ecording in his journal the bare
and barren fact that outside the city wall in Persia they once saw two
dogs gnawing a human body. Byron saw the sight, but made no mention of it
at the time. He waited, the scene sealed up in his brain-cells. Years
after he wrote thus:

"And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall,
Hold o'er the dead their carnival;
Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb,
They were too busy to bark at him.
From a Tartar's skull they stripped the flesh,
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh;
And their white tusks crunched on the whiter skull,
As it slipped through their jaws when the edge grew dull."

And this only proves that Hobhouse was not a poet and Byron was. The poet
is never content to state the mere facts--facts are only valuable as
suggestions for poetry.

Travel often excites the spirit to the point of expression. Good travelers
carry pads and pencils. Byron reached England with fragments of marbles,
skulls, pictures, shells, spears, guns, curios beyond count, and many
manuscripts in process.

Upon arriving on the English coast the first news that reached him was
that his mother had just died. He hastened to Newstead and reached there
in time to attend the funeral, but refrained from following the cortege
to the grave because he could not master his emotions. Their quarrels were
at last ended.

A diversion to his feelings came soon after, in the way of a blunt letter
from Tom Moore demanding if Lord Byron was the author of "English Bards
and Scotch Reviewers."

Byron replied very stiffly that he was, but he really had intended no
insult to Mr. Moore, with whom he had not the honor of being acquainted.
Furthermore, if Mr. Moore felt himself aggrieved, why, the author of
"English Bards" was at his service to supply him such satisfaction as he
required.

The irate Irishman accepted "the apology," a genial reply followed, and
soon the poets met at the house of a friend, and there began that lifelong
friendship, with the result that Moore wrote Byron's "Life" and used much
needless whitewash.

While abroad Byron had gotten into shape for publication one piece of
manuscript. This was "Hints From Horace," and the matter was placed in the
hands of Mr. Dallas, his businessman, very soon after his arrival. Dallas
read the poem and did not like it.

"Haven't you anything else?" asked Dallas.

"Oh, nothing but a few stanzas of Spenserian stuff," was the