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 to pay his last respects to his remains; 'a simple but emphatic testimony,' observes Mr. Galt, 'to the sincerity of that regard which his lordship often inspired, and which, with more steadiness, he might always have commanded.'

The character of lord Byron has, of late years, been so frequently and elaborately discussed, that a lengthened dissertation upon it, in this place would be equally tedious and superfluous. Its best development is furnished by his memoirs, and having read these, we may, without fear of controversy, come to the conclusion, that in regard to his relation to society he was neither a great nor a good man. Had he been desirous of becoming so, it was not impossible for him to have succeeded; the path of rectitude was not a greater mystery to him than to other men; and the metaphysical subtlety that has been employed to prove him the possessor of high and virtuous principles, only shows how far he has diverged from the track to which his panegyrists would wish to restore him. It has been said, that he was not driven to profligacy by inclination, but was goaded into it by the world's attributing to him vices of which he was not guilty, but which he in consequence, out of scorn and defiance, chose to commit. 'I took,' he himself says, 'my gradation in the vices with great promptitude, but they were not to my taste; I could not be a libertine without disgust; and yet this very disgust, and my heart thrown back upon itself, threw me into excesses, perhaps, more fatal than those from which I shrank.' This is a metaphysical apology, calculated, perhaps, to mystify the judgment, and cajole the sympathies, of a portion of mankind, towards him by whom it is put forth; but, surely, it is nothing more than the reckless avowal of a perverted and a depraved mind, too indolent, too weak, or too proud, to adopt any other mode of blunting the sting of one vice, than by plunging into another still more odious. We confess we are not among those who see in the circumstances of his lordship's life sufficient reason for that waywardness of mind and conduct, of which his poetical and moral character form so singular a combination; and from which, after all, he only averts our contempt, by investing it with an aspect that disdains our pity. Lord Byron is not the only sensitive young man who has entered upon life with blighted hopes, but it is doubtful whether the remembrance of them would be accepted as an apology for a similar career to that of his lordship, even though the sufferer possessed not the faculty of venting his anguish in verse, the opportunity of drowning it in dissipation, or the means and leisure of softening it by travel and amusement.

The subject of our memoir, however, was not without redeeming qualities: he was brave, generous and benevolent; but he was also passionate, disingenuous, and resentful; and more ready to inflict a wound, than to submit to one himself. He was sensitive to a painful degree, both in his sentiments, and his feelings; but, though he writhed under an attack upon either, his pride hindered him from showing what he suffered, even when such emotions proceeded from impulses the most honorable to human nature. He certainly took pleasure in showing the dark side of his character to the world; for those who were admitted to an unreserved intimacy with him, give indubitable testimony of his possessing, in a very eminent degree, all the social and companionable qualities, a heart exquisitely alive to the kindness of others towards himself, and a hand unhesitatingly prompt in complying with the supplications of distress. There is, indeed, no reason