ini Gallery at Venice, which is so rich in
_chefs-d'oeuvre_, he admits the charm of painting, and exclaims:--

"Among them there is a portrait of Ariosto by Titian, surpassing all my
anticipation of the power of painting or human expression; it is the
poetry of portrait and the portrait of poetry. Here was also a portrait
of a lady of the olden times, celebrated for her talents, whose name I
forget, but whose features must always be remembered. I never saw
greater beauty or sweetness, or wisdom; it is the kind of face to go mad
about, because it can not detach itself from its frame."

Our readers are aware with what obstinate determination the public voice
proclaimed Lord Byron a skeptic, and still does. Nor will we here
examine whether that epithet is merited, because a soul has been
sometimes visited by the malady always more or less afflicting great
minds; we will not ask if disquietude--which constitutes the dignity of
our nature; if the torture caused by doubts and universal uncertainty,
by the impossibility of explaining what is, or of comprehending what
will be, if all this deserve to be called skepticism. It is not
necessary to enter into the subject here, because we have already
examined in another chapter[202] with what foundation such a name was
applied to Lord Byron.

Now, we will content ourselves with adding that it was his love of truth
and his delicacy of conscience which caused, in a great measure, what
has been called his skepticism. For these sentiments would not allow him
to affirm things that many others perhaps affirm, without believing more
in them. Moreover, he appears sometimes to have been _persuaded that
doubt was the feeling least removed from truth_.

THIS QUALITY RISES TO A VIRTUE.

If Lord Byron's passion for truth had simply remained within the limits
already described, it would have given earnest of a noble soul, more
gifted than others, with instincts of a higher order; it would have
lighted up his social character, given the charm of that frankness so
delightful in his manners, conversation, style; so attractive in the
expression of his fine countenance; but still it would only have been a
natural quality, without any more right to the name of virtue than all
the other beautiful instincts he had received from Heaven; but, when
ceasing to be purely natural, it became a distinguishing characteristic
of the author, then it went far beyond these limits. In his writings it
raised him