Such seem to have been the chief features of hope which the state of Greece, at this moment, presented.  But though giving promise, perhaps, of a lengthened continuance of the struggle, they, in that very promise, postponed indefinitely the period of its success; and checked and counteracted as were these auspicious appearances by the manifold and inherent evils above enumerated,—­by a consideration, too, of the resources and obstinacy of the still powerful Turk, and of the little favour with which it was at all probable that the Courts of Europe would ever regard the attempt of any people, under any circumstances, to be their own emancipators,—­none, assuredly, but a most sanguine spirit could indulge in the dream that Greece would be able to work out her own liberation, or that aught, indeed, but a fortuitous concurrence of political circumstances could ever accomplish it.  Like many other such contests between right and might, it was a cause destined, all felt, to be successful, but at its own ripe hour;—­a cause which individuals might keep alive, but which events, wholly independent of them, alone could accomplish, and which, after the hearts, and hopes, and lives of all its bravest defenders had been wasted upon it, would at last to other hands, and even to other means than those contemplated by its first champions, owe its completion.

That Lord Byron, on a nearer view of the state of Greece, saw it much in the light I have here regarded it in, his letters leave no room to doubt.  Neither was the impression he had early received of the Greeks themselves at all improved by the present renewal of his acquaintance with them.  Though making full allowance for the causes that had produced their degeneracy, he still saw that they were grossly degenerate, and must be dealt with and counted upon accordingly.  “I am of St. Paul’s opinion,” said he, “that there is no difference between Jews and Greeks,—­the character of both being equally vile.”  With such means and materials, the work of regeneration, he knew, must be slow; and the hopelessness he therefore felt as to the chances of ever connecting his name with any essential or permanent benefit to Greece, gives to the sacrifice he now made of himself a far more touching interest than had the consciousness of dying for some great object been at once his incitement and reward.  He but looked upon himself,—­to use a favourite illustration of his own,—­as one of the many waves that must break and die upon the shore, before the tide they help to advance can reach its full mark.  “What signifies Self,” was his generous thought, “if a single spark of that which would be worthy of the past can be bequeathed unquenchedly to the future?"[1] Such was the devoted feeling with which he embarked in the cause of Italy; and these words, which, had they remained only words, the unjust world would have pronounced but an idle boast, have now received from his whole course in Greece a practical comment, which gives them all the right of truth to be engraved solemnly on his tomb.