spite of his rhymes, and is probably one of the instances where
death has saved a man from damnation. You were the ruin of that
poor fellow amongst you: had it not been for his patrons, he might
now have been in very good plight, shoe-(not verse-) making: but
you have made him immortal with a vengeance. I write this,
supposing poetry, patronage, and strong waters, to have been the
death of him. If you are in town in or about the beginning of July,
you will find me at Dorant's, in Albemarle Street, glad to see you.
I have an imitation of Horace's Art of Poetry ready for Cawthorn,
but don't let that deter you, for I sha'n't inflict it upon you.
You know I never read my rhymes to visitors. I shall quit town in a
few days for Notts., and thence to Rochdale.

"Yours, &c."

* * * * *

Immediately, on Lord Byron's arrival in London, Mr. Dallas called upon
him. "On the 15th of July," says this gentleman, "I had the pleasure of
shaking hands with him at Reddish's Hotel in St. James's Street. I
thought his looks belied the report he had given me of his bodily
health, and his countenance did not betoken melancholy, or displeasure
at his return. He was very animated in the account of his travels, but
assured me he had never had the least idea of writing them. He said he
believed satire to be his _forte_, and to that he had adhered, having
written, during his stay at different places abroad, a Paraphrase of
Horace's Art of Poetry, which would be a good finish to English Bards
and Scotch Reviewers. He seemed to promise himself additional fame from
it, and I undertook to superintend its publication, as I had done that
of the Satire. I had chosen the time ill for my visit, and we had hardly