world, is both painful and pleasing. But, first, to what sits
nearest. Do you know I was actually about to dedicate to you,--not
in a formal inscription, as to one's _elders_,--but through a
short prefatory letter, in which I boasted myself your intimate,
and held forth the prospect of _your_ poem; when, lo! the
recollection of your strict injunctions of secrecy as to the said
poem, more than _once_ repeated by word and letter, flashed upon
me, and marred my intents. 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 * *, 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