About this time, 1823, the great struggle of the Greeks to shake off the Ottoman yoke was in progress.  I have already in another volume[1] attempted to give the facts in relation to that memorable movement.  Christendom sympathized with the gallant but apparently hopeless struggle of a weak nation to secure its independence, both from a sentiment of admiration for the freedom of ancient Greece in the period of its highest glories, and from the love of liberty which animated the liberal classes amid the political convulsions of the day.  But the governments of Europe were loath to complicate the difficulties which existed between nations in that stormy period, and dared not extend any open aid to struggling Greece, beyond giving their moral aid to the Greek cause, lest it should embroil Europe in war, of which she was weary.  Less than ten years had elapsed since Europe had combined to dethrone Napoleon, and some of her leading powers, like Austria and Russia, had a detestation of popular insurrections.

In this complicated state of political affairs, when any indiscretion on the part of friendly governments might kindle anew the flames of war, Lord Byron was living in Genoa, taking such an interest in the Greek struggle that he abandoned poetry for politics.  He had always sympathized with enslaved nations struggling for independence, and was driven from Ravenna on account of his alliance with the revolutionary Society of the Carbonari.  A new passion now seized him.  He entered heart and soul into the struggles of the Greeks.  Their cause absorbed him.  He would aid them to the full extent of his means, with money and arms, as a private individual.  He would be a political or military hero,—­a man of action, not of literary leisure.

Every lover of liberty must respect Byron’s noble aspirations to assist the Greeks.  It was a new field for him, but one in which he might retrieve his reputation,—­for it must be borne in mind that his ruling passion was fame, and that he had gained all he could expect by his literary productions.  Whether loved or hated, admired or censured, his poetry had placed him in the front rank of literary geniuses throughout the world.  As a poet his immortality was secured.  In literary efforts he had also probably exhausted himself; he could write nothing more which would add to his fame, unless he took a long rest and recreation.  He was wearied of making poetry; but by plunging into a sea of fresh adventures, and by giving a new direction to his powers, he might be sufficiently renovated, in the course of time, to write something grander and nobler than even “Childe Harold” or “Cain.”