ive
heart was quite filled up. Is it, then, surprising that he, like his
hero, "Childe Harold," should see with indifference the shores of his
native land recede? But if, unhappily, the gloomy ideas he welcomed for
a moment brought about a regrettable habit, no more to be lost, of
adopting, in his language spoken and written, expressions and
mystifications that too often concealed his real feelings, only letting
them be seen through the medium of his mind (a sure way of making him
misunderstood), he could not long stand against the proofs of real
attachment shown him by his fellow-traveller, and, indeed, by all who
came near him. Even before setting sail, the influence of this
sentiment, combined with his natural disposition to gayety, became
visible; all annoyances seemed forgotten in the agreeable sensation of a
first voyage that was to bear him away from the country where he had
suffered so much, and which would probably show him, in other lands,
more favorable specimens of the human race. Indeed, this is quite
evident in the letters and gay verses sent off from Falmouth to his
friends Drury and Hodgson, as well as in the more serious strain, though
still gay and affectionate, in which he, at the same time, addressed his
mother.[168]

Hardly had he landed at Lisbon, when his heart, yearning after the
beautiful, expanded into admiration at sight of the Tagus and the
beauties of Cintra; displaying alike his high moral sense of things,
whether he expressed admiration or inflicted blame.[169]

We see his whole nature revolt at baseness, ingratitude, cowardice,
ferocity, all kinds of moral deformity; just as much as it was attracted
and delighted by patriotism, courage, devotion, sacrifice, love carried
to heroism, grace, and beauty. We perceive, in the poet's soul, a
freshness and a moral vigor, that shine all the more brightly,
contrasted with the misanthropical melancholy of the hero of his legend.
But this personage had been imprudently chosen to typify a state of mind
into which youth often falls, and which, perhaps, Lord Byron himself
went through during a few short hours of disenchantment. The impressions
thus gathered, were treasured in his memory until they came to maturity
some months later; then they issued from his pen in flowing numbers,
whose magic power he then ignored: but assuredly the fine sentiments
expressed came from the soul of the minstrel, not from the satiated
feelingless hero, who was incapable