ous, hypocritical, intolerant spirits that had
caused him so much suffering; sweet and pleasant was it for him to live
with such. Every evening he took his place in a box at the Scala, where
the flower of the young intellects of Milan assembled, and where he met
with other persons of note, such as Abbe de Breme and Silvio Pellico:
gentle, beautiful souls, burning with love of country, and sighing after
its independence. From them he learnt more than ever to detest the
humiliating yoke of foreign despotism that weighed on Italy; with the
independence and frankness of character that belonged to him, he did not
scruple to deplore it openly; and his imprudent generosity became a
source of annoyance, persecution and calumny for himself. There he heard
that passionate music which appeals so strongly to imagination and
heart, because it harmonizes so naturally with all its surroundings in
Italy. It was listening to this music, at times so pathetic and sweet,
that emotion would often lend almost supernatural beauty to his
countenance, so that even Mr. Stendhall, the least enthusiastic of men,
was wont to say with enthusiasm, _that never, in his whole life, had he
seen any thing so beautiful and expressive as Lord Byron's look, or so
sublime as his style of beauty_. There he gave himself freely up to all
the fine emotions that art can raise. Stendhall accompanied him to the
Brera Museum, "_and I admired_," says he, "_the depth of sentiment with
which Lord Byron understood painters of most opposite schools, Raphael,
Guercino, Luini, Titian. Guercino's picture of Hagar dismissed by
Abraham quite electrified him, and, from that moment the admiration he
inspired rendered every body mute around him_."

"He improvised for at least an hour, and even better than Madame de
Stael," says Stendhall again. "One day Monti was invited to recite
before Lord Byron one of his (Monti's) poems which had met in Italy with
most favor,--the first canto of the 'Mascheroniana.'" The reading of
these lines gave such intense pleasure to the author of "Childe Harold"
that Stendhall adds, he shall never forget the divine expression of his
countenance on that occasion. "It was," says he, "the placid air of
genius and power."

Thus taking interest and pleasure in all around him, if he did
experience hours of melancholy (which is very probable, his wounds being
so recent and so deep), he had, at the same time, strength to hide it
from the public eye, and to e