There is no romance of Munchausen or Dumas more marvellous than the adventures attributed to Lord Byron abroad. Attached to his first expedition are a series of narratives, by professing eye-witnesses, of his intrigues, encounters, acts of diablerie and of munificence, in particular of his roaming about the isles of Greece and taking possession of one of them, which have all the same relation to reality as the _Arabian Nights_ to the actual reign of Haroun Al Raschid.[1] [Footnote 1: Those who wish to read them are referred to the three large volumes--published in 1825, by Mr. Iley, Portman Street--of anonymous authorship.] Byron had far more than an average share of the _émigré_ spirit, the counterpoise in the English race of their otherwise arrogant isolation. He held with Wilhelm Meister-- To give space for wandering is it, That the earth was made so wide. and wrote to his mother from Athens: "I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind, instead of reading about them, and the bitter effects of staying at home with all the narrow prejudices of an islander, that I think there should be a law amongst us to send our young men abroad for a term, among the few allies our wars have left us." On June 11th, having borrowed money at heavy interest, and stored his mind with information about Persia and India, the contemplated but unattained goal of his travels, he left London, accompanied by his friend Hobhouse, Fletcher his valet, Joe Murray his old butler, and Robert Rushton the son of one of his tenants, supposed to be represented by the Page in _Childe Harold_. The two latter, the one on account of his age, the other from his health breaking down, he sent back to England from Gibraltar.