The Journal is only a fragment, kept only for five months. It is a record rather of emotions than of events--the chronicle of the emotions of a man who feels the need of talking to himself of matters of which he cannot easily talk to others, but who, even in speaking to himself, speaks in riddles. It begins soon after the "mischief" of which Augusta has been told has happened, and while he is entangled in the "scrape" mentioned to Moore. The talk on the first page is of travel--"provided I neither marry myself, nor unmarry any one else in the interval"; and there immediately follows a reference to the writing of "The Bride of Abydos": "I believe the composition of it kept me alive--for it was written to drive my thoughts from the recollection of-- "_Dear sacred name, rest ever unreveal'd._" "At least, even here, my hand would tremble to write it." "The Bride," he insists, was written for himself, and not with any view to publication. "I am sure, had it not been for Murray, _that_ would never have been published, though the circumstances which are the groundwork make it ... heigho!" "It was written," he adds, "in four days to distract my thoughts from * * *"; and then we perceive that he is in correspondence with the lady thus enigmatically designated. He is expecting a letter from her which does not arrive. What, he asks himself, is the meaning of that? "Not a word from * * * Have they set out from * * *? or has my last precious epistle fallen into the lion's jaws? If so--and this silence looks suspicious--I must clap on my 'musty morion' and 'hold out my iron.' I am out of practice--but I won't begin again at Manton's now. Besides, I would not return his shot. I was once a famous wafer-splitter; but then the bullies of society made it necessary. Ever since I began to feel that I had a bad cause to support, I have left off the exercise." The probability of a challenge from an injured husband is evidently contemplated here. No challenge came, the injured man remaining in ignorance of his injury; but peace of mind nevertheless remained unattainable. No connected narrative, indeed, can be pieced together. It is hardly ever possible to declare that such and such a thing happened on such and such a day. There is only the general impression that things are happening, and that, whether they happen or do not happen, a tragedy is always in progress. We come presently to a curiously significant note on the _raison d'être_ of Byron's practice of fasting: "I should not so much mind a little accession of flesh--my bones can well bear it. But the worst is, the devil always came with it,--till I starved him out,--and I will _not_ be the slave of _any_ appetite. If I do err, it shall be my heart, at least, that heralds the way."