LADY ADELAIDE FORBES'S DOUBLE

81

To-night I saw both the sisters of **; my God! the youngest so like! I I thought I should have sprung across the house, and am so glad no one was with me in Lady H.'s box. I hate those likenessesthe mock-bird, but not the nightingale-so like as to remind, so different as to be painful. One quarrels equally with the points of resemblance and of distinction.

(1813, November 16. "Journal, 1813-14," Vol. II., p. 321.)

Called on C * *, to explain * * She is very beautiful, to my taste, at least; for on coming home from abroad, I recollect being unable to look at any woman but her-they were so fair, and unmeaning, and blonde. The darkness and regularity of her features reminded me of my "Jannat al Aden." But this impression wore off; and now I can look at a fair woman, without longing for a Houri. She was very good-tempered, and every thing was explained. (1813, November 17. "Journal, 1813-14," Vol. II., p. 326.)

Of Rome I say nothing; it is quite indescribable. The Apollo Belvidere is the image of Lady Adelaide Forbes-I think I never saw such a likeness.

(1817, May 12. Letter 651, to Thomas Moore, Vol. IV., p. 122.)

The sister [of Count Mosti's wife], a Countess somebody-I forget what-(they are both Maffei by birth, and Veronese of course)-is a lady of more

F

display; she sings and plays divinely; but I thought she was a damned long time about it. Her likeness to Madame Flahaut (Miss Mercer that was) is something quite extraordinary.

(1819, June 6. Letter 738, to Richard

Belgrave Hoppner, Vol. IV., p. 309.)

[As one of the Sub-Committee of Management of Drury Lane Theatre] I used to protect Miss Smith [the dancer], because she was like Lady Jane Harley in the face; and likenesses go a great way with me.

("Detached, Thoughts," 1821-22. "Thought" 68, Vol. V., p. 443.)

(2) Thoughts on Death and on Apparitions Some curse hangs over me and mine. My mother lies a corpse in this house; one of my best friends [i.e. Matthews] is drowned in a ditch. What can I say, or think, or do? I received a letter from him the day before yesterday. My dear Scrope, if you can spare a moment, do come down to me-I want a friend. Matthews' last letter was written on Friday,on Saturday he was not. In ability, who was like Matthews? How did we all shrink before him? You do me but justice in saying, I would have risked my paltry existence to have preserved his. This very evening did I mean to write, inviting him, as I invite you, my very dear friend, to visit me. God forgive for his apathy! What will our poor Hobhouse feel? His letters breathe but of Matthews.

Come to me, Scrope, I am almost

THE DEATH OF MATTHEWS

83

desolate-left almost alone in the world-I had but you and H., and M., and let me enjoy the survivors whilst I can. Poor M., in his letter of Friday, speaks of his intended contest for Cambridge, and a speedy journey to London. Write or come, but come if you can, or one or both.

(1811, August 7. Letter 161, to Scrope

Berdmore Davies, Vol. I., p. 324.)

Peace be with the dead! Regret cannot wake them. With a sigh to the departed, let us resume the dull business of life, in the certainty that we also shall have our repose. Besides her who gave me being, I have lost more than one who made that being tolerable.-The best friend of my friend Hobhouse, Matthews, a man of the first talents, and also not the worst of my narrow circle, has perished miserably in the muddy waves of the Cam, always fatal to genius-my poor school-fellow, Wingfield, at Coimbra-within a month; and whilst I had heard from all three, but not seen one. Matthews wrote to me the very day before his death; and though I feel for his fate, I am still more anxious for Hobhouse, who, I very much fear, will hardly retain his senses his letters to me since the event have been most incoherent. But let this pass; we shall all one day pass along with the rest-the world is too full of such things, and our very sorrow is selfish. I hope your friends and family will long hold together. I shall be glad to hear from you, on business, on commonplace, or any thing, or nothing-but death-I am already too familiar with the dead. It is strange that I look on the skulls

which stand beside me (I have always had four in my study) without emotion, but I cannot strip the features of those I have known of their fleshly covering, even in idea, without a hideous sensation; but the worms are less ceremonious.-Surely the Romans did well when they burned the dead.

(1811, August 12. Letter 162, to R. C. Dallas, Vol. I., p. 325.)

You may have heard of the sudden death of my mother, and poor Matthews, which, with that of Wingfield (of which I was not fully aware till just before I left town, and indeed hardly believed it, has made a sad chasm in my connections. Indeed the blows followed each other so rapidly that I am yet stupid from the shock; and though I do eat, and drink, and talk, and even laugh, at times, yet I can hardly persuade myself that I am awake, did not every morning convince me mournfully to the contrary.—I shall now wave the subject,-the dead are at rest, and none but the dead can be so.

You will write to me? I am solitary, and I never felt solitude irksome before.

(1811, August 22. Letter 168, to Francis

Hodgson, Vol. I., p. 338.)

I have been a good deal in your company lately, for I have been reading Juvenal and Lady Jane, etc., for the first time since my return. [Hodgson wrote a Translation of Juvenal in 1807, and Lady Jane Grey, a Tale; and other Poems in 1809.] The Tenth Sat® has always been my favourite, as I suppose indeed of everybody's. It is the finest recipe for making one

CONSOLATIONS IN DEATH

85

miserable with his life, and content to walk out of it, in any language. I should think it might be redde with great effect to a man dying without much pain, in preference to all the stuff that ever was said or sung in churches. But you are a deacon, and I say

no more.

(1811, September 9. Letter 182, to Francis Hodgson, Vol. II., p. 32.)

I believe the only human being, that ever loved me in truth and entirely, was of, or belonging to Cambridge, and, in that, no change can now take place. There is one consolation in death-where he sets his seal, the impression can neither be melted nor broken, but endureth for ever. I almost rejoice when one I love dies young, for I could never bear to see them old or altered.

(1812, February 16. Letter 224, to Francis Hodgson, Vol. II., p. 100.)

All words are useless, but I think your own manliness of mind will support you, the more so as others will require the consolation from you which the help lessness of their sex more especially demands at such a moment. Whenever your father and yourself feel it proper and desire to see me, I shall wait upon you.

(1814, March 30. Letter 427, to Charles Hanson, Vol. III., p. 61.)

I meaned to write to you before on the subject of your loss [i.e. the death of Byron's infant god-daughter, Olivia Byron Moore]; but the recollection of the uselessness and worthlessness of any observations on such