I could have no
motive for repressing my own desire of alluding to you (and not a day
passes that I do not think and talk of you), but an idea that you might,
yourself, dislike it. You cannot doubt my sincere admiration, waving
personal friendship for the present, which, by the by, is not less
sincere and deep rooted. I have you by rote and by heart; of which _ecce
signum!_ When I was at Aston, on my first visit, I have a habit, in
passing my time a good deal alone, of--I won't call it singing, for that
I never attempt except to myself--but of uttering, to what I think
tunes, your "Oh breathe not," "When the last glimpse," and "When he who
adores thee," with others of the same minstrel;--they are my matins and
vespers. I assuredly did not intend them to be overheard, but, one
morning, in comes, not _La Donna_, but _Il Marito_, with a very grave
face, saying, "Byron, I must request you won't sing any more, at least
of those songs." I stared, and said, "Certainly, but why?"--"To tell you
the truth," quoth he, "they make my wife _cry_, and so melancholy, that
I wish her to hear no more of them."
Now, my dear M., the effect must have been from your words, and
certainly not my music. I merely mention this foolish story to show you
how much I am indebted to you for even your pastimes. A man may praise
and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases--at least, in
composition. Though I think no one equal to you in that department, or
in satire,--and surely no one was ever so popular in both,--I certainly
am of opinion that you have not yet done all _you_ can do, though more
than enough for any one else.
Pages:
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413