xpress it only with his pen.

The single symptom that might be considered to betray, at this time, a
continual malady of soul, was the indifference he showed toward the fair
ladies of Milan, who, on their side, were full of enthusiasm about him,
and with whom he refused to become acquainted, despite all their
advances. But this reserve (though probably more marked and commented on
at this particular moment of which we speak) belonged, nevertheless to
his nature. After having visited Lake Garda with that pleasure he always
experienced from the beauties of nature, and then the tomb of Juliet at
Verona, with the interest excited by a true story even more than by
Shakspeare's poetry (since he could only take real interest in what was
true), he went from Milan to Venice. I have mentioned in another chapter
the impression made on him by Venice in particular, and Italy in
general; how, aided by exterior circumstances, by the sympathies growing
up around him, the severe studies he underwent, so as to keep his heart
calm, and bridle an imagination too liable to be influenced by bitter
memories; in a few months he began a new existence there, with a more
vigorous and healthy impulse for his genius.

When first victimized by the most senseless persecution, he was so
surprised and confounded by the noise and violence of calumny, that his
keen sentiment of injustice underwent a sort of numbness. On seeing
himself thus brutally attacked on the one hand, and so feebly defended
on the other, by lukewarm, pusillanimous friends, he may have questioned
if he were not really in fault, and hesitated, perhaps, how to reply;
for he almost spoke of himself as guilty in the farewell addressed to
his cold-hearted wife, and also in the lines composed for his more
deserving sister. This situation of mind shows itself without disguise,
sadly depicted in the third canto of "Childe Harold." Manfred himself,
that wondrous conception of genius, whose lot was cast amid all the
sublimities of nature, despite his pride and his strength of will, yet
was made to wear the sackcloth of penance. But, on arriving at Venice
when months had rolled on, and the Alps were between him and the
injustice undergone,--after Lady Byron's new, incredible, and strange
refusal to return,--he felt his conscience disencumbered of all morbid
influences. The testimony given, the absolution awarded by this
impartial, incorruptible judge, whom he had never ceased to consult,
beca