ing to the custom of the country, he accompanied her to
assemblies or theatres, or spent his evenings in her family circle. At
Pisa, he held aloof from the world, because his friends, the Gambas, who
had taken refuge there in consequence of the troubles and political
enmities existing in Romagna, did not wish to mix in society. But he
passed all his evenings regularly with them, either at their house, or
sometimes dispensing hospitality at home with the greatest affability
and kindness.

"I believe I can not give a better proof of the sociability of Lord
Byron's disposition," says Medwin, "than by speaking of the gayety that
prevailed at his Wednesday dinner-parties at Pisa. His table, when
alone, was more than frugal; but on these occasions, every sort of wine,
and all the delicacies of the season, were served up in grand display,
worthy of the best houses. I never knew any one who did the honors of
his house with greater affability and hospitality than Lord Byron.

"The vivacity of his wit, the warmth of his eloquence, are things not to
be expressed. Could we forget the tone of his voice, or his gesture,
adding charm to all he said?"[125]

At Pisa he generally received in the morning all those who wished to see
him, and among others several of his countrymen, mostly acquaintances or
friends of Shelley, who also went to see him every day. In the afternoon
he rode out on horseback, still followed by his countrymen, and by the
young Count Gamba; amusing himself with them till evening came, in
shooting exercises or in long excursions. We have already said how he
employed his evenings. In fact, he was so seldom alone that people could
not understand how he found time for writing. He did find it, however,
and without subtracting from social intercourse. Nor was it solely
because he composed so rapidly, but likewise because he gave to
occupation the hours that young men are wont to pass in idle, not to say
vicious, amusements. When he went from Pisa to a villa situated on the
hills that overlook Leghorn and the Mediterranean, in order to pass the
great heats of summer there, an American painter, Mr. West, who had been
commissioned by an American society, requested him to sit for his
picture. Lord Byron could not give him much time, and the portrait was
not successful. But Mr. West, who, if not a good artist, possessed a
just and cultivated mind, drew a picture of his moral character as true
as it was flattering,--his pen d