at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then--
As in that hour--a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced--and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The faltering vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reeled around him: he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been--
But the old mansion and the accustom'd hall,
And the remembered chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour.
And her, who was his destiny, came back,
And thrust themselves between him and the light.

This is very affectingly described; and his prose description bears
testimony to its correctness. "It had been predicted by Mrs Williams
that twenty-seven was to be a dangerous age for me. The fortune-
telling witch was right; it was destined to prove so. I shall never
forget the 2nd of January, 1815, Lady Byron was the only unconcerned
person present; Lady Noel, her mother, cried; I trembled like a leaf,
made the wrong responses, and after the ceremony called her Miss
Milbanke.

"There is a singular history attached to the ring. The very day the
match was concluded a ring of my mother's, that had been lost, was
dug up by the gardener at Newstead. I thought it was sent on purpose
for the wedding; but my mother's marriage had not been a fortunate
one, and this ring was doomed to be the seal of an unhappier union
still.

"After the ordeal was over, we set off for a country-scat of Sir
Ralph's (Lady B.'s father), and I was surprised at the arrangements
for the journey, and somewhat out of humour, to find the lady's maid
stuck between me and my bride. It was rather too early to assume the
husband; so I was forced to submit, but it was not with a very good
grace. I have been accused of saying, on getting into the carriage,
that I had married Lady Byron out of spite, and because she had
refused me twice. Though I was for a moment vexed at her prudery, or
whatever you may choose to call it, if I had made so uncavalier, not
to say brutal, a speech, I am convinced Lady Byron would instantly
have left the carriage to me and the maid. She had spirit enough to
have done so, and would properly have resented the affront. Our
honeymoon was not all sunshine; it had its clouds.

"I was no