He appears already, at this boyish age, to have been so far a proficient in gallantry as to know the use that may be made of the trophies of former triumphs in achieving new ones; for he used to boast, with much pride, to Miss Chaworth, of a locket which some fair favourite had given him, and which probably may have been a present from that pretty cousin, of whom he speaks with such warmth in one of the notices already quoted.  He was also, it appears, not a little aware of his own beauty, which, notwithstanding the tendency to corpulence derived from his mother, gave promise, at this time, of that peculiar expression into which his features refined and kindled afterwards.

With the summer holidays ended this dream of his youth.  He saw Miss Chaworth once more in the succeeding year, and took his last farewell of her (as he himself used to relate) on that hill near Annesley[37] which, in his poem of “The Dream,” he describes so happily as “crowned with a peculiar diadem.”  No one, he declared, could have told how much he felt—­for his countenance was calm, and his feelings restrained.  “The next time I see you,” said he in parting with her, “I suppose you will be Mrs. Chaworth[38],”—­and her answer was, “I hope so.”  It was before this interview that he wrote, with a pencil, in a volume of Madame de Maintenon’s letters, belonging to her, the following verses, which have never, I believe, before been published:—­[39]

    “Oh Memory, torture me no more,
      The present’s all o’ercast;
    My hopes of future bliss are o’er,
      In mercy veil the past. 
    Why bring those images to view
      I henceforth must resign? 
    Ah! why those happy hours renew,
      That never can be mine? 
    Past pleasure doubles present pain,
      To sorrow adds regret,
    Regret and hope are both in vain,
      I ask but to—­forget.”

In the following year, 1805, Miss Chaworth was married to his successful rival, Mr. John Musters; and a person who was present when the first intelligence of the event was communicated to him, thus describes the manner in which he received it.—­“I was present when he first heard of the marriage.  His mother said, ’Byron, I have some news for you.’—­’Well, what is it?’—­’Take out your handkerchief first, for you will want it.’—­’Nonsense!’—­Take out your handkerchief, I say.’  He did so, to humour her.  ‘Miss Chaworth is married.’  An expression very peculiar, impossible to describe, passed over his pale face, and he hurried his handkerchief into his pocket, saying, with an affected air of coldness and nonchalance, ’Is that all?’—­’Why, I expected you would have been plunged in grief!’—­He made no reply, and soon began to talk about something else.”