s one of probation. To this period of tranquillity
succeeded one of uneasiness and grief, which ended by awakening a little
melancholy. Let us examine the causes of it in his position at that
time.

The object of Lord Byron's love had obtained from His Holiness Pope Pius
VII., at the solicitation of her parents, permission to leave her
husband's house, and return home to her family. Consequently she had
left in the month of July, and was leading a retired life in a
country-house belonging to her parents. Thus Lord Byron, who had been
accustomed to feel happy in her society, was now reduced to solitude in
the same place her presence had gladdened. In order not to compromise
her in her delicate position, he was obliged even to deny himself the
gratification of calling upon her in the country. Ravenna, which is
always a sad kind of abode, becomes in autumn quite a desert, liable to
fever. Everybody had gone into the country. Even if taste had not
inclined Lord Byron to be alone, necessity would have compelled it; for
there was no longer a single being with whom he could exchange a word or
a thought. Equinoctial gales again swept the sea; and thus the wholesome
exercise of swimming, so useful in restoring equilibrium to the
faculties and calming the mind, was forbidden. If at least he could have
roamed on horseback through the forest of pines! But no; the autumn
rains, even in this lovely climate, last for weeks. In the absolute
solitude of a town like Ravenna, imprisoned, so to say, within his own
apartment, how could he avoid some emotions of sadness? He was thus
assailed; and, as it always happened where he himself was concerned, he
mistook its causes. Engrossed by an affection that was amply returned,
feeling strong against the injustice of man and the hardships of fate,
having become well-nigh inaccessible to _ennui_, he was astonished at
the sadness that always seemed to return in autumn, and imagined that it
might be from some hereditary malady inherent to his temperament.

"This season kills me with sadness," he wrote to Madame G----, on the
28th of September; "when I have my mental malady, it is well for others
that I keep away. I thank thee, from my heart, for the roses. Love me!
My soul is like the leaves that fall in autumn, all yellow."

And then, as if he almost reproached himself with being sad without some
cause existing in the heart, and, above all, not wishing to pain Madame
G----, he wound up with a jok