named Basilius, would not leave Lord Byron afterward. Wherever
any English residents, consuls, or ambassadors could be found, Lord
Byron was the object of a thousand attentions and kindnesses. At
Constantinople, the English ambassador, Adair, wished him to lodge at
his palace; Mr. S---- proposed the same thing at Patras. When he fell
ill, he was taken care of, most affectionately even, by the Albanese.
All the sympathies enlisted during his travels (and those who knew him
thought them most natural) must certainly have acted on his loving,
grateful heart, banishing misanthropy if he had experienced it. But did
it really exist? Must not even his peace of conscience have
counterbalanced bitter remembrances?

His conscience was unburdened, for the griefs he had had were not
merited by him. If a young girl had deceived him, he on his side had
deceived no one; if a guardian had neglected and failed in duties toward
him, he had always behaved respectfully toward this bad guardian. If
hard-hearted critics had insulted, and tried to stifle his budding
genius, modest and timid withal, he had already taken his revenge, sure
to repent some day of the harshness and injustice which passion had,
perhaps, led him into; if his affairs were embarrassed, they had come to
him thus by inheritance. If he had taken a share in some youthful
dissipation, disgust had quickly followed; not a tear or a seduction had
he wherewith to reproach himself. All these testimonies furnished by his
conscience, and so consoling in every case, must have been doubly so to
a heart like his, which, by his own avowal, could not _go to rest_ with
the weight of _any remorse_ upon it. And, truly, all his correspondence
certifies this.

Already at Gibraltar, Lord Byron began writing letters full of clever
pleasantry, either to his mother or his friends, and his correspondence
always continued in the same tone, with nothing that betrayed
melancholy, far less misanthropy like Childe Harold's, although he was
composing that poem at this time.

At Malta, it was impossible to find shelter.[171] His companions grew
impatient, but Lord Byron retained his good-humor, laughing and joking.
On the mountains of Epirus, which were infested by brigands, the
Albanian escort, given him by Ali Pasha, lost their way in the middle of
the night, and were surprised by a terrific storm. For nine hours he
advanced on horseback under torrents of rain; and when at last he
reached his comp