beasts yet fear thy white bones, Lycas; and thy valour great Pelion knows, and the lonely peaks of Cithæron." This is heroic praise, and so, in a fashion, is Byron's epitaph on Boatswain. But Byron, being of the moderns, can find no better way of honouring dogs than by defaming men; a stupidity, pardonable in the poet only because he was the most sincere lover of animals the world has ever known. His tastes were catholic, his outlook was whimsical. He was not in the least discomposed when his forgetful wolf-hound bit him, or when his bulldog bit him without the excuse of forgetfulness. Moore tells us that the first thing he saw on entering Byron's palace in Venice was a notice, "Keep clear of the dog!" and the first thing he heard was the voice of his host calling out anxiously, "Take care, or that monkey will fly at you."
It is a pleasant relief, after flounder-
