in the recollection that he held this belief in common with Napoleon.  It appeared that, in proportion as his intellectual education was cultivated, his moral education was neglected, and that he never suffered himself to know or observe other restraints than those imposed by his inclinations.  Nevertheless, who could believe that he had a constant, and almost infantine timidity, of which the evidences were so apparent as to render its existence indisputable, notwithstanding the difficulty experienced in associating with Lord Byron a sentiment which had the appearance of modesty?  Conscious as he was that, wherever he presented himself, all eyes were fixed on him, and all lips, particularly those of the women, were opened to say, ’There he is, that is Lord Byron,’—­he necessarily found himself in the situation of an actor obliged to sustain a character, and to render an account, not to others (for about them he gave himself no concern), but to himself, of his every action and word.  This occasioned him a feeling of uneasiness which was obvious to every one.

“He remarked on a certain subject (which in 1814 was the topic of universal discourse) that ’the world was worth neither the trouble taken in its conquest, nor the regret felt at its loss,’ which saying (if the worth of an expression could ever equal that of many and great actions) would almost show the thoughts and feelings of Lord Byron to be more stupendous and unmeasured than those of him respecting whom he spoke.

“His gymnastic exercises were sometimes violent, and at others almost nothing.  His body, like his spirit, readily accommodated itself to all his inclinations.  During an entire winter, he went out every morning alone to row himself to the island of Armenians, (a small island situated in the midst of a tranquil lake, and distant from Venice about half a league,) to enjoy the society of those learned and hospitable monks, and to learn their difficult language; and, in the evening, entering again into his gondola, he went, but only for a couple of hours, into company.  A second winter, whenever the water of the lake was violently agitated, he was observed to cross it, and landing on the nearest terra firma, to fatigue at least two horses with riding.

“No one ever heard him utter a word of French, although he was perfectly conversant with that language.  He hated the nation and its modern literature; in like manner, he held the modern Italian literature in contempt, and said it possessed but one living author,—­a restriction which I know not whether to term ridiculous, or false and injurious.  His voice was sufficiently sweet and flexible.  He spoke with much suavity, if not contradicted, but rather addressed himself to his neighbour than to the entire company.