mio—­is comprised my existence here and hereafter.  I feel I exist here, and I fear that I shall exist hereafter,—­to what purpose you will decide; my destiny rests with you, and you are a woman, seventeen years of age, and two out of a convent.  I wish that you had stayed there, with all my heart,—­or, at least, that I had never met you in your married state.

“But all this is too late.  I love you, and you love me,—­at least, you say so, and act as if you did so, which last is a great consolation in all events.  But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you.

     “Think of me, sometimes, when the Alps and the ocean divide
     us,—­but they never will, unless you wish it.  BYRON.

     “Bologna, August 25. 1819.”

[Footnote 44:  One of these notes, written at the end of the 5th chapter, 18th book of Corinne ("Fragmens des Pensees de Corinne”) is as follows:—­

“I knew Madame de Stael well,—­better than she knew Italy,—­but I little thought that, one day, I should think with her thoughts, in the country where she has laid the scene of her most attractive productions.  She is sometimes right, and often wrong, about Italy and England; but almost always true in delineating the heart, which is of but one nation, and of no country,—­or, rather, of all.

     “BYRON.

“Bologna, August 23. 1819.” ]

[Footnote 45: 

    “Oh Love! what is it, in this world of ours,
      Which makes it fatal to be loved? ah! why
    With cypress branches hast thou wreath’d thy bowers,
      And made thy best interpreter a sigh? 
    As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers,
      And place them on their breasts—­but place to die.—­
    Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish
      Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.”
]

* * * * *

LETTER 339.  TO MR. MURRAY.

     “Bologna, August 24. 1819.

“I wrote to you by last post, enclosing a buffooning letter for publication, addressed to the buffoon R——­ts, who has thought proper to tie a canister to his own tail.  It was written off-hand, and in the midst of circumstances not very favourable to facetiousness, so that there may, perhaps, be more bitterness than enough for that sort of small acid punch:—­you will tell me.

“Keep the anonymous, in any case:  it helps what fun there may be.  But if the matter grow serious about Don Juan, and you feel yourself in a scrape, or me either, own that I am the author. I will never shrink; and if you do, I can always answer you in the question of Guatimozin to his minister—­each being on his own coals.[46]

“I wish that I had been in better