unattractive to him. He
wrote a satire on them, and the blame inflicted shows his fine nature.
When evil was thus judged, thus condemned, alike by pen and heart, there
could be no real danger; not even had it power to sadden him. A more
formidable peril menaced him from another side. Sadness might now