Liber Amoris, or The New Pygmalion | Page 3

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This etext was prepared by Christopher Hapka, Sunnyvale, California.

LIBER AMORIS, OR, THE NEW PYGMALION
by WILLIAM HAZLITT

ADVERTISEMENT

The circumstances, an outline of which is given in these pages,
happened a very short time ago to a native of North Britain, who left
his own country early in life, in consequence of political animosities
and an ill-advised connection in marriage. It was some years after that
he formed the fatal attachment which is the subject of the following
narrative. The whole was transcribed very carefully with his own hand,
a little before be set out for the Continent in hopes of benefiting by a
change of scene, but he died soon after in the Netherlands--it is
supposed, of disappointment preying on a sickly frame and morbid
state of mind. It was his wish that what bad been his strongest feeling
while living, should be preserved in this shape when he was no
more.--It has been suggested to the friend, into whose hands the
manuscript was entrusted, that many things (particularly in the
Conversations in the First Part) either childish or redundant, might have
been omitted; but a promise was given that not a word should be
altered, and the pledge was held sacred. The names and circumstances
are so far disguised, it is presumed, as to prevent any consequences
resulting from the publication, farther than the amusement or sympathy
of the reader.

PART I

THE PICTURE

H. Oh! is it you? I had something to shew you--I have got a picture
here. Do you know any one it's like?
S. No, Sir.
H. Don't you think it like yourself?
S. No: it's much handsomer than I can pretend to be.
H. That's because you don't see yourself with the same eyes that others
do. I don't think it handsomer, and the expression is hardly so fine as
yours sometimes is.
S. Now you flatter me. Besides, the complexion is fair, and mine is
dark.
H. Thine is pale and beautiful, my love, not dark! But if your colour
were a little heightened, and you wore the same dress, and your hair
were let down over your shoulders, as it is here, it might be taken for a
picture of you. Look here, only see how like it is. The forehead is like,
with that little obstinate protrusion in the middle; the eyebrows are like,
and the eyes are just like yours, when you look up and
say--"No--never!"
S. What then, do I always say--"No--never!" when I look up?
H. I don't know about that--I never heard you say so but once; but that
was once too often for my peace. It was when you told me, "you could
never be mine." Ah! if you are never to be mine, I shall not long be
myself. I cannot go on as I am. My faculties leave