to attach to it some shining name, and men’s thoughts almost inevitably turned to Byron.  No other Englishman seemed so fit to be associated with the enterprise as the warlike poet, who had twelve years before linked his fame to that of “grey Marathon” and “Athena’s tower,” and, more recently immortalized the isles on which he cast so many a longing glance.  Hobhouse broke the subject to him early in the spring of 1823:  the committee opened communications in April.  After hesitating through May, in June Byron consented to meet Blaquiere at Zante, and, on hearing the results of the captain’s expedition to the Morea, to decide on future steps.  His share in this enterprise has been assigned to purely personal and comparatively mean motives.  He was, it is said, disgusted with his periodical, sick of his editor, tired of his mistress, and bent on any change, from China to Peru, that would give him a new theatre for display.  One grows weary of the perpetual half-truths of inveterate detraction.  It is granted that Byron was restless, vain, imperious, never did anything without a desire to shine in the doing of it, and was to a great degree the slave of circumstances.  Had the Liberal proved a lamp to the nations, instead of a mere “red flag flaunted in the face of John Bull,” he might have cast anchor at Genoa; but the whole drift of his work and life demonstrates that he was capable on occasion of merging himself in what he conceived to be great causes, especially in their evil days.  Of the Hunts he may have had enough; but the invidious statement about La Guiccioli has no foundation, other than a somewhat random remark of Shelley, and the fact that he left her nothing in his will.  It is distinctly ascertained that she expressly prohibited him from doing so; they continued to correspond to the last, and her affectionate, though unreadable, reminiscences, are sufficient proof that she at no time considered herself to be neglected, injured, or aggrieved.

Byron indeed left Italy in an unsettled state of mind:  he spoke of returning in a few months, and as the period for his departure approached, became more and more irresolute.  A presentiment of his death seemed to brood over a mind always superstitious, though never fanatical.  Shortly before his own departure, the Blessingtons were preparing to leave Genoa for England.  On the evening of his farewell call he began to speak of his voyage with despondency, saying, “Here we are all now together; but when and where shall we meet again?  I have a sort of boding that we see each other for the last time, as something tells me I shall never again return from Greece:”  after which remark he leant his head on the sofa, and burst into one of his hysterical fits of tears.  The next week was given to preparations for an expedition, which, entered on with mingled motives—­sentimental, personal, public—­became more real and earnest to Byron at every step he took.  He knew all the vices of the “hereditary bondsmen” among whom he was going, and went among them, with yet unquenched aspirations, but with the bridle of discipline in his hand, resolved to pave the way towards the nation becoming better, by devoting himself to making it free.