As I groped my way after him through the dark hall, he cried out, “Keep clear of the dog;” and before we had proceeded many paces farther, “Take care, or that monkey will fly at you;”—­a curious proof, among many others, of his fidelity to all the tastes of his youth, as it agrees perfectly with the description of his life at Newstead, in 1809, and of the sort of menagerie which his visiters had then to encounter in their progress through his hall.  Having escaped these dangers, I followed him up the staircase to the apartment destined for me.  All this time he had been despatching servants in various directions,—­one, to procure me a laquais de place; another to go in quest of Mr. Alexander Scott, to whom he wished to give me in charge; while a third was sent to order his Segretario to come to him.  “So, then, you keep a Secretary?” I said.  “Yes,” he answered, “a fellow who can’t write[48]—­but such are the names these pompous people give to things.”

When we had reached the door of the apartment it was discovered to be locked, and, to all appearance, had been so for some time, as the key could not be found;—­a circumstance which, to my English apprehension, naturally connected itself with notions of damp and desolation, and I again sighed inwardly for the Gran Bretagna.  Impatient at the delay of the key, my noble host, with one of his humorous maledictions, gave a vigorous kick to the door and burst it open; on which we at once entered into an apartment not only spacious and elegant, but wearing an aspect of comfort and habitableness which to a traveller’s eye is as welcome as it is rare.  “Here,” he said, in a voice whose every tone spoke kindness and hospitality,—­“these are the rooms I use myself, and here I mean to establish you.”

He had ordered dinner from some Tratteria, and while waiting its arrival—­as well as that of Mr. Alexander Scott, whom he had invited to join us—­we stood out on the balcony, in order that, before the daylight was quite gone, I might have some glimpses of the scene which the Canal presented.  Happening to remark, in looking up at the clouds, which were still bright in the west, that “what had struck me in Italian sunsets was that peculiar rosy hue—­” I had hardly pronounced the word “rosy,” when Lord Byron, clapping his hand on my mouth, said, with a laugh, “Come, d——­n it, Tom, don’t be poetical.”  Among the few gondolas passing at the time, there was one at some distance, in which sat two gentlemen, who had the appearance of being English; and, observing them to look our way, Lord Byron putting his arms a-kimbo, said with a sort of comic swagger, “Ah! if you, John Bulls, knew who the two fellows are, now standing up here, I think you would stare!”—­I risk mentioning these things, though aware how they may be turned against myself, for the sake of the otherwise indescribable traits of manner and character which they convey.  After a very agreeable dinner, through which the jest, the story, and the laugh were almost uninterruptedly carried on, our noble host took leave of us to return to La Mira, while Mr. Scott and I went to one of the theatres, to see the Ottavia of Alfieri.