ing climates in the midst of which he placed the
action of his poems; but his pen had always a manly action, with a
mixture of grace and vigor in it quite inimitable. His descriptions,
however, always appeared to be secondary objects in his mind, and rather
constituted the frames which encircled the man whom he wished to depict.

One would say that the soft beauties of a landscape and the playful
zephyrs which caress the crests of little waves were too effeminate
subjects for him to dwell upon. His preferences evidently point to the
savage side of nature, to the struggles between physical forces, to the
sublimities of the tempest, and almost, I would say, to a certain
disorganization of nature; provided, of course, all is restored to order
the moment such a disorganization threatens the existence of beauty in
art or in the moral world.

At that time, what Byron could not find in his real and historical
subject, he took from another reality, which was himself,--that is, his
own qualities, the circumstances of his life, his tastes; without ever
inquiring whether Conrad's fear at the sight of the mysterious drop of
blood on Gulnare's forehead was that of Byron, whether the Venetian
renegade Alp could really experience the horror which Byron did at
Constantinople at the sight of dogs feasting upon human carcasses; or
whether the association of the qualities with which he idealized his
heroes would not induce psychologists to accuse him of sinning against
truth, of destroying the unity of a Corsair's nature.

In this Lord Byron confided in his powers. He felt that the love of
truth, and of what is beautiful, was too strong in him ever to depart
from or cause him to violate the essential rules of art; but he wished
to remain a poet while trusting in reality.

When he went to the East, and found himself there in contact with
outward circumstances so in harmony with the natural bent of his views,
and in presence of men like Ali Pasha, of whose victims he could almost
hear the moans and the screams "in the clime"

"Where all save the spirit of man is divine;
Where wild as the accents of lovers' farewell
Are the hearts which they bear and the tales which they tell,"

he felt that he was at last in the land most likely to fire his natural
genius, and to permit of his satisfying the imperious want which his
observing mind constantly experienced of resting upon reality and upon
truth. The terrible Ali Pasha of Yanina