"death-blow from Cecil, who fired rather "first, or rather was the quickest shot of the 66 two. All he said when falling was, 'D—n "it, have I missed him?" Shelley is a much "better shot than I am, but he is thinking "of metaphysics rather than of firing.”

I understand that Lord Byron is always in better spirits after having culped (as he calls it) the targe often, or hit a five-paul piece, the connterpart of which is always given to the farmer, who is making a little fortune. All the pieces struck, Lord Byron keeps to put, as he says, in his museum.

We now continued our ride, and returned to Pisa by the Lucca gate.

"Pisa with its hanging tower and Sophia"like dome reminds me," said Lord Byron, "of an eastern place."

He then remarked the heavy smoke that rolled away from the city, spreading in the distance a veil of mist, through which the golden clouds of evening appeared.

"It is fine," said Lord Byron, “but no "sunsets are to be compared with those of "Venice. They are too gorgeous for any

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painter, and defy any poet. My rides,

66 indeed, would have been nothing without "the Venetian sunsets. Ask Shelley."

"Stand on the marble bridge," said Shelley, "cast your eye, if you are not dazzled, on its river glowing as with fire, then follow the graceful curve of the palaces on the Lung' Arno till the arch is naved by the massy dungeon-tower (erroneously called Ugolino's), frowning in dark relief, and tell me if any thing can surpass a sunset at Pisa.”

The history of one, is that of almost every day. It is impossible to conceive a more unvaried life than Lord Byron led at this period. I continued to visit him at the same hour daily. Billiards, conversation, or reading, filled up the intervals till it was time to take our evening drive, ride, and pistol-practice. On our return, which was always in the same direction, we frequently met the Countess Guiccioli, with whom he stopped to converse a few minutes.

He dined at half an hour after sunset, (at twenty-four o'clock); then drove to Count Gamba's, the Countess Guiccioli's father, ́passed several hours in her society, returned to his palace, and either read or wrote till two or three in the morning, occasionally drinking spirits diluted with water as a medicine, from a dread of a nephritic complaint, to

which he was, or fancied himself, subject. Such was his life at Pisa.

The Countess Guiccioli is twenty-three years of age, though she appears no more than seventeen or eighteen. Unlike most of the Italian women, her complexion is delicately fair. Her eyes, large, dark, and languishing, are shaded by the longest eye-lashes in the world; and her hair, which is ungathered on her head, plays over her falling shoulders in a profusion of natural ringlets of the darkest auburn. Her figure is, perhaps, too much embonpoint for her height, but her bust is perfect; her features want little of possessing a Grecian regularity of outline; and she has the most beautiful mouth and teeth imaginable. It is impossible to see without admiring—to hear the Guiccioli speak without being fascinated. Her amiability and gentleness shew

themselves in every intonation of her voice, which, and the music of her perfect Italian, give a peculiar charm to every thing she utters. Grace and elegance seem component parts of her nature. Notwithstanding that she adores Lord Byron, it is evident that the exile and poverty of her aged father sometimes affect her spirits, and throw a shade of melancholy on her countenance, which adds to the deep interest this lovely girl creates.

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Extraordinary pains," said Lord Byron one day, were taken with the education of "Teresa. Her conversation is lively, with"out being frivolous; without being learned, "she has read all the best authors of her 66 own and the French language. She often "conceals what she knows, from the fear of "being thought to know too much; possibly "because she knows I am not fond of blues.