Genoa, April 1st, 1823.—­Saw Lord Byron for the first time.  The impression for the first few minutes disappointed me, as I had, both from the portraits and descriptions given, conceived a different idea of him.  I had fancied him taller, with a more dignified and commanding air; and I looked in vain for the hero-looking sort of person with whom I had so long identified him in imagination.  His appearance is, however, highly prepossessing; his head is finely shaped, and the forehead open, high, and noble; his eyes are grey and full of expression, but one is visibly larger than the other; the nose is large and well shaped, but from being a little too thick, it looks better in profile than in front-face:  his mouth is the most remarkable feature in his face, the upper lip of Grecian shortness, and the corners descending; the lips full, and finely cut.  In speaking, he shows his teeth very much, and they are white and even; but I observed that even in his smile—­and he smiles frequently—­there is something of a scornful expression in his mouth that is evidently natural, and not, as many suppose, affected.  This particularly struck me.  His chin is large and well shaped, and finishes well the oval of his face.  He is extremely thin, indeed so much so that his figure has almost a boyish air; his face is peculiarly pale, but not the paleness of ill-health, as its character is that of fairness, the fairness of a dark-haired person—­and his hair (which is getting rapidly grey) is of a very dark brown, and curls naturally:  he uses a good deal of oil in it, which makes it look still darker.  His countenance is full of expression, and changes with the subject of conversation; it gains on the beholder the more it is seen, and leaves an agreeable impression.  I should say that melancholy was its prevailing character, as I observed that when any observation elicited a smile—­and they were many, as the conversation was gay and playful—­it appeared to linger but for a moment on his lip, which instantly resumed its former expression of seriousness.  His whole appearance is remarkably gentlemanlike, and he owes nothing of this to his toilette, as his coat appears to have been many years made, is much too large—­and all his garments convey the idea of having been purchased ready made, so ill do they fit him.  There is a gaucherie in his movements, which evidently proceeds from the perpetual consciousness of his lameness, that appears to haunt him; for he tries to conceal his foot when seated, and when walking, has a nervous rapidity in his manner.  He is very slightly lame, and the deformity of his foot is so little remarkable that I am not now aware which foot it is.  His voice and accent are peculiarly agreeable, but effeminate—­clear, harmonious, and so distinct, that though his general tone in speaking is rather low than high, not a word is lost.  His manners are as unlike my preconceived notions of them as is his appearance.  I had expected to find