THE CONSTANCY OF LORD BYRON.
Among Lord Byron's moral virtues, may we count that of constancy? Men in
general, not finding this virtue in their own lives, refuse to believe
in its existence among those who, in exception to the common rule, do
possess it. They must be forced to this act of justice as to many
others. This is comprehensible; constancy is so rare!
"I less easily believe constancy in men than any thing else," says
Montaigne, "and nothing more easily than inconstancy."
Besides the difficulties common to every one, Lord Byron had also to
fight against those difficulties peculiar to his sensitive nature and
his vast intelligence.
"The largest minds," says Bacon, "are the least constant, because they
find reasons for deliberating, where others only see occasion for
acting."
But if these difficulties overcame Lord Bacon's constancy, could they
have the same power over Lord Byron, who was indeed his equal in mind,
but his opposite in conduct and strength of soul? There are three sorts
of constancy: that of affection, which has its source in goodness of
heart; that of taste, flowing from beauty of soul; that of idea, derived
from rectitude of intelligence.
Did Lord Byron possess the whole of these, or only a part? As this may
be chiefly proved, not from writings or words, but by conduct, let us
ask the question of those who knew him personally and at all periods of
his life.
Was he constant in his ideas? Moore, speaking of Lord Byron's
intellectual faculties, of his variableness, of which he makes too much,
for the reasons I have mentioned,[64] and of the danger to which it
exposed his consistency and oneness of character, says:--
"The consciousness, indeed, of his own natural tendency to yield thus to
every chance impression, and change with every passing impulse, was not
only forever present to his mind, but, aware as he was of the suspicion
of weakness attached by the world to any retractation or abandonment of
long-professed opinions, had the effect of keeping him in that general
line of consistency, on certain great subjects, which, notwithstanding
occasional fluctuations and contradictions as to the details of these
very subjects, he continued to preserve throughout life. A passage from
one of his manuscripts will show how sagaciously he saw the necessity of
guarding himself against his own instability in this respect:--'The
world,' he says, 'visits change of politics or change of religion with a
more severe censure than a mere difference of opinion would appear to me
to deserve. But there must be some reason for this feeling, and I think
it is that this departure from the earliest instilled ideas of our
childhood, and from the line of conduct chosen by us when we first enter
into public life, have been seen to have more mischievous results for
society, and to prove more weakness of mind than other actions, in
themselves more immoral.'"
"To superficial observers," says the Hon. Col. Stanhope, "his conduct
might appear uncertain; and that was the case sometimes, but only _up to
a certain point_. His genius was limitless and versatile, and in
conversation he passed boldly from grave to gay, from light to serious
topics; but nevertheless, _upon the whole and in reality_, no man was
more constant, I might almost say _more obstinate_, than Lord Byron _in
the pursuit of great objects_. For instance, in religion and in
politics, he seemed as firm as a rock, though, like a rock, he was
sometimes subject to great shocks, to the convulsions of nature in
commotion. What I affirm is, that Lord Byron had very fixed opinions on
important matters. It is not from the opinion he wished to give of
himself, nor from what he allowed to escape his lips, that I could have
drawn this conclusion; for, in conversing with me on politics or
religion, and passing capriciously over this latter subject, sometimes
laughing and making strings of jests, he would say, for instance, '_the
more I think the more I doubt--I am a thorough skeptic_;' but I find
these words contradicted in _all his actions, and in all his sentiments
seriously expressed from childhood to death_. And I opine that although
occasionally he may have appeared changeable, still he always came back
to certain fixed ideas in his mind; that he always entertained a
constant attachment to liberty according to his notions of liberty; and
that, although not orthodox in religion, he _firmly believed_ in the
existence of a God. It is then equally false to represent him as an
atheist or as an orthodox Christian. Lord Byron was, as he often told
me, _a thorough deist_."[65]
It would be easy to prove in a thousand ways that, despite the danger of
inconstancy resulting from his great sensibility, imagination, and
intellect, no one, more than Lord Byron, steadily and firmly adhered
_through life_ in his actions to the principles which _constitute the
man of honor_. Chances, caprices, inequalities of temper, which are to
sensitive natures what bubbles are on a lake, all disappeared when these
great principles required to be acted upon; and the effects even of his
well-nigh inexhaustible benevolence were checked, if he had to struggle
against his principles. We find in his memoranda, 1813:--"I like George
Byron" (his cousin, the present lord); "I like him much more than one
generally does one's heirs. He is a fine fellow. I would do any thing to
see him advance in his career as a sailor; _any thing except
apostatize_!" (Lord Byron was a _Whig_, and his cousin a _Tory_.)
As it is impossible to quote every thing, I will only say that his
passion for firmness and constancy in the principles of honor, went so
far as to inspire him with repugnance for those characters lacking the
firmness and oneness of action which he considered it a sacred duty to
practice. It is even to this sentiment that must be attributed certain
antipathies which he expressed, sometimes by words and sometimes by
silence, and which have been laid to totally different, and quite
impossible motives. For instance, his silence concerning Chateaubriand,
expressive of his little sympathy for the individual (a silence so much
resented by this proud vindictive poet, and for which he revenged
himself in different ways), was not caused solely by the radical
antagonism existing between their two natures. Assuredly, the literary
affectation, the want of sincerity, the theatrical and declamatory
nature of Chateaubriand's soul, who was positively ill with insatiable
pride, innate and incurable ennui, all this could little assimilate with
the simplicity, sincerity, passionate tenderness and devotion of Lord
Byron. But his repugnance was especially directed against the skeptic,
who made himself the champion of Catholicism, and the liberal who upheld
the divine right of kings.[66]
A few days before Lord Byron set out for his last journey to Greece, a
young man (M. Coullmann) arrived at Genoa, bringing him the admiring
homage of many celebrated men in France, who sent him their respective
works. Among the number were Delavigne and Lamartine. Chateaubriand, of
course, was conspicuous by his absence: but an anecdote Coullmann
related, of what had just occurred at Turin, greatly amused Lord Byron.
Chateaubriand had lately been presented in his capacity of ambassador,
whereupon the queen said to him: "Are you any relation to that
Chateaubriand who has written _something_?"
Lord Byron, laughing heartily at the anecdote, hastened to go and repeat
it to the Countess G----.
The same sentiment had disenchanted him with Monti, whom he had so much
admired at Milan, and with several other rival poets.
When Lord Byron heard it said of any one, "he has changed sides, he has
abandoned his party, he has forfeited his word," one might feel sure
that all his natural indulgence, generally so great, was gone: he looked
upon such a fault as forming only a despicable variety of the vice he
never forgave, viz., untruth. At most, he could only make an exception
in favor of women.
"I have received a very pretty note from Madame de Stael," we read in
his memoranda of 1813; "her works are my delight, and she also (for half
an hour). But I do not like her politics, or, at least, _her changes_ in
politics. If she had been, _aequalis ab incepto_, that would be nothing.
But, she is a woman, ... and, intellectually, she has done more than all
the rest of her sex put together."
Nevertheless, constancy in idea being subservient to the consent of the
mind, must undoubtedly have undergone oscillations with Lord Byron. That
was, however, only the case with regard to ideas which could be
discussed, and which required to pass through the ordeal of long
reflection and practice, before being fully adopted by him. But
religious ideas were not of this number; on the contrary, they held the
first place in the order of those to be accepted and raised into
principles by every man of honor and good sense. For, whatever may have
been his fluctuations with regard to certain points of religious
doctrine, sects and modes of worship, it is certain that in great
fundamental matters his mind never seriously doubted, and thus escaped
the influence of friends less sensible,--of Matthews in his early youth,
and of Shelley at a later period.[67] That touching Prayer to the
Divinity, written in boyhood, and which is so full of hope and faith in
the soul's immortality, and in the existence of a personal God, he might
have signed again when he came to act instead of writing, as also on his
death-bed.[68]
Between the commencement of his career at eighteen and its close at the
age of thirty-six, it is easy to see, by his language, correspondence,
and works, that his mind had passed successively through different
phases before arriving at the last result. The religious idea is more or
less clear. Nevertheless, one perceives a golden ray ever present,
connecting the different periods of his life, keeping up heat and light
in his soul, and giving unity to his whole career. Hope, desire, and I
may almost say, a sort of latent faith, always influenced him until they
merged into the conviction whose light never more abandoned him.
At fifteen years of age, while at Harrow, he fought with Lord Calthorpe
for calling him an _atheist_; at eighteen, he wrote his beautiful
profession of faith in the Prayer to the Divinity, and in the touching
"Adieu," which he wrote when he thought he would soon die. At nineteen,
giving the list in his memoranda of books already read (a list hardly
credible), he says: "With regard to books on religion, I have read
Blair, Porteous, Tillotson, Hooker,--all very tiresome. I detest books
about religion, but I adore and love my God, apart from the blasphemous
notions of sectarians, and without believing in their absurd and
damnable heresies, mysteries, etc." At twenty-one, when he had passed
through the double influence exercised by Pagan classical literature and
German philosophies, and was in a transition state, he wrote "Childe
Harold;" but the skeptical tendencies to be found in one stanza appear
like a bravado, the result of spleen, a feeling that made him suffer,
and which he speedily threw aside. For he wrote, at the same time, the
stanza upon the death of a friend, whom he _hopes to see again in the
land of souls_, and afterward, the elegies to Thyrza, which are full of
_faith in immortality_. At thirty, writing some philosophical
reflections in his memorandum-book, he says: "One can not doubt the
immortality of the soul."
And, elsewhere, he also says that Christianity appears to him
essentially founded on the immateriality of the soul, and that, for this
reason, the Christian materialism of Priestley had always struck him as
being a deadly sort of doctrine. "Believe, if you please," added he, "in
the material resurrection of the body, but not without a soul: it would
be cruel indeed, if, after having had a soul in this world (and our
mind, by whatever name you call it, is really a soul), we were to be
separated from it in the other, even for material immortality! I confess
my partiality for mind."
Alluding to the systems of philosophy that do not admit creation
according to Genesis, he says, that "even if we could get rid of Adam
and Eve, of the apple and the serpent, we should not know what to put in
their place; that the difficulty would not be overcome; that things must
have had a beginning, it matters not when and how; that creation must
have had an origin and a Creator. For creation is much more natural and
easy to imagine than a concurrence of atoms; that all things may be
traced to their sources even though they end by emptying themselves into
an ocean."
We have seen what he said to Parry upon religion[69] and its ministers,
upon God Almighty and the hope of enjoying eternal life, only a few
weeks before his glorious death.
And when the hand of death was already upon him, a few moments before
his agony, did he not say that eternity and space were already before
his eyes, but that on this point, thanks to God, _he was happy and
tranquil?_ that the thought of living _eternally_, of living another
life, was a great consolation to him? that Christianity was the purest
and most liberal of all religions (although a little spoiled by the
ministers of Christ, often the worst enemies of its liberal and
charitable doctrines); but that, as to the questions depending on these
doctrines, and which God alone, all powerful, can determine, in Him
alone did he wish to rest?
But if Lord Byron was constant to a certain order of ideas, was he
equally constant in his affections? Moore again shall answer:--
"The same distrust in his own steadiness, thus keeping alive in him a
conscientious self-watchfulness, concurred not a little, I have no
doubt, with the innate, kindness of his nature, to preserve so constant
and unbroken the greater number of his attachments through life--some of
them, as in the instance of his mother, owing evidently more to a sense
of duty than of real affection, the consistency with which, so
creditably to the strength of his character, they were maintained."
But, putting aside family affections, where constancy may appear a duty
and a necessity, let us see what Lord Byron was in affections of his own
choice,--such as friendship and love, where inconstancy is a sin that
the world easily forgives.
We have seen what the friendship of Lord Byron meant. Death destroyed
several of the young existences with which his heart was bound up, and
his first sorrows sprang from these misfortunes. But _never_ by his
will, caprice, or fault, did he lose a single friend! Even the wrongs
they inflicted, while they weighed upon his mind, altered his opinions
sometimes, dispelled some sweet illusions and grieved his heart, yet
could not succeed in changing it. He contented himself with judging the
individual in such cases, sometimes with philosophical indulgence which
he was only too much accustomed to hide under the veil of pleasantry,
and sometimes in showing openly how much his heart was wounded.[70]
This constancy of heart that he showed in friendship, was it equally his
in matters of love? By his energy of soul, unable ever to forget any
thing, Lord Byron possessed the first condition toward constancy in
love. Contrary to those unstable persons who say that they cease to
love, for the simple reason that they have already loved too much, it
might rather be said of Lord Byron that he still loved on only because
he had loved. In all his poems, he has idealized fidelity and constancy
in love. All the heroes of his poems are faithful and constant, from
Conrad, Lara, Selim, all those of the Oriental poems of his youth, up to
those of his latter life, to his Biblical mysteries. Even the angels,
the seraphim, in that beautiful poem, written shortly before his death,
"Heaven and Earth," prefer suffering to inconstancy,--to forfeit heaven
rather than return there without their beloved. In vain the archangel
Raphael presses the two amorous seraphim to come back to the celestial
sphere, to abandon the two sisters, and menaces them. Samiasa replies:--
"It may not be:
We have chosen, and will endure."
The poet gives it to be understood that they will be punished; which
forms the moral of the piece. Don Juan himself refuses the love of a
beautiful sultana, from fidelity to the remembrance of his Haidee; and
when, afterward, he does yield, he seems to bear with, rather than to
have sought success. One feels that this idealization of fidelity and
constancy really has its source in Lord Byron's heart, and not in his
imagination. Still, however, the chief and undeniable proof must be
drawn from his own life.
The first condition for judging any one impartially with regard to
inconstancy in love, is not only to know the facts and real
circumstances connected with an intimacy, but especially to know the
nature of the sentiment to which the name of love has been applied. We
are aware that, at fifteen years of age, Lord Byron's heart was already
under the influence of a young girl of eighteen.[71] The mere
disproportion of age prevents such an affection from offering any
grounds on which to examine his capability of being constant. It is well
known how much suffering this early passion caused him. The object of
it, after denying him no token of reciprocal love that was innocent,
giving him her picture, agreeing to meetings, receiving all the
spontaneous, innocent, confiding tenderness of his young and ardent
heart, left him in the lurch one fine day, on account of his youth, in
order to marry a fashionable, vulgar man. And thus did she destroy the
charm which governed his heart. Precocious reflection, with its
accompaniment of knowledge, agitating, confusing, throwing young souls
on the road to error, succeeded to his enchantment. He then began (at
sixteen) to talk of vanished illusions; and, for want of something
better, allowed himself to be carried away, and to lead the ordinary
university life. He evidently only did what others did; but he was made
of different materials; and while they thought this dissipation very
natural, and, tranquil in their inferiority, believed themselves
innocent, he alone disapproved of his own conduct and blamed it. The
better to escape all this, he went in search of forgetfulness amid the
fresh breezes of ocean, across the Pyrenees, among the ruins of ancient
civilization. Yet, after two years' travelling, on his return to
England, his soul all love, his heart burning with an infinite ardor,
through that intoxication of success which weakens, through that
eagerness for emotion caused by his vivacity of mind, and even by a sort
of psychological curiosity, Lord Byron did fall into new attachments.
And these attachments, not being of a nature that could stand the trial
of reflection, caused him to give up known for unknown objects. But his
soul was ever agitated, in commotion, and, even when he changed, it was
through necessity rather than caprice. In order to escape once more from
himself, from the allurements of the senses, from the effects of the
enthusiasm which his personal beauty and his genius excited among women,
he resolved to take refuge in an indissoluble tie, in a tie formed by
duty, not love. Perhaps he might have found strength for perseverance in
the beauty of the sacrifice. His soul was quite capable of it. But
destiny pursued him in his choice, and rendered it impossible. To his
misfortune, he married Miss Milbank.[72] Again he drifted away from the
right path, but, this time, with the resolution of keeping his heart
independent, his soul free and unfettered by any indissoluble tie.[73]
But in coming to this determination at the age of twenty-eight, he
had not consulted his heart, ever athirst for infinitude. Vainly
he sought to lull it, to keep it earthward, to laugh at his own
aspirations--useless labor! One day it broke loose. Nature is like
water; sooner or later it must find its equilibrium. From that day
forth Psyche's lamp had no more light; reflection had no more power; and
the love which had taken possession of his soul left him not again, but
accompanied him to his last hour, through the modifications inevitable
in earthly affections. This constancy maintained thenceforth without a
struggle, he understood at once; and felt that the unchanging sentiment
belonged equally to his will and to his destiny. "_Coelum, non animam
mutant qui trans mare currunt_," wrote he one day at Ravenna, on the
opening page of "Jacopo Ortis," Foscolo's work, that had just fallen
into his hands; for he knew that no one could read this avowal of his
heart where he had traced it. After having remarked the strange
coincidence by which this volume was brought a second time before him,
just when he was, as once before, in extreme agitation, he continued
thus:--
"Most men bewail not having attained the object of their desires. I had
oftener to deplore the obtaining mine, for I can not love moderately,
nor quiet my heart with mere fruition. The letters of this Italian
Werther are very interesting; at least I think so, but my present
feelings hardly render me a competent judge."
Another time, a volume of "Corinne," translated into Italian, fell under
his notice at Ravenna. In the same language, which no one then about him
could read, he confided to this book the secret of his heart, and, after
having poured out its fullness in words of noble melting tenderness,
concluded thus:--"Think of me when Alps and sea shall separate us; _but
that will never come to pass, unless you so will it_."
It was not willed, and therefore the separation did not take place. But,
alas! the day arrived when he was so entangled in a multiplicity of
complications, and honor spoke so loudly, that both sides were forced to
will it.
Whoever should consider this departure the result of inconstancy, is
incapable to form an estimate of his great soul. His affection, that had
lasted for years, admitted no longer of any uneasiness, for it was
brought into complete harmony with that of her he loved. Naturally his
heart underwent the transformation produced by time. His affection was
gradually acquiring the sweetness of unchanging friendship, without
losing the charm appertaining to ardor of passion. The sacrifice
entailed by this departure was in proportion to these sentiments.
"Often," says M----, "during the passage we saw his eyes filled with
tears." The sadness described by Mr. Barry of his last visit to Albano
has been seen.[74] These tears and this sadness betray the extent of his
sublime sacrifice! And then, when once arrived in Greece, although
determined to brave all the storms gathering above his head, he wrote
unceasingly to Madame G----, with that ease and simplicity which not
only forbade any exaggeration of sentiment, but even made him restrain
its expression; which was also rendered imperative by the circumstances
then surrounding her.
"I shall fulfill the object of my mission from the committee, and then
... return to Italy.... Pray be as cheerful and tranquil as you can, and
be assured that there is nothing here that can excite any thing but a
wish to be with you again, though we are very kindly treated by the
English here of all descriptions."
"September 11.
"You may be sure that the moment I can join you again will be as
welcome to me as at any period of our acquaintance. There is
nothing very attractive here to occupy my attention; but both honor
and inclination demand that I should serve the Greek cause. I wish
that this cause, as well as the affairs of Spain, were favorably
settled, that I might return to Italy and relate all my adventures
to you."
Thus much for his constancy when he truly loved. It would be worth
inquiry how many men and how many writers have carried their ideal of
constancy into their own life to a higher degree than Lord Byron? My
opinion is that if, the same circumstances given, the number went a
little beyond one, we might consider the result very satisfactory.
After having seen that Lord Byron was unchangeable in great principles
and ideas, as soon as his mind was convinced, and that he was constant
to all the true sentiments of his heart, it still remains to be shown
whether he was equally so in his tastes and habits.
It may be said of most men that they have no character, because they
often vary in taste, and without even perceiving it. That could not be
asserted of Lord Byron, although sometimes, according to his
self-accusing custom, he declared himself to be inconstant.
The truth is that he was, on the contrary, remarkably steadfast in his
tastes. The nature of his preferences, and the conclusions to be drawn
from them, will form the subject of another chapter. We shall only speak
of them here as relating to constancy.
"We shall often have occasion," says Moore, "to remark the fidelity to
early habits and tastes which distinguished Lord Byron." Moore then
observes the extraordinary constancy Lord Byron showed in clinging to
all the impressions of youth; and he adduces as a proof the care with
which he preserved the notes and letters written by his favorite
comrades at school, even when they were younger than himself. These
letters he enriched with dates and notes, after years of long interval,
while very few of his childish effusions have been kept by the opposite
parties. Moore also notes several other features of this constancy,
which he continued to practice throughout life. For instance, his
punctuality in answering letters immediately, despite his distaste for
epistolary effusions; and his love for simple music, such as that of the
ballads that used to attract him at sixteen to Miss Pigott's saloon. It
was partly this same taste that made him enjoy so much, at twenty-six,
the evenings he passed at his friend Kinnaird's house (some months
before his marriage, the last of his London life), when Moore would sing
his favorite songs, bringing tears to Byron's eyes. And it was this same
taste that subsequently drew him to the piano at which Madame G---- sat,
at Ravenna, Pisa, Genoa; and which, when she played or sung Mozart's and
Rossini's favorite motets, made him say that he no longer loved any
other music but hers.
What he had once loved never tired him. Memory was to him like an
enchanter's wand, throwing some charm into objects which in themselves
possessed none. He loved the land where he had loved, however naturally
unattractive it might be: witness Ravenna, and Italy in general.
"Possession of what I truly love," said he, in the very rare moments
when he did himself justice "does not cloy me." He loved the mountains
of Greece, because they recalled those of Scotland; he would have loved
other mountains, because they recalled those of Greece.
A few months before his death, he said in his charming poem "The
Island,"--
"Long have I roam'd through lands which are not mine,
Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine,
Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep
Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep:
But 'twas not all long ages' lore, nor all
_Their_ nature held me in their thrilling thrall;
The infant rapture still survived the boy,
And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Troy,
Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount,
And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount.
Forgive me, Homer's universal shade!
Forgive me, Phoebus! that my fancy stray'd;
The north and nature taught me to adore
Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before."[75]
He would love a place of abode because he had loved when in it. The same
with regard to a dwelling, a walk, a melody, a perfume, a form, and even
a dish; he who cared so little for any sort of food. His childish
impressions, his readings at that age, had a great deal to do with his
choice of poetic subjects afterward; and we find them again reproduced
even in his last dramatic work. "Werner," written in such a fine moral
sense, is the result of the "Canterbury Tale" read in childhood. Never
was man more constant in his habits and tastes than he; and, indeed, it
required that indefinable charm of soul he possessed, and which pervaded
his whole being, to prevent monotony from perverting this quality into a
fault.
Why, then, have his biographers talked so much of his mobility, if it
were not to make Lord Byron pass for a creature swayed by every fresh
impulse, and incapable of steady feeling? I have given the first reason
elsewhere.[76] But I will add another, namely, that they have
transferred the qualities of the _poet to the man_ in an erroneous
manner; that to the versatility of his genius (one of his great gifts,
and which ever belong to him) they have added mobility of character such
as often, too often, perhaps, influenced his conversation, and tinctured
his external fictitious nature. But they have done so without examining
his actions, without reflecting that this mobility vanished as it was
written, or in the light play of his witty conversation, or the trivial
acts of his life. Otherwise they would have been forced to confess, that
it never had any influence on his conduct in matters of moment, that he
was persevering and firm to an extremely rare degree in all things
_essential_ and which constitute _man in his moral and social capacity_.
We may then sum up by saying that Lord Byron generally established on an
impregnable rock, guarded by unbending principles, those great virtues
to which principles are essential; but that, after making these
treasures secure--for treasures they are to the man of honor and
worth--once having placed them beyond the reach of sensibility and
sentiment, he may sometimes have allowed the _lesser virtues_ (within
ordinary bonds) such indulgence as flowed from his kindly nature, and
such as his youth rendered natural to a feeling heart and ardent
imagination. Like all men, he was only truly firm under serious
circumstances, when he wished to show energy in fulfilling a duty. Thus
Lord Byron allowed his pen to jest, to mark the follies of men:
sometimes attacking them boldly in front, sometimes aiming light arrows
aslant, ridiculing, chastising, as humor or fancy prompted; and he gave
himself the same liberty of language in private conversation, according
to the character of those with whom he conversed. On all these occasions
his genius undoubtedly gave itself up to versatility. But let us not
forget that all that which changes and becomes effaced in hearts of
inconstant mood, and which ought not to change in men of honor and
worth, never did vary in him. Let us acknowledge, in short, that, if
mobility belonged to the _sensitive_ parts of his nature, constancy no
less characterized his _moral and intellectual_ being.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 64: See chapter on "Mobility."]
[Footnote 65: Stanhope, Parry, 235.]
[Footnote 66: See Sainte-Beuve, vol. i. p. 286.]
[Footnote 67: See chapter on "Religion."]
[Footnote 68: See this prayer in chapter on "Religion."]
[Footnote 69: See chapter on "Religion."]
[Footnote 70: See octaves 48, 49 and 50, canto xiv. "Don Juan;" and
several in "Childe Harold," cantos iii. and iv.]
[Footnote 71: See chapter on "Generosity."]
[Footnote 72: See chapter on "Marriage."]
[Footnote 73: See "Life at Venice, at Milan."]
[Footnote 74: See chapter on "Strength of Soul."]
[Footnote 75: "The Island," canto ii. stanza 12.]
[Footnote 76: See chapter on "Mobility."]