a week ago, in consequence of a quarrel at the theatre with an Austrian officer, in which he was exceedingly in the wrong, he has contrived to get sent out of the territory, and is gone to Florence.  I was not present, the pit having been the scene of altercation; but on being sent for from the Cavalier Breme’s box, where I was quietly staring at the ballet, I found the man of medicine begirt with grenadiers, arrested by the guard, conveyed into the guard-room, where there was much swearing in several languages.  They were going to keep him there for the night; but on my giving my name, and answering for his apparition next morning, he was permitted egress.  Next day he had an order from the government to be gone in twenty-four hours, and accordingly gone he is, some days ago.  We did what we could for him, but to no purpose; and indeed he brought it upon himself, as far as I could learn, for I was not present at the squabble itself.  I believe this is the real state of his case; and I tell it you because I believe things sometimes reach you in England in a false or exaggerated form.  We found Milan very polite and hospitable[127], and have the same hopes of Verona and Venice.  I have filled my paper.

     “Ever yours,” &c.

[Footnote 127:  With Milan, however, or its society, the noble traveller was far from being pleased, and in his Memoranda, I recollect, he described his stay there to be “like a ship under quarantine.”  Among other persons whom he met in the society of that place was M. Beyle, the ingenious author of “L’Histoire de la Peinture en Italie,” who thus describes the impression their first interview left upon him:—­

“Ce fut pendant l’automne de 1816, que je le rencontrai au theatre de la Scala, a Milan, dans la loge de M. Louis de Breme.  Je fus frappe des yeux de Lord Byron au moment ou il ecoutait un sestetto d’un opera de Mayer intitule Elena.  Je n’ai vu de ma vie, rien de plus beau ni de plus expressif.  Encore aujourd’hui, si je viens a penser a l’expression qu’un grand peintre devrait donner an genie, cette tete sublime reparait tout-a-coup devant moi.  J’eus un instant d’enthousiasme, et oubliant la juste repugnance que tout homme un peu fier doit avoir a se faire presenter a un pair d’Angleterre, je priai M. de Breme de m’introduire a Lord Byron, je me trouvai le lendemain a diner chez M. de Breme, avec lui, et le celebre Monti, l’immortel auteur de la Basvigliana.  On parla poesie, on en vint a demander quels etaient les douze plus beaux vers faits depuis un siecle, en Francais, en Italien, en Anglais.  Les Italiens presens s’accorderent a designer les douze premiers vers de la Mascheroniana de Monti, comme ce que l’on avait fait de plus beau dans leur langue, depuis cent ans. Monti voulut bien nous les reciter.  Je regardai Lord Byron, il fut ravi.  La nuance de hauteur, ou plutot l’air d’un homme qui se trouve avoir a repousser une importunite, qui deparait un peu