Ulyssean Isle. The Countess resolved to go after him; and, dauntlessly stepping into a small boat, accompanied by a boy, she spread her little sail to the breeze, and steered away, refusing to let any of us partake of the dangerous enterprise. For my part, I was not so much of a hero as to foster any ambition to become a Palinurus to the crazy bark of love. After being tossed about for three days and two nights she landed safe at Ithaca, and met the fugitive bard, astonished at her magnanimity. In ancient days this action would have formed the theme of an epic poem, and it is possible his lordship may yet render the tale as immortal as that of Sappho and Phaon.

• The barren island of Ithaca had charms for the gloomy mind of his lordship; and I have reason for supposing that, during the sojourn of our adventurers upon it, the drama of "Cain" was first conceived, and partly written. The story of Ulysses ploughing the sea sand, when he affected madness to remain from the siege of Troy, may not have been a fiction, for a more barren and desolate place can scarce be imagined. The countess took views from it in many places: her pencil is as often in her hand as his lordship's pen is in his; but it was only chance that ever favored us with a sight of the productions of either.

On his lordship's return to Santa Maura we all embarked on board of a small latteen-sailed vessel for Venice. The first night we encountered a violent storm, which compelled us to seek shelter in a small creek on the west side of Zante. His lordship proved a good seaman, and showed his "intrepidity in the darkened hour." But for his threats and promises, we should have perished on the rocks. The crew, consisting of Albanians, were the most wretched cowards I had ever seen. An officer on the staff of Sir Thomas Adams came to the cottage on the beach, where our party had taken refuge. He politely offered us any accommodation the small fortress near afforded: this his lordship declined, and invited him to dine with us in a tent on the shore. The day turned out fine, and was passed agreeably: the officer was a subaltern in the Greek infantry, and, when a sergeant, had known Lord Byron at Parga, and done him some triffing service. This his lordship reminded him of after dinner, and gave him a snuff-box, which he desired him to keep as a memorial of his gratitude. The poor fellow's heart was so full that he could not keep the secret; the box contained a note for fifty pounds.

'Returned from Ithaca to Venice, we frequently made excursions to the neighbouring towns and villages, where his lordship was well known; and not unfrequently we had warning given at breakfast to be ready

for a journey in two hours. This was the usual mode of taking us unprepared. No previous conversation ever led to a belief of what were his lordship's intentions; all his actions appeared to spring from the impulse of the moment. It was not always pleasant, nevertheless, to be thus taken by surprise; and the time for preparation was never considered by his lordship.

'It took no more trouble to prepare him for a journey of several days than a knight of the first crusades to make ready for a campaign, who had but one suit, in which he slept. Whether he was in his com. mon daily or full court dress, the only change he makes is drawing on a pair of tauned brown and red leather boots, and flinging a spotted silk cloak over his shoulders. With a brace of pistols in his belt, and a large English postilion's whip in his hand, he is armed cap-à-piè for all weathers. If he had half a dozen servants to take care of the luggage, he invariably would carry a small portmanteau behind him, which held a change of linen: before him was a pair of horse-pistol holsters, in which he kept his sketch-book, papers, pens and ink, and three or four silk and cambric handkerchiefs, which he was in the habit of dipping in the rivers and springs, and rubbing his forehead with. No man was more particular in the attendance of his servants, and no one ever had less occasion for their services. He kept them for the convenience of his friends alone, and in that particular certainly studied their comforts to the neglect of his own. We took the road to Verona, which was a favorite city of his lordship's, from a romantic notion which he entertained that the Romeo and Juliet of Shakspeare had absolutely existed within its walls; and he has been heard to declare that he could point out the ruins of Friar Lawrence's hermitage. In fact, like Gray and Mason with their Druids, Temples of Odin, and Fatal Sisters, his lordship brooded over darkened scenes, accordant with his imagination, till he "thought each strange tale devoutly true.""

Some American gentlemen who met with Lord Byron published an account of it in one of their own newspapers; and in this, although the details are unquestionably true, it appears that Lord Byron indulged in quizzing them a practice to which he was always, and rather too much, addicted:

'Genoa,.

• I have been rambling about in Italy for fourteen months, and know every road in it better than any one in Ainerica, and every street or lane in Milan, Florence, Rome, Venice, &c. &c. better than the

Main Street in Richmond: I am, however, I believe, about to quit it I fear for ever. I am here lingering on the end. On the 16th we arrived here. About two miles from town we overtook a gentleman on horseback, attended by a servant: I looked at his face, and instantly recognised him, from a portrait by an American painter, West, now at Florence, to be the most extraordinary man now alive: a glance at his distorted foot confirmed it. We rode on: part of our object in visiting Genoa had been to introduce ourselves to him. Accordingly next day we wrote a short and polite note, requesting leave to pay our respects; to which we received one equally polite, requesting us to call next day at two o'clock. We went; a servant stood ready to receive us, and we were shown into a saloon, where we waited with beating hearts for about a minute, when he made his appearance. He is about five feet six inches high-his body is small, and his right leg shrunk, and about two inches shorter than the other-his head is beyond description fine. West's likeness is pretty good, but no other head I ever saw of him is in the least like him. His forehead is high, and smaller at the top than below (the likenesses are vice versa). His hair, which had formerly hung in beautiful brown ringlets, beginning to turn grey, he being, as he told us, thirty-five years old. His eyes between a light blue and grey; his nose straight, but a little turned up; his teeth most beautiful; his head is perhaps too large for his body. Who is he? One of our company began a set apology, which he cut short by telling us it was useless, for that he was very glad to see us, and then began to ask us questions, fifty in a minute, without waiting for an answer to any; and, if by chance it was made, he seemed impatient if it contained more than two words. He flew from one subject to another, and during about an hour and a half talked upon at least two hundred subjects-sometimes with great humour, laughing very heartily: at length, looking round, he asked with a quizzical leer which of us was from old Virginia. I bowed assent: then followed a catechism, to which I occasionally edged in an answer.-" Have you been in England? How long have you been in Italy? Is Jefferson alive? Is it true that your landlords are all colonels and justices? Do you know Washington Irving? He is decidedly the first English prose writer, except Scott. Have you read Bracebridge Hall' (I answered no)? Well, if you choose, I'll lend it you; here it is. Have you any American books to lend me? I am very desirous of reading the 'Spy.' I intend to visit America as soon as I can arrange my affairs in Italy. Your morals are much purer than those of England (there I laughed) -those of the higher classes in England have become very corrupt (I smothered my laugh). Do you think, if I was to live in America, they would ever make me a judge of the Ten-Pound Court Is it true that an Englishman is always insulted in travelling through America?" We assured him not. He then told us more laughable stories of the ridiculous biographies made of him, especially by the French. One of them represented him as a gloomy miserable mortal, keeping the skull of his mistress as a drinking-cup.-I told him that was pretty much the idea we had of him, as we considered him a sort of vampire-(he laughed heartily). He said "Bracebridge Hall" was beautifully written, but, as for the characters, they exist only in the brain of W. I. There are no old English gentlemen-no yeomen. The English have lost every thing good in their character. Their morals are particularly bad (here I thought he really was quizzing us). In fine, he kept us for an hour and a half constantly amused, and dismissed us well satisfied with our interview. His manners are most charming and fascinating; and if he is, as they say, a devil, he is certainly a merry one-nothing gloomy. His voice is low and soft, and at first sounds affected. Now who is it? Who is this man about whom I have written a whole letter? It is Childe Harold, Corsair, Don Juan-in plain English, Lord Byron.'

Another account of Lord Byron's manner of living is given by M. Beyle, an ingenious French officer, who has distinguished himself by some agreeable works in various branches of light literature. It appears in Madame Belloc's 'Life of Lord Byron,' and is one of the most valuable parts of her book. It is highly striking, and not less accurate. The following is a translation from the French, in which the letter is written:

• It will afford me great pleasure, Madame, to furnish you with such information as I am able to impart respecting Lord Byron, for the work which you are preparing. It is true that I once passed several months in the society of this truly great poet; but I feel, nevertheless, that to speak of him in accurate terms is by no means easy. I never saw Lord Byron at any of those critical moments which lay open the whole of an individual's character. What I know of him is little more than the recollection of my own feelings when in his presence. To describe these recollections is hardly possible without talking much of myself; and how can I presume to talk of myself after having named Lord Byron ?

'It was in the autumn of 1816 that I first met him, at the theatre of La Scala at Milan, in the box of M. Louis de Brême. I was much struck with the expression of Lord Byron's eyes as he was listening to a sestetto, in Mayer's opera of "Elena." I never in my life saw any thing more beautiful or more expressive. Even now, if I wish to figure to myself the expression in which a painter ought to depict true genius, the sublime head of Lord Byron appears immediately before me. I experienced a momentary feeling of enthusiasm, and, forgetting the just repugnance which every man of becoming pride ought to have against courting the acquaintance of an English nobleman, I begged M. de Brême to introduce me to Lord Byron. On the following day I dined at M. de Brême's with him and the celebrated Monti, the author of the "Basvigliana." The conversation turned on the subject of poetry, and it was asked which were the twelve best verses that had been written in English, Italian, or French, during the last century. The Italians who were present agreed unanimously that the twelve first verses of the "Mascheroniana"* were the best that had been produced in their language for more than a hundred years. Monti was so good as to recite them to us. I looked at Lord Byron, who was in an ecstacy. The haughty shade over his features, or, as it may be more proper to call it, the air of a man who finds it necessary to repel all importunate familiarities, which was always a blemish to his fine countenance, disappeared altogether, and gave way to an expression of perfect good temper. The first canto of the "Mascheroniana," which Monti, at the loud request of his auditors, recited almost entirely, caused a very powerful sensation to the author of "Childe Harold." I can never forget the divine expression of his features: they displayed the serene air of power and genius, and, to my thinking, Lord Byron could not at this moment be reproached with the slightest affectation.

The tragic systems of Alfieri and of Schiller were contrasted in the course of the conversation. The English poet said it was highly ridiculous that in Alfieri's "Philip II." Don Carlos should find himself, without any difficulty, from the very first scene, tête-à-tête with the consort of the jealous Philip. Monti, who is so happy in the practice of the art of poetry, urged, in the course of this discussion, arguments so singular respecting its theory, that Lord Byron, leaning towards the person sitting next him, said, speaking of Monti, " Il ne sait

* A poem of Monti's upon Buonaparte, composed in 1801, on the death of Lorenzo Mascheroni, the celebrated geometrician.