You, whose true name the world still ignores,
Mysterious spirit, mortal, angel, or demon,
Whoever you are, Byron, good, or fatal genius,
I love the wild harmony of your concerts,
As I love the noise of lightning and winds,
Mingling in the storm with the voice of torrents.

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Lamartine

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His hands were as beautiful as art could make them. His face appeared calm like the waves on a beautiful spring morning: but like that, it suddenly changed into a stormy and terrible one, if a passion (what do I say a passion?), a thought, a word, came to move his soul. His eyes then lost all sweetness, and sparkled so that it would be difficult to look into them. You would not have believed such a rapid change possible, but you had to confess that the natural state of his soul was that of a storm. His height left nothing to be desired, in particular by those who found a certain light and slow swaying of his body when he entered a room more a charm than a defect, the cause of which, however, you did not feel at all tempted to seek. You would hardly have recognized a fault, since he wore a dress so long that Juno’s bird would have envied it.

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He was never seen walking in the streets of Venice, nor along the pleasant banks of the Brenta, where he spent some weeks of the summer: and there are even those who claim to have never seen him, except from the windows, nor in that marvel of St. Mark’s Square: so great was his desire not to show any part of his person so flawed as when he moved! I am, however, of the opinion that he admired it several times, but at a late and solitary hour, and when the marvelous buildings surrounding it, illuminated by the soft and favorable light of the moon, appear a thousand times more beautiful.

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His heart was extremely sensitive, and allowed itself to be governed excessively by sympathy; but his imagination carried him away and spoiled everything. He believed in presentiments, and he liked to remember that he shared this belief with Napoleon. It seems that as much as his intellectual education was cultivated, his moral education was equally neglected, and that he was never allowed to recognize and follow any will other than his own. Nonetheless, who could persuade himself that he had a constant and almost childish shyness, despite the repugnance he felt in reconciling with Lord Byron any feeling that had the appearance of modesty?

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Conscious as he was, that wherever he appeared all eyes turned to him, and all lips, especially those of women, opened to say “there he is, there he is, Lord Byron,” he must naturally find himself like a character on a stage, obliged to perform and to give an account, I will not say to others, for he cared little about that, but to himself, of his every movement, of his every word. This caused him a feeling of uneasiness, which everyone clearly perceived.

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He said on a certain subject (which was on everyone’s lips in eighteen hundred and fourteen) that the world was neither worth the trouble of conquering nor the regret of losing it: which saying (if ever the value of an expression could be compared to that of many great facts) would show Byron’s thinking and feeling to be almost more gigantic and immeasurable than that of him which the discourse was about. I will say nothing of his poetic value, of which I believe only his fellow citizens are the best judges. They assert that he left an immense void in British literature.

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His voice was sweet and very flexible. He spoke very sweetly unless contradicted, but he was more willing to address his neighbor than the entire group. Food was very meager for him, and he preferred fish to meat, for the singular reason that the latter, he said, made him ferocious. He disliked seeing women eat, and it is worth investigating the cause of this strange disgust, for he always feared that the image of their perfection, indeed their almost divine nature, which he so pleased to nourish of them, would be disturbed. Having always been dominated by them, it seems that self-love itself loved to take refuge in the idea of ​​their excellence: a feeling that he knew, God knows how! to reconcile with the contempt in which he then, almost as an outlet for his soul, showed himself to hold them. However, contradictions should not surprise in characters like that of Lord Byron: and then who does not know that the slave always hates what is above him?

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It would be to little purpose to dwell upon the mere beauty of a countenance in which the expression of an extraordinary mind was so conspicuous. What serenity was seated on the forehead, adorned with the finest chestnut hair, light, curling, and disposed with such art, that the art was hidden in the imitation of most pleasing nature! What varied expression in his eyes! They were of the azure colour of the heavens, from which they seemed to derive their origin. His teeth, in form, in colour, and transparency, resembled pearls; but his cheeks were too delicately tinged with the hue of the pale rose. His neck, which he was in the habit of keeping uncovered as much as the usages of society permitted, seemed to have been formed in a mould, and was very white.

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He was never seen to walk through the streets of Venice nor along the pleasant banks of the Brenta, where he spent some weeks of the summer; and there are some who assert that he has never seen, excepting from a window, the wonders of the ‘Piazza di San Marco;’—so powerful in him was the desire of not showing himself to be deformed in any part of his person. I, however, believe that he has often gazed on those wonders, but in the late and solitary hours when the stupendous edifices which surrounded him, illuminated by the soft and placid light of the moon, appeared a thousand times more lovely.

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His face appeared tranquil like the ocean on a fine spring morning; but, like it, in an instant became changed into the tempestuous and terrible, if a passion, (a passion did I say?) a thought, a word, occurred to disturb his mind. His eyes then lost all their sweetness, and sparkled so that it became difficult to look on them. So rapid a change would not have been thought possible; but it was impossible to avoid acknowledging that the natural state of his mind was the tempestuous.

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What delighted him greatly one day annoyed him the next; and whenever he appeared constant in the practice of any habits, it arose merely from the indifference, not to say contempt, in which he held them all: whatever they might be, they were not worthy that he should occupy his thoughts with them. His heart was highly sensitive, and suffered itself to be governed in an extraordinary degree by sympathy; but his imagination carried him away, and spoiled every thing. He believed in presages, and delighted in the recollection that he held this belief in common with Napoleon.

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It appeared that, in proportion as his intellectual education was cultivated, his moral education was neglected, and that he never suffered himself to know or observe other restraints than those imposed by his inclinations. Nevertheless, who could believe that he had a constant, and almost infantine timidity, of which the evidences were so apparent as to render its existence indisputable, notwithstanding the difficulty experienced in associating with Lord Byron a sentiment which had the appearance of modesty. Conscious as he was that, wherever he presented himself, all eyes were fixed on him, and all lips, particularly those of the women, were opened to say ‘There he is, that is Lord Byron,’—he necessarily found himself in the situation of an actor obliged to sustain a character, and to render an account, not to others (for about them he gave himself no concern), but to himself, of his every action and word. This occasioned him a feeling of uneasiness which was obvious to every one.

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His gymnastic exercises were sometimes violent, and at others almost nothing. His body, like his spirit, readily accommodated itself to all his inclinations. During an entire winter, he went out every morning alone to row himself to the island of Armenians (a small island situated in the midst of a tranquil lake, and distant from Venice about half a league), to enjoy the society of those learned and hospitable monks, and to learn their difficult language; and, in the evening, entering again into his gondola, he went, but only for a couple of hours, into company. A second winter, whenever the water of the lake was violently agitated, he was observed to cross it, and landing on the nearest terra firma, to fatigue at least two horses with riding.

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No one ever heard him utter a word of French, although he was perfectly conversant with that language. He hated the nation and its modern literature; in like manner, he held the modern Italian literature in contempt, and said it possessed but one living author,—a restriction which I know not whether to term ridiculous, or false and injurious. His voice was sufficiently sweet and flexible. He spoke with much suavity, if not contradicted, but rather addressed himself to his neighbour than to the entire company.

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Very little food sufficed him; and he preferred fish to flesh for this extraordinary reason, that the latter, he said, rendered him ferocious. He disliked seeing women eat; and the cause of this extraordinary antipathy must be sought in the dread he always had, that the notion he loved to cherish of their perfection and almost divine nature might be disturbed. Having always been governed by them, it would seem that his very self-love was pleased to take refuge in the idea of their excellence,—a sentiment which he knew how (God knows how) to reconcile with the contempt in which, shortly afterwards, almost with the appearance of satisfaction, he seemed to hold them. But contradictions ought not to surprise us in characters like Lord Byron’s; and then, who does not know that the slave holds in detestation his ruler?

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Lord Byron disliked his countrymen, but only because he knew that his morals were held in contempt by them. The English, themselves rigid observers of family duties, could not pardon him the neglect of his, nor his trampling on principles; therefore neither did he like being presented to them, nor did they, especially when they had their wives with them, like to cultivate his acquaintance. Still there was a strong desire in all of them to see him, and the women in particular, who did not dare to look at him but by stealth, said in an under voice, ‘What a pity it is!’ If, however, any of his compatriots of exalted rank and of high reputation came forward to treat him with courtesy, he showed himself obviously flattered by it, and was greatly pleased with such association. It seemed that to the wound which remained always open in his ulcerated heart, such soothing attentions were as drops of healing balm, which comforted him.

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Speaking of his marriage,—a delicate subject, but one still agreeable to him, if it was treated in a friendly voice,—he was greatly moved, and said it had been the innocent cause of all his errors and all his griefs. Of his wife he spoke with much respect and affection. He said she was an illustrious lady, distinguished for the qualities of her heart and understanding, and that all the fault of their cruel separation lay with himself. Now, was such language dictated by justice or by vanity? Does it not bring to mind the saying of Julius, that the wife of Cæsar must not even be suspected? What vanity in that saying of Cæsar! In fact, if it had not been from vanity, Lord Byron would have admitted this to no one. Of his young daughter, his dear Ada, he spoke with great tenderness, and seemed to be pleased at the great sacrifice he had made in leaving her to comfort her mother. The intense hatred he bore his mother-in-law, and a sort of Euryclea of Lady Byron,—two women, to whose influence he, in a great measure, attributed her estrangement from him,—demonstrated clearly how painful the separation was to him, notwithstanding some bitter pleasantries which occasionally occur in his writings against her also, dictated rather by rancour than by indifference.

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When he tried to translate his verses, he grew pale and almost trembled for fear that he was not an adequate translator. His hand was ready to help the wretched, but his stern compatriots accused him of not extending it sufficiently in secret, as if the lack of a second virtue could destroy the first. And then, if everything Lord Byron did was over-investigated, whose fault was it?

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A new Tyrtaeus, he incited the renewed Greeks with his song even more to battle and victory. He died among them, whom he loved, and received from a nation that was aware only of his virtues and its own gratitude, immense, pure, and generous mourning. His homeland, highly honoring its poet, denied Greece the possession of his mortal remains. The latter retained what was best in his heart! - “Greece!” he said, and said no more.