Page:The Royal Lady's Magazine (Volume 1, 1831).djvu/130
And banks of broom so yellow!
Too happy has this bosom been
Within your arbours mellow.
That happiness is fled for aye,
And all is dark desponding,
Save in the opening gates of day,
And the dear home beyond them!
LETTERS AND JOURNALS OF LORD BYRON, WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE. BY THOMAS MOORE.
It would be unfair to approach this work without a full consideration of the difficulties which must have embarrassed the author in the task of selection, and of what was, perhaps, a still more arduous portion of the labour, that of suppression. We are not disposed to criticise the writings of Lord Byron, nor to trumpet forth, for the thousandth time, the characteristics of his mind; but no one will now deny, that there was something fiend-like in his nature—and we have indication enough of this, even in the letters and journals before us, which Mr. Moore has taken infinite pains to adapt for the press. With all the biographer's care, however, there are many of the noble bard's effusions in print, instead of where they ought to be—in the fire; and the volumes present ample evidence—notwithstanding the avowed object of the work is to screen the meaning of the deceased—that, whether considered in his public or private relations, the laws of society were respected but little, and the laws of morality defied altogether. The work is one of extreme interest; it presents a kind of living portrait, sketched by the noble lord himself; and all the palliations offered by his friend and biographer, all the touches which, under some circumstances, might have put a more amiable face upon the picture, the hard outline remains, as it were, obstinately contesting for supremacy, and defying the hand of art to soften it. They who contemplate the genius of Byron, may fall down at its shrine, but they cannot lose sight of its occasional degradation; and, if we speak our honest opinion, the noble bard rarely stands in a worse light, than when his biographer endeavours to extenuate the vices, and patch the moral reputation of his deceased friend. The weekly and diurnal press have ransacked the volumes for interesting scraps, but we must select, nevertheless, specimens from each department of the work.
Extracts from the Letters.
TO LADY BYRON.
(To the care of the Hon. Mrs. Leigh, London.)
Pisa, Nov. 17, 1821.
I have to acknowledge the receipt of "Ada's hair," which is very soft and pretty, and nearly as dark already as mine was at twelve years old, if I may judge from what I recollect of some in Augusta's possession, taken at that age. But it don't curl,—perhaps from its being let grow.
I also thank you for the inscription of the date and name, and I will tell you why;—I believe that they are the only two or three words of your handwriting in my possession. For your letters I returned, and except the two words, or rather the one word, "Household," written twice in an old account-book, I have no other. I burnt your last note, for two reasons:—1stly, it was written in a style not very agreeable; and, 2dly, I wished to take your word without documents, which are the worldly resources of suspicious people.
I suppose that this note will reach you somewhere about Ada's birthday—the 10th of December, I believe. She will then be six, so that in about twelve more I shall have some chance of meeting her! perhaps sooner, if I am obliged to go to England by business or otherwise. Recollect, however, one thing, either in distance or nearness;—every day which keeps us asunder should, after so long a period, rather soften our mutual feelings, which must always have one rallying-point as long as our child exists, which I presume we both hope will be long after either of her parents.
The time which has elapsed since the separation has been considerably more than the whole brief period of our union, and the