found food for literary thought, and many instances in his writings show
the reflected scenes he saw. No visitor at Lausanne fails to visit the
Castle of Chillon, and all the guides will recite you these sweeping
lines, so surcharged with feeling, beginning:

"Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls;
A thousand feet in depth below,
Its many waters meet and flow."

At Geneva began the most interesting friendship between Byron and that
other young man, so like and yet so unlike him.

Only a few years and Byron was to search the shores of the Mediterranean
for Shelley's dead body, and finding it, be one of the friends who reduced
it to ashes.

Tiring of Geneva and the tourists who pointed him out as a curiosity, we
find Byron and his little party making their way across the Simplon, to
cross which is an epoch in the life of any man, and then down by the Lago
Maggiore to Milan.

"The Last Supper" of Leonardo da Vinci did not impress Byron--the art of
painting never did--this was his most marked limitation. From Milan they
wandered down through Italy to Verona and Venice.

The third Canto of "Childe Harold," "Manfred," and dozens of shorter poems
had been sent to Murray. England read and paid for all that Byron wrote,
and accepted it all as autobiography. Possibly Byron's defiant manner lent
an excuse for this, but by applying similar rules we could convict
Sophocles, Schiller and Shelley of basest crimes, put Shakespeare in the