_His_
friendship, and a violent, though _pure_, love and passion--which held
me at the same period--were the then romance of the most romantic
period of my life.
* * * * *
"I remember that, in the spring of 1809, H---- laughed at my being
distressed at Long's death, and amused himself with making epigrams
upon his name, which was susceptible of a pun--_Long, short_, &c. But
three years after, he had ample leisure to repent it, when our mutual
friend and his, H----'s, particular friend, Charles Matthews, was
drowned also, and he himself was as much affected by a similar
calamity. But _I_ did not pay him back in puns and epigrams, for I
valued Matthews too much myself to do so; and, even if I had not, I
should have respected his griefs.
"Long's father wrote to me to write his son's epitaph. I promised--but
I had not the heart to complete it. He was such a good amiable being
as rarely remains long in this world; with talent and accomplishments,
too, to make him the more regretted. Yet, although a cheerful
companion, he had strange melancholy thoughts sometimes. I remember
once that we were going to his uncle's, I think--I went to accompany
him to the door merely, in some Upper or Lower Grosvenor or Brook
Street, I forget which, but it was in a street leading out of some
square,--he told me that, the night before, he 'had taken up a
pistol--not knowing or examining whether it was loaded or no--and had
snapped it at his head, leaving it to chance whether it might or might
not be charged.
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