On April 25, 1816, being now twenty-eight years of age, Byron took final leave of England, and sailed with two servants for Ostend.  His route, by Flanders and the Rhine, may be traced in his matchless verses.  He settled in Geneva, where he met Shelley and Mrs. Shelley; they boated on the lake and walked together, and Byron’s susceptible mind was deeply influenced by his mystical companion.  We may discover traces of that vague sublimity in the third canto of “Childe Harold,” and traces also of Mr. Wordsworth’s mood which Byron absorbed from Shelley’s favourite author.

From November, 1816, his letters are dated from Venice.  “This has always been, next to the East, the greenest island of my imagination, and it has not disappointed me.”  They are considerably taken up with love affairs of an irregular kind, and contain also many vivid pictures of Venetian society and manners.  “Manfred” was completed in 1817, and was followed by the fourth canto of “Childe Harold.”  Margarita Cogni was the reigning favourite of Byron’s unworthy harem at this time; and his poem of “Don Juan,” now begun, most faithfully and lamentably reflects every whim and passion that, like the rack of autumn, swept across his mind.

But April, 1819, brought a revulsion against all this libertine way of living, and brought also the dawn of the only real love of his whole life.  Lord Byron had first met the Countess Guiccioli in the autumn of 1818, when she made her appearance, three days after her marriage, at the house of the Countess Albrizzi, in all the gaiety of bridal array, and the first delight of exchanging a convent for the world.  She has given her impressions of their meeting:  “His noble and exquisitely beautiful countenance, the tone of his voice, his manners, the thousand enchantments that surrounded him, rendered him so superior a being to any whom I had hitherto seen, that it was impossible he should not have left the most profound impression upon me.”

In June, Byron joined her at Ravenna, and for the next three years remained devotedly attached to her.  She struck me, during our first interview, when I visited them at La Mira, as a lady not only of a style of beauty singular in an Italian, as being fair-complexioned and delicate, but also as being highly intelligent and amiable.

A letter to me from Pisa, dated August 27, 1822, has a mournful interest:  “We have been burning the bodies of Shelley and Williams on the seashore.  You can have no idea what an extraordinary effect such a funeral pile has, with mountains in the background and the sea before.”  Another, of November 17, to Lady Byron, shows that if the author of it had not right on his side, he had at least most of those good feelings which generally accompany it.  “I have to acknowledge the receipt of Ada’s [their daughter’s] hair; this note will reach you about her birthday....  We both made a bitter mistake; but now it is over, and better so....  I assure you that I bear you now no resentment whatever....  Whether the offence has been solely on my side, or reciprocal, or on yours chiefly, I have ceased to reflect on any but two things—­that you are the mother of my child, and that we shall never meet again.”