know him, we know a whole literature; if we meditate hereon, we shall
say that Goethe has not exaggerated. It is the same with the rest of
Byron's dramas. Over and above the beauty of detached passages, there
is in each one of them a large and universal meaning, or rather meaning
within meaning, precisely the same for no reader, but none the less
certain, and as inexhaustible as the meanings of Nature. This is one
reason why the wisdom of a selection from Byron is so doubtful. The
worth of "Cain," of "Sardanapalus," of "Manfred," of "Marino Faliero,"
is the worth of an outlook over the sea; and we cannot take a sample of
the scene from a cliff by putting a pint of water into a bottle. But
Byron's critics and the compilers tell us of failures, which ought not
to survive, and that we are doing a kindness to him if we suppress these
and exhibit him at his best. No man who seriously cares for Byron will
assent to this doctrine. We want to know the whole of him, his weakness
as well as his strength; for the one is not intelligible without the
other. A human being is an indivisible unity, and his weakness IS his
strength, and his strength IS his weakness.

It is not my object now, however, to justify what Mr. Arnold calls the
Byronic "superstition." I hope I could justify a good part of it, but
this is not the opportunity. I cannot resist, however, saying a word by
way of conclusion on the manner in which Byron has fulfilled what seems
to me one of the chief offices of the poet. Mr. Arnold, although he is
so dissatisfied with Byron because he "cannot reflect," would probably
in another mood admit that "reflections" are not what we demand of a
poet. We do not ask of him a rhymed book of proverbs. He should rather
be the articulation of what in Nature is great but inarticulate. In him
the thunder, the sea, the peace of morning, the joy of youth, the rush
of passion, the calm of old age, should find words, and men should
through him become aware of the unrecognised wealth of existence. Byron