Our passage to Sardinia was tardy, owing to calms; but, in other respects, pleasant.  About the third day Byron relented from his rapt mood, as if he felt it was out of place, and became playful, and disposed to contribute his fair proportion to the general endeavour to wile away the tediousness of the dull voyage.  Among other expedients for that purpose, we had recourse to shooting at bottles.  Byron, I think, supplied the pistols, and was the best shot, but not very pre-eminently so.  In the calms, the jolly-boat was several times lowered; and, on one of those occasions, his Lordship, with the captain, caught a turtle—­I rather think two—­we likewise hooked a shark, part of which was dressed for breakfast, and tasted, without relish; your shark is but a cannibal dainty.

As we approached the gulf, or bay, of Cagliari, in Sardinia, a strong north wind came from the shore, and we had a whole disagreeable day of tacking, but next morning, it was Sunday, we found ourselves at anchor near the mole, where we landed.  Byron, with the captain, rode out some distance into the country, while I walked with Mr Hobhouse about the town:  we left our cards for the consul, and Mr Hill, the ambassador, who invited us to dinner.  In the evening we landed again, to avail ourselves of the invitation; and, on this occasion, Byron and his Pylades dressed themselves as aides-de-camp—­a circumstance which, at the time, did not tend to improve my estimation of the solidity of the character of either.  But such is the force of habit:  it appeared a less exceptionable affectation in the young peer than in the commoner.

Had we parted at Cagliari, it is probable that I should have retained a much more favourable recollection of Mr Hobhouse than of Lord Byron; for he was a cheerful companion, full of odd and droll stories, which he told extremely well; he was also good-humoured and intelligent—­altogether an advantageous specimen of a well-educated English gentleman.  Moreover, I was at the time afflicted with a nervous dejection, which the occasional exhilaration produced by his anecdotes and college tales often materially dissipated, though, for the most part, they were more after the manner and matter of Swift than of Addison.

Byron was, during the passage, in delicate health, and upon an abstemious regimen.  He rarely tasted wine, nor more than half a glass, mingled with water, when he did.  He ate little; no animal food, but only bread and vegetables.  He reminded me of the ghoul that picked rice with a needle; for it was manifest, that he had not acquired his knowledge of the world by always dining so sparely.  If my remembrance is not treacherous, he only spent one evening in the cabin with us—­the evening before we came to anchor at Cagliari; for, when the lights were placed, he made himself a man forbid, took his station on the railing between the pegs on which the sheets are belayed and the shrouds, and there, for hours, sat in silence, enamoured, it may be, of