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 him a dignified, cold, reserved, and haughty person,
resembling those mysterious personages he so loves to paint in his works,
and with whom he has been so often identified by the good-natured world;
but nothing can be more different; for were I to point out the prominent
defect of Lord Byron, I should say it was flippancy, and a total want of
that natural self-possession and dignity which ought to characterize a man
of birth and education.
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