Of late it has been the fashion to talk about Byron’s theatrical sorrow.  One much-advertised critic went so far as to speak of “Byron’s vulgar selfishness.”  It might have been supposed that incontestable evidence had come before him; but a careful perusal of the documents will prove that, though Byron was as selfish as most other men during his mad misguided youth, yet, after sorrow had blanched his noble head, he cast off all that was vile in him and emerged from the fire-discipline as the most helpful and utterly unselfish of men.  His last calm gentle letter to the woman who drove him out of England is simply perfect in its dignified humility; and the poorest creature that ever snarled may see from that letter that grief had turned the wayward fierce poet into a gentle and forbearing man who had suffered so much that he could not find it in his heart to inflict suffering on his worst enemy.  I call the Byron of the Abbey a bad man; the Byron whose home became the home of pure charity—­charity done in secret—­was a good man.

Sorrow may appear repulsive and men bid her “Avaunt!” Yet out of sorrow all that is noblest and highest in poesy and art has arisen; and all that is noblest in life has been achieved by the sorrow-stricken.  Joy has given us much; and those who have once known what real earthly joy means should be content to pass unrepining to the Shades; but Sorrow’s gifts are priceless, and no man can appraise their worth.  Even poor Carlyle’s sorrow, which was oftentimes aught but noble, if all tales be true, was sufficient to endow us with the most splendid of modern books.  It is strange to see how that crabbed man with the passionately-loving heart keeps harping on the beneficence of sorrow.  Once he spoke of “Sorrow’s fire-whips”; but usually his strain is far, far different.  He cleaves to the noble and sorrowful figures that crowd his sombre galleries; and I do not know that he ever gives more than a light and careless word of praise to any but his melancholy heroes.  Cromwell, Abbot Sampson, the bold Ziethen, Danton, Mirabeau, Mahomet, Burns, “the great, melancholy Johnson,” and even Napoleon and Luther—­all are sorrowful, all are beautiful.  Peace to them, and peace to the strong soul that made them all live again for the world!

XXIV.

DEATH.

The air of mystery which most of us assume when we speak about the great change that marks the bound of our mortal progress has engendered a kind of paralysing terror which makes ordinary people shudder at the notion of bodily extinction.  We are glad enough to enjoy the beautiful things of life, we welcome the rapture of love, the delight of the sun, the promise of spring, the glory of strength; and yet forsooth we must needs tremble at the grand beneficent close which rounds off our earthly strivings and completes one stage in our everlasting progress.  Why should we not speak as frankly of Death as we do of love