Into these and other such branches from the main course of his character, it might have been a task of some interest to investigate,—­certain as we should be that, even in the remotest and narrowest of these windings, some of the brightness and strength of the original current would be perceptible.  Enough however has been, perhaps, said to set other minds upon supplying what remains:—­if the track of analysis here opened be the true one, to follow it in its further bearings will not be difficult.  Already, indeed, I may be thought by some readers to have occupied too large a portion of these pages, not only in tracing out such “nice dependencies” and gradations of my friend’s character, but still more uselessly, as may be conceived, in recording all the various habitudes and whims by which the course of his every-day life was distinguished from that of other people.  That the critics of the day should think it due to their own importance to object to trifles is naturally to be expected; but that, in other times, such minute records of a Byron will be read with interest, even such critics cannot doubt.  To know that Catiline walked with an agitated and uncertain gait is, by no mean judge of human nature, deemed important as an indication of character.  But far less significant details will satisfy the idolaters of genius.  To be told that Tasso loved malmsey and thought it favourable to poetic inspiration is a piece of intelligence, even at the end of three centuries, not unwelcome; while a still more amusing proof of the disposition of the world to remember little things of the great is, that the poet Petrarch’s excessive fondness for turnips is one of the few traditions still preserved of him at Arqua.

The personal appearance of Lord Byron has been so frequently described, both by pen and pencil, that were it not the bounden duty of the biographer to attempt some such sketch, the task would seem superfluous.  Of his face, the beauty may be pronounced to have been of the highest order, as combining at once regularity of features with the most varied and interesting expression.  The same facility, indeed, of change observable in the movements of his mind was seen also in the free play of his features, as the passing thoughts within darkened or shone through them.

His eyes, though of a light grey, were capable of all extremes of expression, from the most joyous hilarity to the deepest sadness, from the very sunshine of benevolence to the most concentrated scorn or rage.  Of this latter passion, I had once an opportunity of seeing what fiery interpreters they could be, on my telling him, thoughtlessly enough, that a friend of mine had said to me—­“Beware of Lord Byron; he will some day or other do something very wicked.”—­“Was it man or woman said so?” he exclaimed, suddenly turning round upon me with a look of such intense anger as, though it lasted not an instant, could not easily be forgot, and of which no better idea can be given than in the words of one who, speaking of Chatterton’s eyes, says that “fire rolled at the bottom of them.”