to 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.

"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. 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.

"He remarked on a certain subject (which in 1814 was the topic of
universal discourse) that 'the world was worth neither the trouble taken
in its conquest, nor the regret felt at its loss,' which saying (if the
worth of an expression could ever equal that of many and great actions)
would almost show the thoughts and feelings of Lord Byron to be more
stupendous and unmeasured than those of him respecting whom he spoke.

"His gymnastic exercises were sometimes violent, and at others almost
nothing. Hi