He then remarked the heavy smoke that rolled away from the city, spreading in the distance a vale 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 painter, and defy any poet. My rides, 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), forming[errata 1] 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 al-
