Having employed the morning of the following day in completing my round of sights at Venice,—­taking care to visit specially “that picture by Giorgione,” to which the poet’s exclamation, “such a woman!"[55] will long continue to attract all votaries of beauty,—­I took my departure from Venice, and, at about three o’clock, arrived at La Mira.  I found my noble host waiting to receive me, and, in passing with him through the hall, saw his little Allegra, who, with her nursery maid, was standing there as if just returned from a walk.  To the perverse fancy he had for falsifying his own character, and even imputing to himself faults the most alien to his nature, I have already frequently adverted, and had, on this occasion, a striking instance of it.  After I had spoken a little, in passing, to the child, and made some remark on its beauty, he said to me,—­“Have you any notion—­but I suppose you have—­of what they call the parental feeling?  For myself, I have not the least.”  And yet, when that child died, in a year or two afterwards, he who now uttered this artificial speech was so overwhelmed by the event, that those who were about him at the time actually trembled for his reason!

A short time before dinner he left the room, and in a minute or two returned, carrying in his hand a white leather bag.  “Look here,” he said, holding it up—­“this would be worth something to Murray, though you, I dare say, would not give sixpence for it.”—­“What is it?” I asked.—­“My Life and Adventures,” he answered.  On hearing this, I raised my hands in a gesture of wonder.  “It is not a thing,” he continued, “that can be published during my lifetime, but you may have it—­if you like—­there, do whatever you please with it.”  In taking the bag, and thanking him most warmly, I added, “This will make a nice legacy for my little Tom, who shall astonish the latter days of the nineteenth century with it.”  He then added, “You may show it to any of our friends you think worthy of it:”—­and this is, nearly word for word, the whole of what passed between us on the subject.

At dinner we were favoured with the presence of Madame Guiccioli, who was so obliging as to furnish me, at Lord Byron’s suggestion, with a letter of introduction to her brother, Count Gamba, whom it was probable, they both thought, I should meet at Rome.  This letter I never had an opportunity of presenting; and as it was left open for me to read, and was, the greater part of it, I have little doubt, dictated by my noble friend, I may venture, without impropriety, to give an extract from it here;—­premising that the allusion to the “Castle,” &c. refers to some tales respecting the cruelty of Lord Byron to his wife, which the young Count had heard, and, at this time, implicitly believed.  After a few sentences of compliment to the bearer, the letter proceeds:—­“He is on his way to see the wonders of Rome, and there is no one, I am sure, more qualified to enjoy them.