the thunder's roll, the lightning's flash--any mysterious display of
Nature's forces, so that its violence occasioned neither misfortune nor
suffering to sensitive beings--aroused in him the keenest sense of
enjoyment, which in turn ministered to his genius, incapable of finding
complete satisfaction in the beautiful, and ever yearning passionately
after the sublime.

As to his fortitude, that self-control which makes one bear affliction
with external serenity, Lord Byron possessed it in as high a degree as
he did firmness with regard to material obstacles and dangers.

Endowed with exquisite sensibility, the great poet assuredly went
through cruel trials during his stormy career; but instead of
ostentatiously exhibiting his sorrows, Lord Byron on many occasions
rather exaggerated the delicacy that led him to veil them under an
appearance of stoicism. Only very rarely did his poetry echo back the
sufferings endured within.

Once, nevertheless, he wished, and rightly, to perpetuate in his verses
the memory of the indignities heaped upon him by a guilty world. He
wished that the great struggle he had been obliged to sustain against
his destiny should not be forgotten; he wished to show how much his
heart had been torn, his hopes sapped, his name blighted by the deepest
injuries, the meanest perfidy. He had seen, he said, of what beings
with a human semblance were capable, from the frightful roar of foaming
calumny to the low whisper of vile reptiles, adroitly distilling poison;
double-visaged Januses, who supply the place of words by the language of
the eyes, who lie without saying a syllable, and, by dint of a shrug or
an affected sigh, impose on fools their unspoken calumnies. Yes, he had
to undergo all that, and for once he wished it to be known.

He owed it to himself to make this complaint; his total silence would
have been wrong; it was necessary once for all to defend his _character_
and reputation, and when he ran the risk of losing the esteem of the
world his sensibility could not show itself in too lively a manner.

But if he thus raised his voice to immortalize these indignities, it was
not because he recoiled from suffering.

"Let him come forward," exclaimed he, "whoever has seen me bow the head,
or has remarked my courage wane with suffering."

Already, at the time of the unexampled persecution raised against him in
London, when the separation from his wife took place, he wrote to
Murray:--

"