“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
* This passage has been already extracted. |
| 454 | NOTICES OF THE | A. D. 1813. |
“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 multitude 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 sate for it. All the others of me—like most portraits whatsoever—are, of course, more agreeable than nature.
“Redde the Ed.
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; 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 Staël. 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!)
| A. D. 1813. | LIFE OF LORD BYRON. | 455 |
“All are inclined to believe what they covet, from a lottery-ticket up to a passport to Paradise,—in which, from description, I see nothing very tempting. My restlessness tells me I have something within that ‘passeth show.’ 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 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 à Dieu et mon bon tempérament.
