ome with him the paraphrase of Horace,
with which he was grievously disappointed; so much so, that on
meeting his Lordship again in the morning, and being reluctant to
speak of it as he really thought, he only expressed some surprise
that his noble friend should have produced nothing else during his
long absence.

I can easily conceive the emphatic indifference, if my conjecture be
well founded, with which Lord Byron must have said to him, "I have
occasionally written short poems, besides a great many stanzas in
Spenser's measure, relative to the countries I have visited: they
are not worth troubling you with, but you shall have them all with
you, if you like."

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage was accordingly placed in his hands; Mr
Dallas took it home, and was not slow in discovering its beauties,
for in the course of the same evening he despatched a note to his
Lordship, as fair a specimen of the style of an elderly patronising
gentleman as can well be imagined: "You have written," said he, "one
of the most delightful poems I ever read. If I wrote this in
flattery, I should deserve your contempt rather than your friendship.
I have been so fascinated with Childe Harold, that I have not been
able to lay it down; I would almost pledge my life on its advancing
the reputation of your poetical powers, and on its gaining you great
honour and regard, if you will do me the credit and favour of
attending to my suggestions."

For some reason or another, Lord Byron, however, felt or feigned
great reluctance to publish Childe Harold. Possibly his repugnance
was dictated by diffidence, not with respect to its merits, but from
a consciousness that the hero of the poem exhibited traits and
resemblances of himself. It would indeed be injustice to his
judgment and taste, to suppose he was not sensible of the superiority
of the terse and energetic poetry which brightens and burns in every
stanza of the Pilgrimage, compared with the loose and sprawling
lines, and dull rhythm, of the paraphrase. It is true that he
alleged it had been condemned by a good critic--the only one who had
previously seen it--probably Mr Hobhouse, who was with him during the
time he was writing it; but still I cannot conceive he was so blind
to excellence, as to prefer in sincerity the other composition, which
was only an imitation. But the arguments of Mr Dallas prevailed and
in due season Childe Harold was prepared for the press.

In the meantime, while