Clear, and rather pleasant at intervals. Not cold, but damp.
I was half inclined to keep my bed to day, hopeing to get clear of my cold; G. begged me to lie still, saying he would stay with me. The morning was very dark, but I concluded to jump up, a coughing spell comeing on at this time every morning. Read a history of Luther and the Reformation this morning. Took a nap on the Sofa. Maria came in took dinner. Mr De Puy, also dined with us, he looks remarkably well, left us after dinner. Played a little on the Piano. Feel the want of fresh air, we all look pale, and miserable. I read the life of “Lord Byron” to night, pitied his early death, and mistaken spirit. He died in 1824, at Missonloughi in Greece, having been their but four months. Mr H. has just finished reading “Childe Harold”. the most beautifull of his poems.
Byron is regarded as one of the greatest British poets, and remains widely read and influential. He travelled all over Europe especially in Italy where he lived for seven years and then joined the Greek War of Independence fighting the Ottoman Empire, for which Greeks revere him as a national hero. He died one year later at age 36 from a fever contracted while in Missolonghi in Greece. Often described as the most flamboyant and notorious of the major Romantics, Byron was both celebrated and castigated in life for his aristocratic excesses, including huge debts, numerous love affairs with more than one gender, rumours of a scandalous liaison with his half-sister, and self-imposed exile. ~Wikepedia
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