LORD  BYRON  and  his  TIMES
Byron
Documents Biography Criticism
Lady Morgan’s Memoirs
Thomas Charles Morgan to Sydney Owen, 29 November 1811
INTRODUCTION & INDEXES
DOCUMENT INFORMATION
GO TO PAGE NUMBER:
Preface
Vol. I Contents.
Prefatory Address
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Vol. I Index
Vol. II Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter IV
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Vol. II Index
Creative Commons License

Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.
Produced by CATH
 
November 29th, 1811.

How is this Glorvina? twice, already, you have failed writing. Is it so very painful to bestow five minutes recollection on me? though, in truth, I know not whether your silence is not less painful than your letters. How cold—how indifferent—what ill-timed levity, and ill-timed animadversion! I am, and have been, very, very ill; and you are the cause of it. I am sure neither health nor reason could long withstand the agonies I suffered on your account for these last twenty-four hours. I have not slept, and am now obliged to put myself under Bowen’s care. The whole of yesterday was spent in answering your letter; but I will not pain you by that exhibition of my lacerated mind; I have already destroyed it. On the subject of delay, however, one word for all. As long as your presence is necessary to your family, so long (be it a month or a year) I freely consent to your absence from me; but not one hour longer; you have no right to demand it, and if you knew what love was, it is impossible you could wish it. But I fear you are a stranger to love, except as it affects the fancy. You may understand its picturesque effects; but of the anxious, agonizing alternations of doubt and confidence, joy and despair—of all that is tender, of all that is heart in it, I fear you are utterly ignorant. For what purpose can you wish a protracted stay?
BETWEEN CUP AND LIP.491
Your plea about a “respected guest and a part of the establishment,” is too childish for a moment’s consideration. If you do not love me sufficiently to master such fancies—if my affection is so little esteemed, and my happiness so little valued, why have you led me into this fools’ Paradise? You know you will not be able to refuse invitations to go out; for them, therefore, for your Parkhursts and Ormsbys (the devil take them) and not for your family, you will leave me in all the miseries of widowhood and solitude. I repeat it, this is not love. You say, before you knew me you were free as air; and I, too, was free; but you cannot give me back my former self, my “pleased alacrity and cheer of mind.” Seek not, then, to torture me with your coldness and carelessness. Remember that, attachment means bondage, and that we are mutually bound to promote each other’s happiness by every means in our power. Remember, that savage freedom is incompatible with the social affections, and that you have no right to render a being miserable, who lives and breathes only in your love. You cannot imagine the grief of heart, the tears, this early avowal of your wish to lengthen our separation has cost me. By heavens, there is no place so vile, so infectious, that I would not inhabit it with you; and you object to share my love in a place to which another and a more worthless passion—vanity, has chained you for nearly a year at once, with every circumstance that should have driven you away! How every unkind word, every doubtful expression with regard to your future conduct towards me, recurs to my recollec-
492 LADY MORGAN'S MEMOIR.  
tion! If you really do not mean to marry me, your trifling with a passion like mine is worse than cruelty. For God’s sake, be candid, and let me know the horrid truth at once.

Another thing—why do you keep secrets from me? Why suffer me to learn from others circumstances which so materially affect your interest?—as those of your father’s health. For my sake, for your own, let there be no mystery between us, no separation of interests. Trust me, I was rejoiced to learn that he was better again, and that you were the cause of it—that is the true balm, the only balm you can pour upon the wounds made by your absence—it gratifies and consoles me.