I, see such eyes! As for his
hands, they are the most beautiful hands, for a man, I ever saw. His
voice is a sweet melody."[9]

Sir Walter Scott was enchanted when he could dilate on the extraordinary
beauty of Byron. One day, at Mr. Home Drummond's, he exclaimed:--"As for
poets, I have seen the best that this country has produced, and although
Burns had the finest eyes that can be imagined, I never thought that any
man except Byron could give an artist the exact idea of a poet. His
portraits do not do him the least justice; the varnish is there, but the
ray of sunshine is wanting to light them up. The beauty of Byron," he
added "is one which makes one dream."

Colonel Wildman, his colleague at Harrow, and his friend, was always
wont to say, "Lord Byron is the only man among all those I have seen,
who may be called, without restriction, a really handsome man."

Disraeli, in his novel entitled "Venetia," speaks thus of the beauty of
Hubert (who is Lord Byron) when Venetia finds his portrait:--

"That being of supernatural beauty is her father. Young as he was,
command and genius, the pride of noble passions, all the glory of a
creative mind, seemed stamped upon his brow. With all his marvellous
beauty he seemed a being born for greatness.... Its reality exceeded the
wildest dreams of her romance, her brightest visions of grace and
loveliness and genius seemed personified in this form. He was a man in
the very spring of sunny youth and of radiant beauty. He was above the
middle height, yet with a form that displayed exquisite grace.... It
was a countenance of singular loveliness and power. The lips and the
moulding of the chin resembled the eager and impassioned tenderness of
the shape of Antinous; but instead of the effeminate sullenness of the
eye and the narrow smoothness of the forehead, shone an expression of
profound and piercing thought. On each side of the clear and open brow
descended, even to the shoulders, the clustering locks of golden hair;
while the eyes large and yet deep, beamed with a spiritual energy, and
shone like two wells of crystalline water that reflect the all-beholding
heavens."

M. Beyle (Stendhal) writes to Mr. Swanton Belloc:--"It was in the autumn
of the year 1816 that I met Lord Byron at the theatre of the Scala, at
Milan, in the box of the Bremen Minister. I was struck with Lord Byron's
eyes at the time when he was listening to a sestetto in Mayer's opera of
"Elena." I never in my lif