The Works of Lord Byron: Letters and Journals
Chapter 156 : How the deuce did all this occur so early? where could it originate? I certainly had n

How the deuce did all this occur so early? where could it originate? I certainly had no s.e.xual ideas for years afterwards; and yet my misery, my love for that girl were so violent, that I sometimes doubt if I have ever been really attached since. Be that as it may, hearing of her marriage several years after was like a thunder-stroke--it nearly choked me--to the horror of my mother and the astonishment and almost incredulity of every body. And it is a phenomenon in my existence (for I was not eight years old) which has puzzled, and will puzzle me to the latest hour of it; and lately, I know not why, the _recollection_ (_not_ the attachment) has recurred as forcibly as ever. I wonder if she can have the least remembrance of it or me? or remember her pitying sister Helen for not having an admirer too? How very pretty is the perfect image of her in my memory--her brown, dark hair, and hazel eyes; her very dress! I should be quite grieved to see _her now_; the reality, however beautiful, would destroy, or at least confuse, the features of the lovely Peri which then existed in her, and still lives in my imagination, at the distance of more than sixteen years. I am now twenty-five and odd months....

I think my mother told the circ.u.mstances (on my hearing of her marriage) to the Parkynses, and certainly to the Pigot family, and probably mentioned it in her answer to Miss A., who was well acquainted with my childish _penchant_, and had sent the news on purpose for _me_,--and thanks to her!

Next to the beginning, the conclusion has often occupied my reflections, in the way of investigation. That the facts are thus, others know as well as I, and my memory yet tells me so, in more than a whisper. But, the more I reflect, the more I am bewildered to a.s.sign any cause for this precocity of affection.

Lord Holland invited me to dinner to-day; but three days' dining would destroy me. So, without eating at all since yesterday, I went to my box at Covent Garden.

Saw----looking very pretty, though quite a different style of beauty from the other two. She has the finest eyes in the world, out of which she pretends _not_ to see, and the longest eyelashes I ever saw, since Leila's and Phannio's Moslem curtains of the light. She has much beauty,--just enough,--but is, I think, _mechante_.

I have been pondering on the miseries of separation, that--oh how seldom we see those we love! yet we live ages in moments, _when met_. The only thing that consoles me during absence is the reflection that no mental or personal estrangement, from ennui or disagreement, can take place; and when people meet hereafter, even though many changes may have taken place in the mean time, still, unless they are _tired_ of each other, they are ready to reunite, and do not blame each other for the circ.u.mstances that severed them.

Sat.u.r.day 27

(I believe or rather am in _doubt_, which is the _ne plus ultra_ of mortal faith.)

I have missed a day; and, as the Irishman said, or Joe Miller says for him, "have gained a loss," or _by_ the loss. Every thing is settled for Holland, and nothing but a cough, or a caprice of my fellow-traveller's, can stop us. Carriage ordered, funds prepared, and, probably, a gale of wind into the bargain. _N'importe_--I believe, with Clym o' the Clow, or Robin Hood, "By our Mary, (dear name!) thou art both Mother and May, I think it never was a man's lot to die before his day." [1]

Heigh for Helvoetsluys, and so forth!

To-night I went with young Henry Fox to see _Nourjahad_, a drama, which the _Morning Post_ hath laid to my charge, but of which I cannot even guess the author. I wonder what they will next inflict upon me. They cannot well sink below a melodrama; but that is better than a satire, (at least, a personal one,) with which I stand truly arraigned, and in atonement of which I am resolved to bear silently all criticisms, abuses, and even praises, for bad pantomimes never composed by me, without even a contradictory aspect. I suppose the root of this report is my loan to the manager of my Turkish drawings for his dresses, to which he was more welcome than to my name. I suppose the real author will soon own it, as it has succeeded; if not, Job be my model, and Lethe my beverage!

----has received the portrait safe; and, in answer, the only remark she makes upon it is, "indeed it is like"--and again, "indeed it is like."

With her the likeness "covered a mult.i.tude of sins;" for I happen to know that this portrait was not a flatterer, but dark and stern,--even black as the mood in which my mind was scorching last July, when I sat for it. All the others of me, like most portraits whatsoever, are, of course, more agreeable than nature.

Redde the 'Edinburgh Review' of Rogers. He is ranked highly; but where he should be. There is a summary view of us all--_Moore_ and _me_ among the rest; [2] and both (the _first_ justly) praised--though, by implication (justly again) placed beneath our memorable friend.

Mackintosh is the writer, and also of the critique on the Stael. [3]

His grand essay on Burke, I hear, is for the next number. But I know nothing of the 'Edinburgh', or of any other _Review_, but from rumour; and I have long ceased; indeed, I could not, in justice, complain of any, even though I were to rate poetry, in general, and my rhymes in particular, more highly than I really do. To withdraw _myself_ from _myself_ (oh that cursed selfishness!) has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all; and publis.h.i.+ng is also the continuance of the same object, by the action it affords to the mind, which else recoils upon itself. If I valued fame, I should flatter received opinions, which have gathered strength by time, and will yet wear longer than any living works to the contrary. But, for the soul of me, I cannot and will not give the lie to my own thoughts and doubts, come what may. If I am a fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.

All are inclined to believe what they covet, from a lottery-ticket up to a pa.s.sport to Paradise,--in which, from the description, I see nothing very tempting. My restlessness tells me I have something "within that pa.s.seth show." [4]

It is for Him, who made it, to prolong that spark of celestial fire which illuminates, yet burns, this frail tenement; but I see no such horror in a "dreamless sleep," and I have no conception of any existence which duration would not render tiresome. How else "fell the angels,"

even according to your creed? They were immortal, heavenly, and happy, as their _apostate Abdiel_ [5] is now by his treachery. Time must decide; and eternity won't be the less agreeable or more horrible because one did not expect it. In the mean time, I am grateful for some good, and tolerably patient under certain evils--_grace a Dieu et mon bon temperament_.

[Footnote 1:

"Ah, deere ladye, said Robin Hood, thou That art both Mother and May, I think it was never man's destinye To die before his day."

'Ballad of Robin Hood'

[Footnote 2: The following is the pa.s.sage to which Byron alludes:

"Greece, the mother of freedom and of poetry in the West, which had long employed only the antiquary, the artist, and the philologist, was at length destined, after an interval of many silent and inglorious ages, to awaken the genius of a poet. Full of enthusiasm for those perfect forms of heroism and liberty which his imagination had placed in the recesses of antiquity, he gave vent to his impatience of the imperfections of living men and real inst.i.tutions, in an original strain of sublime satire, which clothes moral anger in imagery of an almost horrible grandeur; and which, though it cannot coincide with the estimate of reason, yet could only flow from that wors.h.i.+p of perfection which is the soul of all true poetry."

'Edin. Rev'., vol. xxii. p. 37.]

[Footnote 3:

"In the last 'Edinburgh Review' you will find two articles of mine, one on Rogers, and the other on Madame de Stael: they are both, especially the first, thought too panegyrical. I like the praises which I have bestowed on Lord Byron and Thomas Moore. I am convinced of the justness of the praises given to Madame de Stael."

'Mackintosh's Life', vol. ii. p. 271.]

[Footnote 4:

"I have that within which pa.s.seth show."

'Hamlet', act i. sc. 2.]

[Footnote 5:

"... the seraph Abdiel, faithful found Among the faithless."

Milton, 'Paradise Lost', v. 896.]

Tuesday, 30th.

Two days missed in my log-book;--_hiatus_ haud _deflendus_. They were as little worth recollection as the rest; and, luckily, laziness or society prevented me from _notching_ them.

Sunday, I dined with the Lord Holland in St. James's Square. Large party--among them Sir S. Romilly [1] and Lady R'y.--General Sir Somebody Bentham, [2] a man of science and talent, I am told--Horner [3]--_the_ Horner, an Edinburgh Reviewer, an excellent speaker in the "Honourable House," very pleasing, too, and gentlemanly in company, as far as I have seen--Sharpe--Philips of Lancas.h.i.+re [4]--Lord John Russell, and others, "good men and true." Holland's society is very good; you always see some one or other in it worth knowing. Stuffed myself with sturgeon, and exceeded in champagne and wine in general, but not to confusion of head.

When I _do_ dine, I gorge like an Arab or a Boa snake, on fish and vegetables, but no meat. I am always better, however, on my tea and biscuit than any other regimen, and even _that_ sparingly.