use of Ireland. To quote the words of my letter to Lord Byron
on the subject:--"I chose this story because one writes best about what
one feels most, and I thought the parallel with Ireland would enable me
to infuse some vigour into my hero's character. But to aim at vigour and
strong feeling after _you_ is hopeless;--that region 'was made for
Caesar.'"]

* * * * *

At this time Lord Byron commenced a Journal, or Diary, from the pages of
which I have already selected a few extracts, and of which I shall now
lay as much more as is producible before the reader. Employed
chiefly,--as such a record, from its nature, must be,--about persons
still living, and occurrences still recent, it would be impossible, of
course, to submit it to the public eye, without the omission of some
portion of its contents, and unluckily, too, of that very portion which,
from its reference to the secret pursuits and feelings of the writer,
would the most livelily pique and gratify the curiosity of the reader.
Enough, however, will, I trust, still remain, even after all this
necessary winnowing, to enlarge still further the view we have here
opened into the interior of the poet's life and habits, and to indulge
harmlessly that taste, as general as it is natural, which leads us to
contemplate with pleasure a great mind in its undress, and to rejoice in
the discovery, so consoling to human pride, that even the mightiest, in
their moments of ease and weakness, resemble ourselves.[88]

[Footnote 88: "C'est surtout aux hommes qui sont hors de toute
comparaison par le genie qu'on aime a ressembler au moins par les
foiblesses."--GINGUENE.]

"JOURNAL, BEGUN NOVEMBER 14. 1813.

"If this had been begun ten years ago, and faithfully kept!!!--heigho!
there are too many things I wish never to have remembered, as it is.
Well,--have had my share of what are called the pleasures of this life,
and have seen more of the European and Asiatic world than I have made a
good use of. They say 'Virtue is its own reward,'--it certainly should
be paid well for its trouble. At five-and-twenty, when the better part
of life is over, one should be _something_;--and what am I? nothing but
five-and-twenty--and the odd months. What have I seen? the same man all
over the world,--ay, and woman too. Give _me_ a Mussulman who never asks
questions, and a she of the same race who saves one the trouble of
putting them. But for this same plague--yello