With Byron in Italy Uniform with this volume Edited by Mrs. McMahax FLORENCE IN THE POETRY OF THE BROWNINGS WITH SHELLEY IN ITALY Each with over 60 illustrations 12rao edition net%\AO Large-paper edition . ... net 3.75 Florentine edition 7iet 10.00 A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers CHICAGO With Byron in Italy Being a Selection of the Poems and Letters of Lord Byron Which have to do with his Life in Italy from 1816 to 1823 Selected and Arranged by Anna Benneson McMahan Editor of " Florence in the Poetry of the Brownings," "With Shelley in Italy," etc. With over Sixty Illustrations from Photographs Chicago A. C. McClurg & Co. 1906 LIBITOWV *4 ooNQmss TwnOWHM HffUfUfO OCT X 1906 Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1906 All rights reserved Published September 29, 1906 About two-thirds of the illustrations of this volume are from the photographs of Alinari Brothers, Florence. Many of the others have been furnished by friends interested in the places celebrated by Byron. TO MY FRIENDS A. J. C. AND E. E. K. Thou Italy ! lohose ever golden fields ^ Plouglid by the sunbeams solely, would suffi.ce For the world's granary : . . . . Birthplace ofheroes, sanctuary of saints. Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made Her home. The Pbophecy of Dantb. TABLE OF CONTENTS General Introduction xv THE YEARS IS 17, IS 18, IS 19 Introduction to Byron's Life in Venice 3 Venice : A Fragment y Letter to John Murray o Letter to John Murray 2q Letter to John Murray 22 Letter to Thomas Moore 23 Letter to Thomas Moore 24 Letter to John Murray 25 Letter to Thomas Moore 27 The Lament of Tasso 28 Letter to John Murray 2S Letter to John Murray 3q Letter to John Murray 32 Letter to John Murray 32 Extract from " Manfred " 3 j. Letter to John Murray ^j Letter to John Murray ^q Letter to Thomas Moore 50 Letter to John Murray ka Extracts from " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," Canto IV . 56 Letter to John Murray 222 Extracts from *' Beppo : A Venetian Story " . . . . 112 Letter to James Wedderburn Webster .... i^>i [ vii ] TABLE OF CONTENTS Page Letter to John Murray 122 Letter to John Murray 124 Letter to John Murray 126 Ode on Venice 129 Letter to Jolin Murray I'M Letter to John Murray 130 Letter to John Murray 139 THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Introduction to Byron's Life in Ravenna .... 145 Stanzas to the Po 149 Letter to Thomas Moore 151 Letter to Richard Belgrave Hoppner 152 Letter to John Murray 153 The Prophecy of Dante 156 Letter to John Murray 176 Letter to John Murray 178 Letter to John Murray 179 Letter to Thomas Moore 182 Trom Byron's Diary 182 Letter to Thomas Moore 185 Letter to Thomas Moore 186 Letter to John Murray 188 Letter to John Murray 189 Letter to Jdm Murray 190 Letter to John Murray 190 Letter to John Murray 192 Letter to Thomas Moore 194 Extract from " Marino Fahero, Doge of Venice" . . . 197 Extract from " The Two Foseari " 203 Extract from ''Cain" 206 [ viii ] TABLE OF CONTENTS THE YEARS 1S22 AND 1823 Introduction to Byron's Life in Pisa, Leghorn, and ^^""^ ^'^'^''^ ' . . 235 Prom Byron's " Detached Thoughts " 240 Letter to John Muriay 041 Letter to Sir Walter Scott 242 Letter to John Murray 244 Letter to Thomas Moore 248 Letter to John Murray 250 Letter to John Murray 251 Letter to Thomas Moore 253 - Letter to Isaac Disraeli 254 Letter to Thomas Moore 256 Letter to John Murray 257 Letter to Thomas Moore 258 Extracts from " Don Juan " Wanted — A Hero 259 Things Sweet 262 The Shipwreck 264 The Poet 279 The Twilight Hour 288 Haidee and Juan 291 Byron and his Contemporaries 296 Don Juan Described 299 Conventional Society 3O4 Letter to John Murray ^ . 3O7 Letter to John Hunt 312 Letter to John Hunt 312 Letter to Mrs. [? Shelley] 345 Letter to J. J. Coulmann 34(j I^'^^^ 321 [ix] ILLUSTRATIONS Page Piazzetta at Venice Frontispiece Piazza and Cbureh of St Mark 2 Juliet's Tomb at Verona 8 Tomb of Torqiiato Tasso, Rome 18 Tree known as Tasso's Oak, Rome 24 " The Three Fates," Pitti Gallery, Florence 28 Mausoleum of the Medici Family, Florence 32 The Coliseum, Rome 40 Old Amphitheatre at Tusculum 48 Monument to Galileo, Florence ♦ 54 Bridge of Sighs, Venice . . . . " 60 Bronze Horses on St. Mark's, Venice 62 Rialto Bridge, Venice 64 Petrarch's Tomb, Arqua 66 Church of Santa Croce, Florence 68 Venus de' Medici, Florence 70 Castle of Passignano, Lake Trasimeno 72 Lake Trasimeno, seen from San Savino 74 Temple of Clitumnus, near Spoleto 76 Falls at Terni 78 River Tiber and Milvian Bridge, Rome 80 Bronze Wolf, Rome 82 Tomb of Cecilia Metella, Rome 84 [xi] ILLUSTRATIONS Pack Mount Soracte, near Rome 86 Column of Phocas (so called) in Roman Eorum 88 Capitoline Hill, Rome 90 Grotto of Egeria, near Rome 92 Tarpeian Rock, Rome 94 The Laocoon, Vatican Gallery, Rome 96 The Dying Gaul, Capitoline Museum, Rome 98 The Pantheon, Rome 100 Dome of St. Peter's, Rome 102 Interior of St. Peter's, Rome 104- Apollo Belvedere, Vatican Gallery, Rome 106 Lake Nemi and Town of Nemi 108 Lake Albano and Castel Gandolfo 110 Monument to Machiavelli, Plorence 116 Monument to Alfieri, Florence 120 Monument to Michel Angelo, Plorence 124< A Corner of the Palatine Hill 128 Trajan's Column, Rome 136 Pineta at Ravenna 142 Palazzo Guiccioli at Ravenna 150 Tomb of Dante, Ravenna 156 Forest of Olive Trees 164 " The Last Judgment," by Michel Angelo, Rome .... 172 Statue of Moses, by Michel Angelo, Rome 180 Scene in Romagna 188 Church of St. John and St. Paul, Venice ....... 198 Country Scene in Italy 208 Ruins of Adrian's Villa, near Tivoli 218 Portrait of Byron, by Camuccini 234 Palazzo Lanfranchi, Pisa 242 [xii] ILLUSTRATIONS Page Portrait of Byron, by West 252 Baths of Caracalla at Rome 264 Komau Eoruin 276 Yilla Borghese, Rome 286 Porto Yeuere, Gulf of Spezia 296 " Aurora," by Guido Reui 304 Sea-coast near Byrou's House at Albaro (Genoa) .... 312 [xiii] Introduction Op the four English poets whose lives are almost as closely associated with Italy as with England — Browning, Shelley, Byron, Landor — the one whose absorption into this land of their adoption is most obvious and most complete is Byron. Browning said, " Italy is my university '' ; Shelley declared that the inspi- ration of his greatest poem was due to the ^'^ vigorous awakening of Spring in that divinest climate, and the new life with which it drenches the spirits '^ ; Landor settled in Florence and said, " Italy is now my country '^ ; but Byron more than any of the others became Italianized in habits and ideas, entered at once and completely into the associ- ations, the history, the thoughts of the Italian people. He joined in their political intrigues, was head of one of their secret societies, hung out the tricolor flag from his own balcony, spoke and wrote the language fluently, was well versed in their great literature, planned to write his own masterpiece in Italian, and so often made Italy the subject of his work that it is hardly saying too much to declare that it was through Byron that Englishmen first became interested in Italy. This is not to ignore that Chaucer had adapted or imitated Italian tales, that the Elizabethans had dramatized Italian novels, that Milton had followed the Italian manner [XV] INTRODUCTION in his ^^ L^ Allegro^' and " II Peiiscroso^^; but these all stood more or less on the outside, while Byron often seems almost like an Italian writing in English. When he arrived in Italy (November, 1816) he was twenty-eight years old, and no man at twenty-eight had ever been more in the public eve. He had '^ awaked and found himself famous '^ for one poem, had sold in one day 10,000 copies of another, had been rated as the liandsomest and berated as the wickedest man alive ; he had the rank of lord and the expensive tastes of one, but so little money tliat his pockets were always empty and his house invaded by bailiffs ; he had made a surprising marriage and a still more surprising separation within the space of less than thirteen months; he had been a rioter in his ancestral hall at Newstead Abbey, a dandy in London, an extensive traveller in Spain, Greece, and Asia Minor at a time when such journeys were ex- tremely unusual; had written about these countries in verse which threw the world into raptures and which was translated into many languages ; and at all times and in all places had attracted an attention greater than that bestowed on crowned kings or haloed samts. Ilis contemporaries were baffled by this strange and contradictory personality ; their criticism was staggered by the effort to appraise his work apart from the glamour of that personality. But when the centenary of his birth came round (1888), the problem had changed its aspect and the question then was. Why was Byron ever so popular? In a generation which produced Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge, Scott, Landor, Keats, what has Byron to offer in comparison with even the least of these? Eortunately that question [xvi] INTRODUCTION does not concern us here. We have lived past the Day of Judgment set by Matthew Arnold, and found that neither his prophecy of Byron^s supremacy nor Swinburne^s equally sure prophecy of oblivion has befallen the poet. Ou the Continent, indeed, his reputation is as great as ever, while tlie eager welcome given to the new English and American editions of his poems proves that the twentieth century is ready to renew its acquaintance with a somewhat neglected Byron. The last and most prolific period of Byron's literary composition was the eight years after leaving England, — all spent in Italy except the first few months in Switzerland and the last few months in Greece. Byron's love for Greece and his final devotion of time, purse, thoughts, and hfe itself to her liberation are well known. But his love for Italy, which was quite as intense, is less generally appreciated. The fourth canto of '^ Childe Harold ■" bears witness. Let those who will dismiss it as a "versified note-book''; nevertheless the Italy there pictured is the Italy that first fascinated the imagination of the English and American traveller.^ Because w^e in this blase-tourist age are somewhat aweary of it and can find plenty of flaws in it is no reason for denying its many magnificent pas- sages, its sympathy with Italy's skies and lakes and ?eas and mountains, its penetration into her inmost spirit, and its lyrical power in such passages as the stanzas beginning " Rome, my country, city of the soul ! " 1 " It was the sight of the numerous English travellers following in the footsteps of ' Childe Harold ' with Murray's handbook under their arms that suggested the first Bsedeker." — Herr Fritz Baedeker in London Times, 1889. [xvii] INTRODUCTION Italy's history on its romantic side nowliere, even among her own poets, finds more thrilling expression. But in a yet deeper and more interior way did Byron's removal to Italy become an epoch-making event in his poetry and in his life. Immediately on his arrival he began to study the Italian writers, especially their writers of burlesque, such as Pulci, Casti, Berni, and Ariosto. His letters show how quickly he became charmed by Pulci, and afterwards wdien he translated two books of Pulci's " Morgante Maggiore " he repeatedly announced his con- viction that this was the best work he had ever done. Soon he adopted the metre and spirit of this poet for an original work on a Yenetian subject, calling it " Beppo : A Yenetian Story." Other English writers — especially John Hookham Erere — had used the same octave stanzas and had tried the same mingling of grave and gay in the Tuscan humoristic style. But Byron's achievement had a richness of execution, a mastery over his material all its own. It is doubtful if he himself knew his own power for comedy previously ; certain it is that afterwards he never abandoned it, and that in this metre and of this type are the " Don Juan " and the " Vision of Judgment," on which rests his most secure fame. Time was when no self-respecting person would mention ^^Don Juan" in polite society. Even many who would quote feelingly "And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'T is that I may not weep " or *' Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over was meant to save " ; [ xviii ] INTRODUCTION or who would sing '' Ave Maria, blessed be the hour ^^ of '^The Isles of Greece^' did it in entire innocence of their indebtedness to the unmentionable poem. It is true that there is a great deal in it that one would spare gladlj, both from the point of view of morals and of poetic art; but it served as a repository for all Byron^s thoughts and feelings during several years and was left unfinished with the sixteenth canto at the time of his death. It is often too sensual, like his own life; too bitter, with rage against wrongs suffered by himself; too vindictive, as self-ostracized he watched his countrymen from afar and lashed their cant, their hypocrisy, their senseless and cruel customs in politics and society. No wonder that it gave England much offence at the time and that it can never be recom- mended for " family reading.-'^ But the wit, the verve, the humor, the satire have established it as chief of English humorous epics ; in its best parts one of the most quotable of poems, the whole is greater than any of its parts. In this kind — the mock-heroic — Byron^s place re- mains secure. But the mock-heroic, after all, makes too little appeal to the liigher nature of mankind to hold an enduring place in their hearts. He became easily the 'Woice-in-chief ^■' of liis generation because his tempera- ment was so congenial to the great passions then agitating the souls of men. He was the supreme incarnation of its romantic ideals, the poet of its revolutionary spirit. In these calmer days, when we turn rather to those poets who bring us thought, revelation of truth, moral and spiritual insight, Byron docs Tiot respond to our call. Some of his poetry is magnificent; it compels our admiration, [xix] INTRODUCTION but not the love we feel toward those who give us that " breath and finer spirit of all knowledge ^' which it is the supreme mission of poetry to convey. Beside being a great poet, Byron was a brilliant and captivating letter-writer. Saucy, vain, reckless, profligate as his letters sometimes are, the fire of his own love for freedom, of his intensity of purpose to goad the slave to rise up and claim his birthright, burns through them no less than through the poems. Whether as author writing to publisher, as man of the world to lawyer or business agent, as brother to a beloved sister, or as friend to friend, there is a dash and piquancy to them that rank Byron high among the great letter-writers of all time. They have little to say about Italian scenery or Italian art (the poems are descriptive, but not the letters), but they have much to say about the Italian people and their customs, and they show how intimately he knew them and how persistently (except in the case of a few old friends) he shunned his own countrymen. Byron must have sat for his likeness a wearisome num- ber of times, judging by the long array of his portraits in oil, in miniature, in pencil-sketch, beside two busts. Most of these have been reproduced in photogravure in the thirteen-volume Murray edition of the Poems and Letters. Among them, however, is not included that of the Italian painter Yincenzo Camuccini (1773-1844), now in the Accademia di San Luca at Eome, reproduced in the present volume as frontispiece to the concluding portion, — The Years 1822 and 1823. No search either among the annals of this painter or in the Byron correspondence [XX] INTRODUCTION reveals the precise time at which he sat for this picture. But, to me, this more than any of the others communicates that fascination of look and expression of which we hear so much and corresponds to the descriptions of his con- temporaries, — " small head, covered and friiiged with brown curls/' eyes '^ things of light and for light," nose "long and straight," "the sweep and shapely curves of chin and jaw." We feel that the artist who painted it was in sympathy with his subject, and that he has given us Byron as he looked while in the Italy that he loved and that loved him in return. Byron had many a grievance against England, not the least of which was its habit of identifying his creations, — "Childe Harold," "Cain," "Manfred," "Don Juan," — with himself and his own life. Failing to understand him, his contemporaries substituted abuse and adoration in variously mingled proportions. Nor even now, when time has modified both of these feelings and when multitudes of critics from Macaulay to Paul E. More and Ernest Hartley Coleridge have essayed the task, can it be said that we have any adequate analysis of this most complex and puzzling character among the English poets. Until a psychologist equal to the occasion shall arise, the best means of arriving at an individual opinion may be to read side by side the poems and the letters during the most mature and most productive period of Byron's life, — the years of his Italian residence. A. B. McM. Rome, 1906. [xxi] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 ^ WITH BYRON IN ITALY THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 VENICE INTRODUCTORY yf RRIVING in Venice late in the year 1816, ^jliji this city became at once to Byron the " fairy city of his heart.'' Her canals, her gondolas, her streets, her bridges, palaces, balconies, piazzas, carnivals, pictures, politics, history, — all appealed to his poetic imagination and reckless mood of the moment. The fragment *' Venice " (p. 7) prob- ably was the first poetic expression of his feelings, although it lay in manuscript nearly ninety years, to he published -first in our own century. In almost his first letter to his publisher, John Murray, he writes to ask that he will send him an English prose work called " View of Italy,'' for the sake of securing certain facts for his own poetical purposes. He has seen the black veil painted over the place where the picture of Marino Faliero should appear among the Doges, the Gianfs Staircase, where he was crowned and discrowned and decapitated, but can find no good account in Venice of that Doge and [ 3 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY his conspiracy, or the motives for it. He has deter- mined to write a tragedy having the fiery character and strange story of Faliero for its subject, — an undertaking requiring so much research, however, that it was four years before the work xvas completed. The story of another Doge, Francis Foscari, and his son Jacopo, also appealed to him, although the publi- cation of " The Two Foscari " likewise was deferred some years. The indignant " Ode to Venice " shows how he took to heart her servile condition, while its spirited appeal at the close expresses — what is revealed also at other times and places — Byron'' s admiration of America and American liberty, — " be^ler he Where the extingidsh\l Spartans still are free, III their proud charnel of Thermopylce^ Than stagnate on our marsh — or, o'er the deep Fly, and one current to the ocean add, One spirit to the souls our fathers had. One freeman more, America, to thee ! " A visit which Byron made to Rome in the spring of 1817, stopping at Foligno, Ferrara, and Florence on the way, resulted in several poems. Ferrara and Tasso's prison cell there inspired the fine " Lament of Tasso "; the Coliseum and the Palaces of the Caesars at Rome suggested one of the choicest pas- sages of the third act of " Manfred,'' which he had brought to Italy in an unfinished state; the fourth, last, and best canto of " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," dealing with the feelings and thoughts of this rapid [ 4 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 journey, was thrown off at a white heat, a poem of one hundred and thirty stanzas, afterwards increased to one hundred and eighty-six, being written in thirty- three days immediately upon his return to Venice, " Beppo,'** Byron^s first attempt in the mock-heroic style, of which mention already has been made; " Ma- zeppa," perhaps the best known of all his tales in verse, and the first four cantos of " Don Juan " also belong to the Venice period. It is difficult to reconcile the tale of such a long and brilliant list of masterpieces, to say nothing of his study of the Armenian language, " in order to have something craggy to break his mind on,'' with the parallel tales reporting his depraved and sen- sual life at this time. But such unwilling witnesses as his guests, — Shelley, whose admiration of Byron's poetry was excessive, Thomas Moore, his enthusiastic biographer, 'Hobhouse, his life-long friend, — to say nothing of Byron's ozmi letters from Venice, are not to be gainsaid. The French traveller, Henri Beyle, however, attributes Byron's reputation to English stupidity; and after going into raptures over his per- sonal charms and into rage over the injustice done him, adds: " If at the age of twenty-eight, when he can already reproach himself with having written six volumes of the finest poetry, it had been possible thor- oughly to know the world, he would have been aware that in the nineteenth century there is but one alter- native, to be a blockhead or a monster. . . . Were [ 5 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY I in his place, I would pass myself off as dead, and commence a new life as Mr. Smith, a worthy merchant of Lima.'* So long as Byron remained in England he had refused to accept any pay for his writings, feeling that his position as a lord and a gentleman would he compromised by the acceptance of money. But hav- ing once reconciled himself to a contrary position, he soon becojnes quite a grasping man-of -business, and will take nothing less than the highest prices for his wares. This decision is worth more than a passing mention, because for the first time in the history of English authorship a nobleman became brave enough to con- fess himself an author by profession. Authors of noble, even of royal rank, had written and published, but they had held themselves aloof from anything so sordid as money compensation. In England, Byron had given away his copyrights to impecunious friends, even while borrowing money for his own needs at extortionate terms from London usurers. In now deciding that he might and would accept the strong and steady stream of wealth pouring in from the sale of his works, and apply it to his own use in living according to his rank, he was acting in opposition to the prejudices of his order and to the sentiment of all English society. His long hesitation and pain preceding seem almost la^ighable now, but they serve to mark the great change of mental attitude in the [ 6 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 last hundred years. Murray^s list of payments to the poet during the -first five years of his Italian resi- dence foots up to nearly $63,000. He spent ^ how- ever^ as royally as he earned^ and in Italy^ as later in Greece, a very large proportion of this amount 'tvas devoted to the cause of the liberty of the people. VENICE A FRAGMENT ' T IS midnight — but it is not dark Within thy spacious place, St. Mark ! The Liglits within, the Lamps without, Shine above the revel rout. The brazen Steeds are glittering o^er The holy building's massy door, Glittering with their collars of gold, The goodly work of the days of old — And the winged Lion stern and solemn Erowns from the height of his hoary column, Eacing the palace in which doth lodge The ocean-city's dreaded Doge. The palace is proud — but near it lies, Divided by the ' Bridge of Sighs,' The drearv dwellinj^ where the State Enchains the captives of their hate : These — they perish or they pine ; But which their doom may none divine : !NLany have pass 'd that Arch of pain. But none retraced their steps again. [ 7 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY It is a* princely colonnade ! And wrought around a princely place. When that vast edifice displayed Looks with its venerable face Over the far and subject sea, Which makes the fearless isles so free ! And ■'t is a strange and noble pile, Pillar'd into many an aisle : Every pillar fair to see, Marble — jasper — and porj^hyry — The church of St. Mark — which stands hard by With fretted pinnacles on high. And cupola and minaret ; More like the mosque of orient lands. Than the fanes wherein we pray. And Mary's blessed likeness stands. Venice, December 6, 1816.1 TO JOHN MUREAY Venice, November 25, 1816. Dear Sir, — It is some months since I have heard from or of you — I think, not since I left Diodati. From Milan I wrote once or twice ; but have been here some little time, and intend to pass the winter without removing. I was much pleased with the Lago di Garda, and with Yerona, particularly the amphitheatre, and a sarcophagus in a Con- vent garden, which they show as Juliet's : they insist on ^ First publislicd in 1901, from a manuscript in possession of Mr. Murray, grandson of Byron 's publisher. [ 8 ] I.? «1 a 1^ 2 ^ THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 the truth of her history. Since my arrival at Venice, the lady of the Austrian governor told me that between Verona and Vicenza there are still ruins of the castle of the Mon- teccJii, and a chapel once appertaining to the Capulets. Romeo seems to have been of Vicenza by the tradition; but I was a good deal surprised to find so firm a faith in Bandello 's novel, which seems really to have been founded on a fact. Venice pleases me as much as I expected, and I expected much. It is one of those places which I know before I see them, and has always haunted me the most after the East. I like the gloomy gaiety of their gondolas, and the silence of their canals. I do not even dislike the evident decay of the city, though I regret the singularity of its vanished costume ; however, there is much left still ; the Carnival, too, is coming. St. Mark's, and indeed Venice, is most alive at night. The theatres are not open till nine, and the society is proportionably late. All this is to my taste ; but most of your countrymen miss and regret the rattle of hackney coaches, without which they can't sleep. I have got remarkably good apartments in a private house : I see something of the inhabitants (having had a good many letters to some of them) : I have got my gon- dola; I read a little, and luckily could speak Italian (more fluently though than accurately) long ago. I am studying, out of curiosity, the Venetian dialect, wliich is very naive, and soft, and pecuHar, though not at all classical ; I go out frequently, and am in very good contentment. The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house of [ 9 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Madame the Countess d^ Albrizzi^ whom I know) is, without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human execution. In this beloved marble view Above the works and thoughts of Man, What Nature could, but would not, do, And Beauty and Canova can ! Beyond Imagination's power. Beyond the Bard's defeated art, With Immortality her dower, Behold the Helen of the heart ! The general race of women appear to be handsome ; but in Italy, as on almost all the Continent, the highest orders are by no means a well-looking generation, and indeed reckoned by their countrymen very much otherwise. Some are exceptions, but most of them as ugly as Virtue herself. TO JOHN MUERAY Venice, February 15, 1817. I have been uneasy because Mr. Hobliouse told me that his letter or preface ^ was to be addressed to me. Now, he and I are friends of many years ; I have many obligations to him, and he none to me which have not been cancelled and more than repaid; but Mr. G[ifFord] and I are friends also, and he has moreover been literarily so, through thick * " Letters written by an Englishman resident at Paris during the last reign of Napoleon," by John Hobliouse. [ 10 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 and thill, in despite of difference of years, morals, habits, and even politics, which List wouhl, I believe, if they were in heaveji, divide the Trinity; and therefore I feel in a very awkward situation between the two, Mr. G. and my friend IL, and can only wish that they had no dilferences, or that such as they have were accommodated. The answer I have not seen, for — it is odd enougli for people so inti- mate — but Mr. H. and I are very sparing of our literary confidences. For example, the other day he wished to have a MS. of tlie 3*^ canto to read over to his brother, etc., which was refused ; — and I have never seen his jour- nals, nor he mine — (I only kept the short one of the mountains for my sister) — nor do I think that hardly ever he or I saw any of our own productions previous to their publication. The article in the E[dinhiTgh'\ ]i[evie7v] on Coleridge I have not seen ; but whether I am attacked in it or not, or in any other of the same journal, I shall never think ill of Mr. Jeffrey on that account, nor forget that his conduct towards me has been certainly most handsome during the last four or more years. I forgot to mention to you tliat a kind of Poem ^ in dia- logue (in blank verse) or drama, from which " The Incan- tation '' 2 is an extract, begun last summer in Switzerland, is finished; it is in three acts; but of a very wild, meta- physical, and inexplicable kind. Almost all the persons — but two or three — are spirits of the earth and air, or 1 "Manfred." 2 The " luoantation" had been published with "The Prisoner of Chillon " the year previous. [ 11 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY the waters; the scene is in the Alps; the hero a kind of magician^ who is tormented by a species of remorse, the cause of which is left half unexplained. He wanders about invoking these spirits, which appear to him, and are of no use ; he at last goes to the very abode of the Evil Principle in, propria persona, to evocate a ghost, which appears, and gives him an ambiguous and disagreeable answer ; and in the 3^ act he is found by his attendants dying in a tower where he studied his art. You may perceive by this out- line that I have no great opinion of this piece of phantasy : but I have at least rendered it quite impossible for the stage, for which my intercourse with D[rury] Lane has given me the greatest contempt. I have not even copied it off, and feel too lazy at present to attempt the whole ; but when I have, I will send it you, and you may either throw it into the fire or not. TO JOHN MURRAY Venice, February 25, 1817. • • • . • . P. S. — Remember me to Mr. G[iffor]d. I have not received your parcel or parcels. Look into Moore^s (Dr. Moore's) View of Italy for me; in one of the volumes you will find an account of the Doge Valiere (it ought to be Falieri) and his conspiracy, or the motives of it. Get it transcribed for me, and send it in a letter to me soou. I want it, and cannot find so good an account of that business here; though the veiled portrait, and the place where he was once crowned, and afterwards decapi- tated, still exist and are shown. I have searched all their [ 12 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 histories ; but the policy of the old Aristocracy made their writers silent on his motives, which were a private griev- ance against one of the Patricians. I mean to write a tragedy upon the subject, which ap- pears to me very dramatic ; an old man, jealous, and con- spiring against the state of which he was the actually reigning Chief. The last circumstance makes it tlie most remarkable and only fact of the kind in all history of all nations. TO THOMAS MOOEE Venice, February 28, 1817. And this is your month of going to press — by the body of Diana ! (a Yenetian oath), I feel as anxious — but not fearful for you — as if it were myself coming out in a work of humour, which would, you know, be the antipodes of all my previous publications. I don't think you have anything to dread but your own reputation. You must keep up to that. As you never showed me a line of your work, I do not even know your measure; but you must send me a copy by Murray forthwith, and then you shall hear what I think. I dare say you are in a pucker. Of all authors, you are the only really modest one I ever met with, — Avhich would sound oddly enough to those who recollect your morals when you were young — that is, when you were extremely young — I don't mean to stigmatise you either with years or morality. I believe I told you that the E\dinhufgh'\ R\eview\ [ 13 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY had attacked me, in an article on Coleridge (I have not seen it) — '' Et tu, Jeffrey ?" — '' there is nothing but roguery in villanous man/^ But I absolve him of all attacks, present and future ; for I think he had already pushed his clemency in my behoof to the utmost, and I shall always think well of him. I only wonder he did not begin before, as my domestic destruction was a fine opening for all the world, of which all who could did well to avail themselves. If I live ten years longer, you will see, however, that it is not over with me — I don't mean in literature, for that is nothing; and it may seem odd enough to say, I do not think it my vocation. But you will see that I shall do something or other — the times and fortune per- mitting — that, " like the cosmogony, or creation of the world, will puzzle the philosophers of all ages." But I doubt whether my constitution will hold out. I have, at intervals, exorcised it most devilishly. TO THOMAS MOOEE Venice, March 25, 1817. • • • . • . I have not the least idea where I am going, nor what I am to do. I wished to have gone to Home; bat at present it is pestilent with English, — a parcel of staring boobies, who go about gaping and wishing to be at once cheap and magnificent. A man is a fool who travels now in France or Italy, till this tribe of wretches is swept home again. In two or three years the first rush will be over, and the Continent will be roomy and agreeable. [ 14 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 I stayed at Venice chiefly because it is not one of their ''dens of thieves'"; and here they but pause and pass. In Switzerland it was really noxious. Luckily, I was early, and had got the prettiest plnce on all the Lake before they were quickened into motion with the rest of the reptiles. But they crossed me everywhere. I met a family of children and old women half-way up the Wengen Alp (by the Jangfrau) upon mules, some of them too old and others too young to be the least aware of what they saw. By the way, I think the Jungfrau, and all that region of Alps, which I traversed in September — going to the very top of the Wengen, which is not the highest (the Jungfrau itself is inaccessible) but the best point of view — much finer than Mont-Blanc and Charaouni, or the Simplon. I kept a journal of the whole for my sister Augusta, part of which she copied and let Murray see. I wrote a sort of mad Drama, for the sake of intro- ducing the Alpine scenery in description : and this I sent lately to Murray. Almost all the dram. pers. are spirits, ghosts, or magicians, and the scene is in the Alps and the other world, so you may suppose what a Bedlam tragedy it must be : make him show it you. I sent him all three acts piecemeal, by the post, and suppose they have arrived. TO JOHN MURRAY Venice, March 25, 1817. Dear Sir, —- Your letter and enclosure are safe ; but "English gentlemen'' are very rare — at least in Venice. [ 15 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY I doubt whether there are at present any, save the Consul ^ and vice-Consul, with neither of whom I have the slightest acquaintance. Tlie moment I can pounce upon a witness, I will send the deed properly signed : but must he neces- sarily be genteel? Would not a servant or a merchant do ? Venice is not a place where the English are grega- rious ; their pigeon-houses are Florence, Naples, Eome, etc. ; and to tell you the truth, this was one reason why I staid here — till the season of the purgation of Eome from these people — which is infested with them at this time — should arrive. Besides, I abhor the nation, and the nation me; it is impossible for me to describe my own sensation on that point, but it may suffice to say, that, if I met with any of the race in the beautiful parts of Switzerland, the most distant glimpse or aspect of them poisoned the whole scene, and I do not choose to have the Pantheon, and St. Peter's, and the Capitol, spoiled for me too. This feeling may be probably owing to recent events, and the destruc- tion with which my moral Clytemnestra ^ hewed me down ; but it does not exist the less, and while it exists, I shall conceal it as little as any other. . . . Some weeks ago I wrote to you my acknowledgments of W [alter] S[cott]'s article. Now I know it to be his, it cannot add to my good opinion of him, but it adds to that of myself, lie, and Gifford, and Moore, are the only regulars I ever knew who had nothing of the Garrison about their manner : no nonsense, nor affectations, look 1 Byron afterwards became intimate with this consul, Richard Hoppner, and used to read to him his poems in manuscript. 2 Lady Byron, the wife from whom he had separated shortly before leaving England. [ 16 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 you ! As for tlie rest whom I have known, there was always more or less of the author about them — the pen peeping from behind the ear, and the thumbs a little inky, or so. With regard to the " witch drama/' I sent all the three acts by post, week after week, within this last month. I repeat that I have not an idea if it is good or bad. If bad, it must, on no account, be risked in publication; if good, it is at your service. I value it at three hundred guineas, or less, if you like it. Perhaps, if published, the best way will be to add it to your winter volume, and not publish separately. The price will show you I don't pique myself upon it ; so speak out. You may put it in the fire, if you like, and Gifford ^ donH like. TO THOMAS MOOEE Venice, April 11, 1817. • »•••• I hear nothing — know nothing. You may easily sup- pose that the English don't seek me, and I avoid them. To be sure, there are but few or none here, save passen- gers. Florence and Naples are their Margate and Ptams- gate, and much the same sort of company too, by all accounts, — which hurts us among the Italians. I want to hear of Lalla Rookh — are you out ? Death and fiends ! why don't you tell me where you are, what you are, and how you are? I shall go to Bologna by ^ Gifford, editor of Quarterly Review, was the " reader " to whom Murray submitted Byron's manuscripts. 2 [ 17 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Ferrara, instead of Mantua : because I would rather see the cell where they caged Tasso,^ and where he became mad and . . . , than his own MSS. at Modena^ or the Mantuan birthjjlace of that harmonious plagiary and mis- erable flatterer^^ whose cursed hexameters were drilled into me at Harrow. I saw Verona and Vicenza on my way here — Padua too. I go alone, — but alone, because I mean to return here. I only want to see Eome. I have not the least curiosity about Florence^ though I must see it for the sake of the Yenus, etc., etc. ; and I wish also to see the Fall of Terrii. I think to return to Yenice by Ravenna and Eimini, of both of which I mean to take notes for Leigh Hunt, who will be glad to hear of the scenery of his Poem.^ There was a devil of a review of him in the (Quarterly a year ago, which he answered. All answers are imprudent : but, to be sure, poetical flesh and blood must have the last word — that ^s certain. I thought, and think, very highly of his Poem ; but I warned him of the row his favourite antique phraseology would bring him into. TI-IE LAMENT OP TASSO At Eerrara in the Library, are preserved the original MSS. of Tasso^s Gerusalemme and of Guarini^s Pastor Fido, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto ; 1 Tasso [1544-1595] Avas imprisoned by Alfonso II. as a lunatic in tlie Hospital of Sant' Anna at Ferrara, from March, 1579, to July, 1586. 2 Compare " Childe Ilai-okl," IV, stanza Ixxv. 8 "The Stoiy of Rimini." [ 18 ] rpOMB of Torquato Tasso, in Convent of S. Oiiofri Rome. Statue bv De Fabris. teas' ■^— X o R Q V A T O TASSO ri ' . f , i *" Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 7 was his In life and death to he the mai'k lohere Wrong Aint'd loith her poison d arroivs, fmt to miss/' — Childe Harold, Canto IV, stanza xxxix, p, 69. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 and the inkstand and cliair, the tomb and the house of the latter. But^ as misfortune has a greater interest for posterity, and little or none for the cotemporarj, the cell where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna attracts a more fixed attention than the residence or tlie monument of Ariosto — at least it had this effect on me. There are two inscriptions^, one on the outer gate, the second over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the wonder and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is much decayed, and depopulated : the castle still exists entire ; and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were be- headed, according to the annal of Gibbon. I Long years ! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear. And eagle-spirit of a Child of Song, Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong ; Imputed madness, prison^ solitude. And the mind's canker in its savage mood, When the impatient thirst of light and air Parches the heart ; and the abhorred grate, Marring the sunbeams w^ith its hideous shade. Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain With a hot sense of heaviness and pain. And bare, at once. Captivity displayed Stands scoffing tlirough the never-opeuM gate. Which nothing through its bars admits, save day. And tasteless food, wdiich I have eat alone Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; And I can banquet like a beast of prey, [ 19 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave.^ All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, But must be borne. I stoop not to despair; For I have battled with mine agony. And made me wings wherewith to overfly The narrow circus of my dungeon wall. And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; And revelFd among men and things divine. And pourM my spirit over Palestine, In honour of the sacred war for Him, The God who was on earth and is in heaven. For he hath strengthenM me in heart and limb. That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, I have employed my penance to record How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored. II But this is o'er, my pleasant task is done : '^ — My long-sustaining friend of many years ! If I do blot thy final page with tears. Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none. But thou, my young creation ! my souFs child ! Which ever playing round me came and smiled, And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight, Thou too art gone — and so is my delight : And therefore do I weep and inly bleed With this last bruise upon a broken reed. ^ Tasso was released after seven years of imprisonment. 2 The writing of " Jerusalem Delivered." [ 20 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 Thou too art ended — what is left me now ? For I have anguish yet to bear — and how ? I know not that — but in the innate force Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 1 have not sunk, for I had no remorse. Nor cause for such : they calFd me mad — and why ? Oh Leonora ! wilt not thou reply ? ^ I was indeed delirious in my heart To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; But still my frenzy was not of the mind ; I knew my fault, and feel my punishment Not less because I suffer it unbent. That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind. Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind ; But let them, go, or torture as they will. My heart can multiply thine image still ; Successful love may sate itself away. The wretched are the faithful, \ is their fate To have all feeling save the one decay, And every passion into one dilate, As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. Ill Above me, hark ! the long and maniac cry Of minds and bodies in captivity. And hark ! the lash and the increasing howl, ^ Leonora d'Este, sister of Alfonso, by whom Tasso was imprisoned. The belief that his punishment was because of love for the Princess Leonora is no longer accepted. [ 21 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY And the half-inarticuLite blasphemy ! There be some here with worse than frenzy foul, Some who do still goad on the o^er-lubour'd mind, And dim the little liglit that ^s left behind With needless torture, as their tyrant will Is wound up to the lust of doing ill. With tliese and w^ith their victims am I classM, 'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pass'd ; ■'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close : So let it be, for then I shall repose. IV I have been patient, let me be so yet ; 1 had forgotten half I would forget, But it revives — Oh ! would it were my lot To be forc^etful as I am fors^ot ! Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell In this vast lazar-house of many woes ? Where laughter is not mirth, nor tliought the mind. Nor words a language, nor e^en men mankind ; Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows. And each is tortured in his separate hell — For we are crowded in our solitudes — Many, but each divided by the wall Which echoes Madness in her babbHng moods ; While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call — None ! save that One, the veriest wTetch of all, Who was not made to be tlie mate of these. Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here ? [ 22 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 Who have debased me in tlie minds of men, Debarring me the usage of my own, Blighting my life in best of its career, Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear? Would I not pay them back these pangs again. And teach them inward Sorrow^s stilled groan ? The struggle to be calm, and cold distress Which undermines our Stoical success ? No ! still too proud to be vindictive, I Have pardonM princes' insults and would die. Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake I weed all bitterness from out my breast, It hath no business where thou art a guest ; Thy brother hates — but I can not detest ; Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. V Look on a love which knows not to despair. But all unquench'd Is still my better part. Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart As dwells the gatherM lightning in its cloud, EncompassM with its dark and rolling shroud. Till struck, — forth flies the all-ethereal dart ! And thus at the collision of thy name The vivid thought still flashes through my frame. And for a moment all things as they were Plit by me ; — they are gone — I am the same. And yet my love without ambition grew ; I knew thy state, my station, and I knevi^ A princess was no love-mate for a bard ; [ 23 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY I told it not, I breathed it not, it was Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; And if my eyes reveaFd it, they, alas ! Were punished by the silentness of thine. And yet I did not venture to repine. Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around HallowM and meekly kissed the saintly ground ; Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love Hath robed thee with a glory, and arrayed Thy lineaments in beauty that dismayM — - Oh ! not dismajM — but awed, like One above ; And in that sweet severity there was A something which all softness did surpass — I know not how — thy genius master^ mine — My star stood still before thee : — if it were Presumptuous thus to love without design, That sad fatality hath cost me dear ; But thou art dearest still, and I should be • Fit for this cell which v/rongs me — but for t//ee. The very love which locked me to my chain Hath lightenM half its weight ; and for the rest, Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain, And look to thee with undivided breast, And foil the ingenuity of Pain. VI It is no marvel ; from my very birth My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade And mingle with whatever I saw on earth. [ 24 ] w ^ THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 Of objects all inanimate I made Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, And rocks whereby they grew, a paradise. Where I did lay me down within the shade Of waving trees, and dreamM uncounted hours. Though I was chid for wandering; and the Wise Shook their white aged heads o^er me, and said Of such materials wretched men were made, And such a truant boy would end in woe, And that the only lesson was a blow ; — And then they smote me, and I did not weep, But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt EeturnM and wept alone, and dreamed again The visions which arise without a sleep. And with my years my soul began to pant With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain ; And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, But undefined and wandering, till the day I found the thing I sought — and that was thee. And then I lost my being all to be AbsorbM in thine; the world was past away. Thou didst annihilate the earth to me ! VII I loved all Solitude ; but little thought To spend I know not wdiat of life, remote From all communion w^ith existence, save The maniac and his tyrant. Had I been Their fellow, many years ere this had seen My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave, — [ 25 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY But who hath seen me writhe or heard me rave? Perchance in such a cell we suffer more Than the wreckM sailor on his desert shore; The world is all before him — mine is here, Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. What though he perisli, he may lift his eye And with a dying glance upbraid the sky — I will not raise my own in such reproof^ Although 'i is clouded by my dungeon roof. VIII Yet do I feel at times my mind decline. But with a sense of its decay : — I see Unwonted lights along my prison shine, And a strange demon, wlio is vexing me With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below The feeling of the healthful and the free ; But much to One, who long hath suffered so, Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place. And all that may be borne, or can debase. I thought mine enemies had been but Man, But Spirits may be leagued with tliem — all Earth Abandons, Heaven forgets me ; in the dearth Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, It may be, tempt me further, and prevail Against the outworn creature they assail. Why in this furnace is my spirit proved Like steel in tempering fire? because I loved? Because I loved what not to love, and see. Was more or less than mortal and than me. [ 26 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 IX I once Vv'iis quick in feeling — that is o^er; My scars are callous^ or I should have dash'd Mj brain against these bars^ as the sun flashed In mockery through them. If I bear and bore The much I have recounted, and the more Which hath no words, ^t is that I would not die And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie Wiiich snared me here, and with the brand of shame Stamped Madness deep into my memory, And woo Compassion to a blighted name, Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. No — it shall be immortal ! and I make A future temple of my present cell. Which nations yet shall visit for my sake. While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dwell The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down. And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless halls,— A poet's wreath shall bo thine only crown, A poet^s dungeon thy most far renown. While strangers wonder o^er thy unpeopled walls ! And thou, Leonora ! thou — who wert ashamed That such as I could love, who blusli^l to hear To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear — Go ! tell thy brother, that my heart, untamed By grief, years, weariness — and it may be A taint of that he would impute to me — From long infection of a den like this. Where tlie mind rots congenial with the abyss, [ 27 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Adores thee still ; — and add, that when the towers And battlements which guard his joyous hours Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot. Or left untended in a dull repose. This — this shall be a consecrated spot ! But Thou — when all that Birth and Beauty throws Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. No power in death can tear our names apart. As none in life could rend thee from my heart. Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate To be entwined for ever — but too late ! TO JOHN MURRAY Venice, April 14, 1817. To-day, or rather yesterday, for it is past midnight, I have been np to the battlements of the highest tower in Yenice, and seen it and its viev/, in all the glory of a clear Italian sky. I also went over the Manfrini Palace, famous for its pictures. Amongst them, there is a portrait of Ariosto by Titian ^ surpassing all my anticipation of the power of painting or human expression : it is the poetry of portrait, and the portrait of poetry. There was also one of some learned lady, centuries old, whose name I forget, but whose features must always be remembered. I never saw greater beauty, or sweetness, or wisdom : — it is the kind of face to go mad for, because it cannot walk out of its frame. There is also a famous dead Christ and live apos- tles, for which Buonaparte offered in vain irve thousand [ 28 ] IHE THREE FATES " — formerly attributed to Michel Angclo. In the Pitti Gallery, Florence. ■ See Letter to John Murray, p. 32. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 louis ; and of which, though it is a capo d' opera of Titian, as I am no connoisseur, I say little, and thought less, ex- cept of one figure in it. There are ten thousand others, and some very fine Giorgiones amongst them, etc., etc. There is an original Laura and Petrarch, very hideous both. Petrarch has not only the dress, but the features and air of an old woman, and Laura looks by no means like a young one, or a pretty one. What struck me most in the general collec- tion was the extreme resemblance of the style of the female faces in the mass of pictures, so many centuries or genera- tions old, to those you see and meet every day amongst the existing Italians. The queen of Cyprus^ and Gior- gione's wife,^ particularly the latter, are Venetians as it w^ere of yesterday; the same eyes and expression, — and, to my mind, there is none finer. You must recollect, however, that I know nothing of painting; and that I detest it, unless it reminds me of something I have seen, or think it possible to see, for which [reason] I spit upon and abhor all the Saints and subjects of one-half the impostures I see in the churches and palaces; and when in Flanders, I never was so dis- gusted in my life as with Rubens and his eternal wives and infernal glare of colours, as they appeared to me ; and in Spain I did not think much of Murillo and Yelasquez. Depend upon it, of all the arts, it is the most artificial and unnatural, and that by which the nonsense of mankind is the most imposed upon. I never yet saw the picture — 1 Catharine Cornaro, on whose abdication, in 1489, the island of Cj^rus was acquired by Venice. 2 An error : Giorgione was unmarried. [ 29 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY or the statue — which came within a league of my concep- tion or expectation ; but I have seen many mountains, and seas, and rivers, and views, and two or three women, who went as far beyond it, — besides some horses ; and a lion (nt Veli Pasha^s) in the Morea; and a tiger at supper in Exeter ^Change. TO JOHN MURRAY Venice, April 14, 1817. The third act^ is certainly damned bad, and, like the Archbishop of Grenada^s homily (which savoured of the palsy), has the dregs of my fever, daring which it was written. It must on no account be published in its present state. I will try and reform it, or rewrite it altogether ; but the impulse is gone, and I have no chance of making anything out of it. I would not have it published as it is on any account. The speech of Manfred to the Sun is the only part of this act I thought good myself; the rest is certainly as bad as bad can be, and I wonder what the devii possessed me. I am very glad indeed that you sent me Mr. GifPord^s opinion without deduction? Do you suppose me such a Sotheby as not to be very much obliged to him ? or that in fact I was not, and am not, convinced and convicted in my conscience of this same overt act of nonsense ? I shall try at it again : in the meantime, lay it upon the 1 "Manfred." 2 Murraj^ sent Byron Gi (Tor d's objections to act iii of "Manfred," which, Murray says, " he does not by any means like." [ 30 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 shelf (the whole drama, I mean) : but pray correct yoar copies of the first and second acts by the original MS. I am not coming to England; but going to Eome in a few days.^ I return to Venice in June: so, pray, address all letters, Qic, to me here, as usual, — that is, to Venice, Dr. Polidori this day left this city with Lord Guilford for England. He is charged with some books to your care (from me), and two miniatures also to the same address, both for my sister. Eecollect not to publish, upon pain of I know not what, until I have tried again at the third act. I am not sure that I shall try, and still less that I shall succeed, if I do ; but I am very sure, that (as it is) it is unfit for publication or perusal; and unless I can make it out to my own satisfaction^ I won't have any part published. TO JOHN MUEPtAY FoLiGNO, April 26, 1817. At Florence I remained but a day, having a hurry for Eome, to which I am thus far advanced. However, I went to the two galleries, from which one returns drunk with beauty. The Yenus^ is more for admiration than love ; but there are sculpture and painting, which for the first time at all gave me an idea of what people mean by their caitty and what Mr. Braham calls '^ entusimusy '* [i. e. 1 Byron left Venice soon after the middle of April, passing through Ferrara, Florence, and Foligno, on his way to Rome. He retm'ned to Venice towards the end of May. 2 Venus dei Medici. [ 31 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY entliusiasm) about those two most artificial of the arts. What struck me most were, the mistress of Raphael, a portrait; the mistress of Titian, a portrait; a Venus of Titian in the Medici gallery — the Venus ; Canova''s Venus also in the other gallery : Titian's mistress is also in the other gallery {that is, in the Pitti Palace gallery) ; the Parcse of Michael Angelo, a picture ; and the Antinous — the Alexander — and one or two not very decent groups in marble ; the Genius of Death, a sleeping figure, etc., etc. I also went to the Medici chapel ^ — fine frippery in great slabs of various expensive stones, to commemorate fifty rotten and forgotten carcases. It is unfinished, and will remain so. The church of '^ Santa Croce '' contains much illustrious nothing. The tombs of Machiavelli, Michael Angelo, Galileo Galilei, and Alfieri, make it the Westminster Abbey of Italy. I did not admire any of these tombs — beyond their contents. That of Alfieri is heavy, and all of them seem to me overloaded. What is necessary but a bust and name ? and perhaps a date ? — the last for the unchronological, of whom I am one. But all your alle- gory and eulogy is infernal, and worse than the long wigs of English numskulls upon Eoman bodies in the statuary of the reigns of Charles, William, and Anne. TO JOHN MUEEAY Rome, May 5, 1817. Dear Sir, — By this post (or next at farthest) I send you, in two other covers, the new third act of Mavfred. I 1 See " Childe Harold," IV, stanza k. [32] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 have rewritten the greater part, and returned what is not altered in i\x^ proof you sent me. The Abbot is become a good man, and the spirits are brought in at the death. You will find, I think, some good poetry in this new act, here and there ; and if so, print it, without sending me further proofs, tinder Mr. GifforcVs correction, if he will have the goodness to overlook it. Address all answers to Venice, as usual ; I mean to return there in ten days. The Lament of Tasso, which I sent from Florence, has, I trust, arrived: I look upon it as a ^^hese be good rhymes,'' as Pope's papa said to him when he was a boy.i For the two — it and the Drama — you will disburse to me {via Kinnaird) si5 ^ 3 n 5 5- THE YExVRS 1817, 1818, 1819 TO JOHN MUERAY Venice, June 4, 1817. • • • • • I was delighted with Eome, and was on horseback all round it many hours daily, besides in it the rest of my time, bothering over its marvels. I excursed and skirred the country round to Alba, Tivoli, Frascati, Licenza, etc., etc. ; besides, I visited twice the Fall of Terni, which beats everything.^ On my way back, close to the temple by its banks, I got some famous trout out of the river Clitumnus — the prettiest little stream in all poesy,^ near the first post from Foligno and Spoleto. I did not stay at Florence, being anxious to get home to Venice, and having already seen the galleries and other sights. I left my commendatory letters the evening before I went, so I saw nobody. To-day, Pindemonte,^ the celebrated poet of Verona, called on me ; he is a little thin man, with acute and pleas- ing features ; his address good and gentle ; his appearance altogether very philosophical ; his age about sixty, or more. He is one of their best going. I gave him Forsyth,^ as he speaks, or reads rather, a little English, and will find there a favourable account of himself. He enquired after his 1 " Childe Harold," Canto IV, stanza Ixxi. 2 Compare " Childe Harold," Canto IV, stanza kn. 3 Ippolito Pindcmonte (1753-1828), born at Verona, translated into blank verse the Odyssey, the Gcorgics, and passages from Ovid and Catullus. He also wrote a classic tragedy, " Arminio," and published several volumes of poetry. * " Remarks on Antiquities, Arts, and Letters during an Excursion in Italy in 1802 and 1803," by Joseph Forsyth. 4 [ 49 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY old Cruscan friends, Parsons, Greathead, Mrs. Piozzi, and Merry, all of whom he had known in his youth. I gave him as bad an account of them as I could, answering, as the false " Solomon Lob '^ does to " Totterton '''' in the farce,^ that they were " all gone dead,"*' and damned by a satire more than twenty years ago; that the name of their extinguisher was Gilford ; that they were but a sad set of scribes after all, and no great things in any other way. He seemed, as was natural, very much pleased with this account of his old acquaintances, and went away greatly gratified with that and Mr. Forsyth's sententious paragraph of applause in his own (Pindemonte's) favour. After having been a little libertine in his youth, he is grown devout, and takes prayers, and talks to himself, to keep off' the Devil; but for all that, he is a very nice little old gentleman. I forgot to tell you that at Bologna (which is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausages) I saw an anatomical gallery, where there is a deal of waxwork, in which . . . I am sorry to hear of your row with Hunt ^ : but sup- pose him to be exasperated by the (Quarterly and your refusal to deal ; and when one is angry and edits a paper I should think the temptation too strong for literary nature, which is not always human. I can^t conceive in what, and for what, he abuses you : what have you done ? 1 " Love laughs at Locksmiths," by George Colman the Yciinger. 2 John Hunt, editor of the Examiner. " Wat Tyler " was reviewed in the Examiner for May 4, 1817, and, in the numbers for May 11 and May 18, Southey's letter was violently attacked, and Murray himself not spared. [ 50 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 you are not an author — nor a politician — nor a public cliaracter; I know no scrape you have tumbled into. I am the more sorry for this^, because I introduced you to Hunt^ and because I believe him to be a very good man; but till I know the particulars, I cau give no opinion. Let me know about Lallah Rookh, which must be out by this time. I restore the proofs, but the punctuation should be corrected. I feel too lazy to have at it myself; so beg and pray Mr. Gifford for me. Address for Yenice. In a few days I go to my Villeggiaturay in a casino near the Erenta/ a few miles only on the mainland. I have determined on another year, and many years, of residence, if I can compass them. Marianna is with me, hardly recovered of the fever, which has been attacking all Italy last winter. I am afraid she is a little hectic ; but I hope the best. Ever yours truly, B. P. S. — Torwaltzen has done a bust of me at Eome for Mr. Hobhouse, which is reckoned very good.^ He is their best after Canova, and by some preferred to him. 1 The " deep -dyed " Brenta flows, from its source in Tyrol, past Padua into the Lagoon at Fusina. Byron's villa La Mira was on the river near Mira, about seven miles inland. 2 The original of the bust is now in the possession of Lady Dorchester, daughter of Mr. Hobhouse. The head of the statue at Trinity College, Cambridge, begun by Thorwaldsen in 1829, and finished in 1834, is a repetition of the original bust. [ 51 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY TO THOMAS MOOEE La Mira, Venice, July 10, 1817. Murray, the Mokanna ^ of booksellers, has contrived to send me extracts from Lalla Rookh by the post. They are taken from some magazine, and contain a short outline and quotations from the two first Poems. I am very much delighted with what is before me, and very thirsty for the rest. You have caught the colours as if you had been in the rainbow, and the tone of the East is perfectly pre- served. I am glad you have changed the title from "Persian Tale.'' . . . I suspect you have written a devilish fine composition, and I rejoice in it from my heart; because "the Douglas and the Percy both together are confident against a world in arms."" I hope you won't be affronted at my looking on us as " birds of a feather " ; though, on whatever sub- ject you had written, I should have been very happy in your success. . . . Do you remember that damned supper at Rancliffe's that ought to have been a dinner ? " Ah, Master Shallow, we have heard the chimes at midnight." But My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea ; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here 's a double health to thee ! 1 An allusion to the all-powerful Veikd Mekanna in "Lalla Rookh." [ 52 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate ; And whatever sky ^s above me, Here ^s a heart for every fate. Though the ocean roar around me. Yet it still shall bear me on ; Though a desert should surround me. It hath springs that may be won. Were 't the last drop in the w-ell. As I gaspM upon the brink. Ere my fainting spirit fell, ^T is to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine. The libation I would pour Should be — peace with thine and mine. And a health to thee, Tom Moore. This should have been written fifteen moons ago — tlie first stanza was.^ I am just come out from an hour^s swim in the Adriatic ; and I write to you with a black- eyed Venetian girl before me, reading Boccaccio. . . . Last week I had a row on the road (I came up to Yenice from my casino, a few miles on the Paduan road, this blessed day, to bathe) with a fellow in a carriage, who was impudent to my horse. I gave him a swingeing box on the ear, which sent him to the police, who dismissed his complaint. Witnesses had seen the transaction. He first shouted, in an unseemly way, to frighten my palfry I wheeled round, rode up to the window, and asked him 1 The lines were partly written in April, 1816. [ 53 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY what lie meant. He grinned, and said some foolery, which produced him an immediate slap in the face, to his utter discomfiture. Much blasphemy ensued, and some menace, which I stopped by dismounting and opening the carriage door, and intimating an intention of mending tlie road with his immediate remains, if he did not hold his tongue. He held it. Monk Lewis is here — '' how pleasant ! ■" He is a very good fellow, and very much yours. So is Sam — so is every body — and amongst tlie number. Yours ever, B. p. S. — What think you of Manfred? . . . TO JOHN MUEKAY September 15, 1817. • • • • • • The other day I wrote to convey my ])roposition with regard to the fourth and concluding canto. ^ I have gone over and extended it to one hundred and fifty stanzas, which is almost as long as the two first were originally, and longer by itself than any of the smaller poems except The Corsair. Mr. Hobhouse has made some very valuable and accurate notes of considerable length, and you may be sure I will do for the text all that I can to finish with decency. I look upon Childe Harold as my best ; and as I begun, I think of concluding with it. But I make no resolutions on that head, as I broke my former intention with regard to The Corsair. However, I fear that I shall never do better; and yet, not being tliirty years of age for some 1 Of "Childe Harold." [ 54 ] jyjONUMENT to Galileo, in Santa Croce, Florence, by Foggini. The starry Galileo, with his looes." — Childe Harold, Canto IV, stanza 1 iv, p. 71. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 moons to come, one ought to be progressive as far as Intellect goes for many a good year. But I have had a devilish deal of wear and tear of mind and body in my time, besides having published too often and much already. God grant me some judgment ! to do what may be most fitting in that and everything else, for I doubt my own exceedingly. I have read Lallali RooM, but not with sufficient atten- tion yet, for I ride about, and lounge, and ponder, and — two or three other things ; so that my reading is very desultory, and not so attentive as it used to be. I am very glad to hear of its popularity, for Moore is a very noble fellow in all respects, and will enjoy it without any of the bad feeling which success — good or evil — some- times engenders in the men of rhyme. Of the poem itself, I will tell you my opinion when I have mastered it : I say of the poem, for I don't like the prose at all — at all ; and in the meantime, " The Fire Worshippers'*' is the best, and " The Veiled Prophet " the worst, of the volume. With regard to poetry in general,^ I am convinced, the more I think of it, that he and all of us — Scott, Southey, Wordsworth, Moore, Campbell, I, — are all in the wrong, one as much as another ; that we are upon a wrong revo- lutionary poetical system, or systems, not worth a damn in itself, and from which none but Eogers and Crabbe are free ; and tliat the present and next generations will finally be of this opinion. I am the more confirmed in this by 1 On this paragraph, in the MS. copy of the above letter, is the follow- ing note, in the handwriting of ]\Ir. Gifford : " There is more good sense, and feeling, and judgment in this passage, than in any other I ever read, or Lord livrou wrote." [ 55 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY having lately gone over some of our classics, ])articularly I*ojpe^ whom I tried in this way : I took Moore^s poems and ray own and some others, and went over them side by side with Pojje's, and I was really astonished (I ought not to have been so) and mortified at the ineffable distance in point of sense, harmony, effect, nnd even Imagination, pas- sion, and Invention, between the little Queen Anne^s man, and us of the Lower Empire. Depend upon it, it is all Horace then, and Claudian now, among us ; and if I had to begin again, I would model myself accordingly. Crabbers . . . got a coarse and impracticable subject, and Eogers, the Grandfather of living Poetry, is retired upon half-pay (I don^t mean as a Banker), — Since pretty Miss Jaqueline, With her nose aquiline, and has done enough, unless he were to do as he did formerly. CIIILDE IIAUOLD^S PILGRIMAGE Cxi N TO THE FOURTH Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna, Quel Monte che divide, e quel che serra Italia, e uu mare e 1' altro, che la bagua.i Ariosto, Satira iii, Venice, January 2, 1818. TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ., A. M., F. R. S., &c. My dear IIobhouse, — After an interval of eight years between the composition of the first and last cantos ^ " I have seen Tuscany, I.ombardy, and the Romagna, the mountain range that divides Italy and that which hems her in, and the one and the other sea that bathes her " [ -56 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 of Chilcle Harold, the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to the public. In parting with so old a friend^ it is not extraordinary that I should recur to one still older and better, — to one who has beheld the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am far more in- debted for the social advantages of an enlightened friend- ship, than — though not ungrateful — I can, or could be, to Chilcle Ilaroldy for any public favour reflected through the poem on the poet, — to one, whom I have known long, and accompanied far, whom I have found wakeful over my sickness and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity and firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty in peril, — to a friend often tried and never found wanting ; — to yourself. In the course of the following canto it was my intention, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, I soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of external objects, and the consequent reflections ; and for the whole of the notes, excepthig a few of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and these were necessarily limited to the elucidation of the text. It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dissert upon the literature and maimers of a nation so dissimilar ; and requires an attention and impartiality which would induce us — tliough perhaps no inattentive observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of the people amongst whom we have recently abode — to distrust, or at least [ 57 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY defer our judgment^ and more narrowly examine our infor- mation. The state of literary, as well as political party, appears to run, or to have run, so liigli, that for a stranger to steer impartially between them is next to impossible. It may be enough, then, at least for my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful language — " Mi pare che in un paese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la piii nobile ed insieme la piu dolce, tutte tutte le vie diverse si possono tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto Y antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prima.^' ^ Italy has great names still : Canova, Monti, Ugo Toscolo, Pindemonte, Yisconti, Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will se- cure to the present generation an honourable place in most of the departments of Art, Science, and Belles Lettres, and in some the very highest ; Europe — the World — has but one Canova. It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that " La pianta uomo nasce piii robusta in Italia che in qualunque altra terra — e che gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si commettono ne sono una prova.''^^ Without subscribing to the latter part of his proposition, a dangerous doctrine, the truth of w^iich may be disputed on better grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect more ferocious than their neighbours, that man must be wilfully blind, or ignorantly 1 "It seems to me in a country wholly poetic, which boasts a language at once the noblest and the sweetest, all the different ways may be tried, and that since the land of Alfieri and of Monti has not lost her ancient worth, she should, in all, be the first." 2 " The human plant, in Italy, grows more robust than in any other land, and even the atrocious crimes committed there are a proof of it." [ 58 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary capac- ity of this people, or, if such a word be admissible, tlieir capabilities, the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of beauty, and, amidst all the disadvantages of repeated revo- lutions, the desolation of battles, and the despair of ages, their still unquenched " longing after immortality,^^ — the immortality of independence. And when we ourselves, in riding round the walls of Eome, heard the simple lament of the labourers'* chorus, " Eoma ! Eoma ! Eoma ! Eoma non e piii come era prima,^"* ^ it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge witli the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation still yelled from the London taverns, over the carnage of Mont St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men whose conduct you yourself have exposed in a work worthy of the better days of our history. For me, — ^^Non movero mai corda Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda/^ ^ What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, it were useless for Englishmen to enquire, till it becomes ascertained that England has acquired something more than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus : it is enough for them to look at home. For what they have done abroad, and especially in the South, '^ Verily they will have their reward,^"* and at no very distant period. ^ " Eome ! Eome ! Rome ! no longer is she what once she was." ^ " Never will I touch the lyre where the rabble deafens me with its fooleries." [ 59 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Wishing you, my dear Hobliouse, a safe and agreeable return to that country whose real welfare can be dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in its completed state ; and repeat once more how truly I am ever. Your obliged And affectionate friend, Byron. I STOOD in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand ; I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of tlie enchanter^s wand : A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dyhig Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look^l to the winged Lion^s marble piles. Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles ! II She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, Eising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers. And such she was ; — her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers : In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased. [ 60 ] B RIDGE of Sighs, at Venice. / stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand. " — Childe Harold, Canto IV, stanza 60. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 III In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, And silent rows the songless gondolier ; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the ear : Those days are gone, but Beauty still is here ; States fall, arts fade, but Nature doth not die. Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! IV But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long array Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond Above the dogeless city's vanished sway : Ours is a trophy which will not decay With the Eialto ; Shylock and the Moor And Pierre ^ can not be swept or worn away. The keystones of the arch ! — though all were o'er, Eor us repeopled were the solitary shore. XI The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; And annual marriage now no more renewed. The Bucentaur 2 lies rotting unrestored, 1 A conspirator in Otway's " Venice Preserved." 2 Burned by the French in 1797. A copy may be seen in Museum at Arsenal of Venice. [ 61 ] WITH BYRON LN ITALY Neglected garment of her widowliood ! St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood^ Stand, but in mockery of his witherM power. Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequalFd dower. XII The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt; Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt Erom power's high pinnacle, wdien they have felt The sunshine for a while, and downward gD Like lauwine loosenM from the mountain's belt : — Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo,^ Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe ! Xlli Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass. Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; But is not Doria's menace come to pass ? Are they not hridlecl?'^ — Venice, lost and won, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 1 The winged Lion of St. Mark stands on a granite column at entrance to Piazzetta. Here in 1177 the Suabian Emperor Barbarossa submitted to Pope Alexander III. 2 Daudolo, Doge of Venice, was ninety-seven years old when he com- manded the Venetians at the taking of Constantinople. 3 When the Venetians sued Doria for peace (1379) his answer was : "Not until we have first put a rein upon those unbridled horses of yours, that are upon the porch of your St. Mark." [ 62 ] ' =i 25 i" 2 o = •'^ o THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! Better be whelmM beneath, the waves, and shun. Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes. From whom submission wrings an infamous rej^ose. XIV In youth she was all glory, a new Tyre, Her very by-word sprung from victory. The " Planter of the Lion,'^ which through fire And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; Though making many slaves, herself still free. And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite; — Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Touch it, ye Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight ! For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. XV Statues of glass — all shivered — the long file Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust. Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls, Tliin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthralls. Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. XVI "When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, Eedemption rose up in the Attic Muse, Her voice their only ransom from afar : [ fi;5 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car Of the overmastered victor stops, the reins Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's cliains, And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. XVII Thus, Yenice, if no stronger claim were thine, Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot. Thy choral memory of the Bard divine. Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, Albion, to thee : the Ocean queen should not Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. XVIIl I loved her from my boyhood ; she to me Was as a fairy city of the heart, Eising like water-columns from the sea, Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart : And Otwaj, RadclifFe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art,^ Had stamp'd her image in me ; and even so. Although I found her thus, we did not part. Perchance even dearer in her day of woe Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 1 Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of UdolpJio ; The Ghost-Seer, or Armen- ian ; The Merchant of Venice ; Othello. (Byron's Note.) [ 64 ] = o * ^ a S- ^ a- c 5- o ^ a <» THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 XIX I can repeople with the past — and of The present there is still for eye and thought. And meditations chastened down, enough. And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought ; And of the happiest moments which were wrought Within the web of my existence, some From thee, fair Venice, have their colours caught : There are some feelings Time cannot benumb, Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. XXV But my soul wanders ; I demand it back To meditate amongst decay, and stand A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track FalFn states and buried greatness, o^er a land Which was the mightiest in its old command. And is the loveliest, and must ever be The master-mould of Nature^s heavenly hand. Wherein were cast the heroic and the free. The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and sea, XXVI The commonwealth of kings, the men of Eome ! And even since, and now, fair Italy, Thou art the garden of the world, the home Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ; WITH BYRON IN ITALY Even in tliy desert, what is like to thee ? Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste More rich than other climes^ fertility ; Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. XXVII The moon is up, and yet it is not night — Sunset divides the sky -with, her, a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Eriuli^s mountains ; Heaven is free Prom clouds, but of all colours seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the West, Where the Day joins the past Eternity ; While, on the other hand, meek Dianas crest Floats through the azure air, an island of the blest ! XXVIII A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains EolFd o'er the peak of the far Khsetian hill. As Day and Night contending were, until Nature reclaimed her order : gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows, [ e6 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 XXIX rillM with the face of heaven, which from afar Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star. Their magical variety diffuse. And now they change ; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o^er the mountains ; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away. The last still loveliest, till — 't is gone — and all is gray. XXX There is a tomb in Arqua ; rear'd in air, PillarM in their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura's lover : here repair Many familiar with his well-sung woes. The pilgrims of his genius. He arose To raise a language, and his land reclaim From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes ; Watering the tree which bears his lady's name With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. XXXI They keep his dust in Arqua where he died. The mountain-village where his latter days Went down the vale of years ; and 't is their pride An honest pride, and let it be their praise — To offer to the passing stranger's gaze [ 67 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY His mansion and his sepulchre ; both phdn And venerably simple, such as raise A feeling more accordant with his strain Tlian if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. XXXII And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt Is one of that complexion wliich seems made Eor those who their mortality have felt, And sought a refuge from their hopes decayM In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade. Which shows a distant prospect far away Of busy cities, now in vain displayed Eor they can lure no further ; and the ray Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, XXXIII Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, And shining in the brawling brook, where-by. Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours With a calm languor, which, though to the eye Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. If from society we learn to live, ''T is solitude should teach us how to die ; It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give No hollow aid; alone — man with his God must strive XXXIV Or, it may be, with demons, wlio impair The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey In melancholy bosoms, such as were Of moody texture from their earliest day [ 68 ] c IIURCH of Santa Croce, Florence. In Santa Croce^s holy precincts lie Ashes which make it holier, dust which is Even in itself an immortality.'''' — Childe Harold, Canto IV, stanza liv, p 71. — See Letter from Foligno, p. 32. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, Deeming themselves predestined to a doom Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; Making the snn like blood, the earth a tomb. The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. XXXIX Peace to Torquato's ^ injured shade ! 't was his In life and death to be the mark where Wrong Aim^d with her poisonM arrows, but to miss. Oh, victor unsurpassM in modern song ! Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long The tide of generations shall roll on, And not the whole combined and countless throng Compose a mind like thine ? Though all in one Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form a sun. XL Great as thou art, yet paralleFd by those. Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, The Bards of Hell and Chivalry 2 : first rose The Tuscan father's comedy divine ; Then, not unequal to the Florentine The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth A new^ creation with his magic line, And, like the Ariosto of the North,^ Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. 1 Torquato Tasso. See "Lament of Tasso," p. 18. 2 Dante and Ariosto. 3 Walter Scott. [ 69 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY XLVII Yet, Italy ! through every other land Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side ; Mother of Arts, as once of arms ; thy hand Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; Parent of our Religion, whom the wide Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! Europe, repentant of her parricide, Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, Eoll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. XLVIII But Arno wins us to the fair white walls. Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps A softer feeling for lier fairy halls. Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Her corn and wine and oil, and Plenty leaps To laughing life with her redundant horn. Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps Was modern Luxury of Commerce born. And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn. XLIX There, too, the Goddess loves in stone,^ and fills The air around with beauty. We inhale The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils Part of its immortality ; the veil 1 The Venus de' Medici. [ 70 ] 'ENUS de' Medici in Uffizi Gallery, Florence. " The Goddess loves in stone^ and fills The air around icith beauty ; . . . within the pale We stand, and in that form and face behold What mind can make when Nature's self would fail. niiiirio Hapnl<1. fianto IV. staiiza xlix p. 70. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale We stand, and in that form and face behold What mind can make when Nature's self would fail ; And to the fond idolaters of old Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould. We gaze and turn away, and know not where, Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart Heel-s with its fulness ; there — for ever there Chained to the chariot of triumphal Art, We stand as captives and would not depart. Away ! — there need no words nor terms precise. The paltry jargon of the marble mart Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes : Blood, pulse, and breast confirm tlie Dardan Shepherd's prize. LIV In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie Ashes which make it holier, dust whicli is Even in itself an immortality, Though there were nothing save the past, and this. The particle of those sublimities Which have relapsed to chaos : here repose Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his. The starry Galileo, with his woes ; Here l^Iachiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose. [ 71 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY LY These are four minds, which, like the elements. Might furnish forth creation. Italy ! Time, which hath wrongM thee with ten thousand rents Of thine imperial garment, shall deny. And hath denied, to every other sky Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay Is still impregnate with divinity. Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. LVI But where repose the all Etruscan three — Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they. The Bard of Prose, creative spirit, he Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay Their bones, distinguish^ from our common clay In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust, And have their country^s marbles nought to say ? Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? Did they not to her breast their filial earth intrust ? LVII Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar,^ Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; Thy factions, in tlieir worse than civil war. Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore Their children's children would in vain adore ^ Dante, buried at Raveuna ; the elder Scipio Africanus, at Liternum. [ T2 ] 5 >■. < =• ^ a- a-tj i. -3. ^ I— o o* o a. 3 THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 With the remorse of ages ; and the crown Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, Upon a far and foreign soil had grown. His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine own.^ LVIII Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed His dust ; and lies it not her Great among. With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue ? That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb Uptorn must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong, No more amidst the meaner dead find room. Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for w/iom 1 2 LIX And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust, — • Yet for this want more noted, as of yore The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust. Did but of Eome's best Son remind her more. Happier Eavenna ! on thy hoary shore. Fortress of falling empire, honour'd sleeps The immortal exile ; Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps. While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead, and weeps. 1 Petrarch was crowned with the laurel wreath at Rome in 1341. His grave was rifled in 1630. 2 Boccaccio's tombstone was torn up and ejected from the church at Certaldo, where he was buried. [ 'TS ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY LX What is her pyramid of precious stones, Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones Of merchant-dukes ? The momentary dews Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, Are gently prest with far more reverent tread Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. LXI There be more things to greet the heart and eyes In Arno^s dome of Art's most princely shrine. Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; There be more marvels yet — but not for mine ; For I have been accustomed to entwine My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, Than Art in galleries : though a work divine Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields LXII Is of another temper, and I roam By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home ; For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles [ 74 ] ^^^ 1 ^ ^ '-■ Sr * <=i *« THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 The host between the mountains and the shore, Where Courage falls in her despairing files, And torrents, swolPn to rivers with their gore, Eeek through the sultry plain with legions scattered o^er, LXIII Like to a forest felFd by mountain winds ; And such the storm of battle on this day, And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray. An earthquake reePd unheededly away ! None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet. And yawning forth a grave for those who lay Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet ; Such is the absorbing hate w^hen warring nations meet ! LXIV The Earth to them was as a rolling bark Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw The Ocean round, but had no time to mark The motions of their vessel ; Nature^s law. In them suspended, reckM not of the awe Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing herds Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words. LXV Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain Ilent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; [ 75 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain Lay where tlieir roots are ; but a brook hath ta'eii — A little rill of scanty stream and bed — A name of blood from that day^s sanguine rain ; And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead Made the earth wet and turn'd the unwilling waters red. LXVI But thou, Clitumnus, in thy sweetest wave Of the most living crystal that was e'er The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer Grazes, — the purest god of gentle waters. And most serene of aspect, and most clear ! Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters — A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters ! LXVII And on thy happy shore a Temple still. Of small and delicate proportion, keeps^ Upon a inild declivity of hill, Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps The finny darter with the glittering scales, Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; While, chance, some scattered water-lily sails Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales. [ 76 ] •■■V VJ'i ^ I -' ' mm ^1: 3: ^ ^1 5= '^ THE YEARS ]817, 1818, 1819 LXVIII Pass not unblest the Genius of the place ! If through the air a zephyr more serene Win to the brow, 't is his ; and if ye trace Along his margin a more eloquent green, If on the heart the freshness of the scene Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust Of weary life a moment lave it clean AVith Nature's baptism, — 't is to him ye must Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. LXIX The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height Velino cleaves the w^ave-worn precipice ; The fall of waters ! rapid as the light The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss. And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,^ LXX And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Eeturns in an unceasing shower, w^hich round. With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain. Is an eternal April to the ground, Making it all one emerald : — how profound - The gulf ! and how the giant element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, [ 77 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent LXXI To the broad column which rolls on, and shows More like the fountain of an infant sea Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes Of a new world, than only thus to be Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, With many windings, through the vale : — Look back ! Lo, where it comes like an eternity. As if to sweep down all things in its track. Charming the eye with dread — a matchless cataract, LXXII Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, Erom side to side, beneath the glittering morn, An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge. Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn Its steady dyes while all around is torn By the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn; Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene. Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. Lxxin Once more upon the woody Apennine, The infant Alps, which — had I not before Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar ' [ 78 ] rpH E Falls at Terni. " Look back! Lo ! ivliere it comes like an eternity. As if to sweep down all things in its track. Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless cataract."' — Childe Harold, Canto IV, stanza Ixxi, p. 78. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 The thundering lauwine^ — might be worshipped more. But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear Her never-trodden snow^, and seen the hoar Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, LXXIV Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name ; And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly Like spirits of the spot, as 't were for fame, For still they soared unutterably high : I 've lookM on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; Athos, Olympus, ^Etna, Atlas, made These hills seem things of lesser dignity. All, save the lone Soracte's height, display^ Not noiv in snow, which asks the lyric Eoman's aid ^ LXXV For our remembrance, and from out the plain Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break. And on the curl hangs pausing. Not in vain May he, who will, his recollections rake. And quote in classic raptures, and awake The hills with Latian echoes ; I abhorrM Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake. The drilFd dull lesson, forced down word by word In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record ^ Lauwine is the Swiss name for avalanche. ^ An allusion to one of the odes of Horace in which he speaks of Soracie as white with snow. [ 79 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY LXXVI Aught that recalls the daily drug which turned My sickening memory ; and^ though Time hath taught My mind to meditate what tlien it learned, Yet such the fix^d inveteracy wrought By the impatience of my early thought, That, with the freshness wearing out before My mind could relish what it might have sought, If free to choose, I cannot now restore Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor. LXXVII Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so. Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse To understand, not feel thy lyric flow. To comprehend, but never love thy verse. Although no deeper Moralist rehearse Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art. Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce. Awakening without wounding the touched heart ; — Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte^s ridge we part. LXXVIII O Rome, my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires, and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. [ 80 ] i' ^ S.I s *?». THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye ! Whose agonies are evils of a day — A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. LXXIX The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe ; An empty urn within her wither^ liands, Whose holy dust was scattered long ago : The Scipios* tomb contains no ashes now ; ^ The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers ; — dost thou flow. Old Tiber, through a marble Avilderness ? Eise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress ! LXXX The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hilFd city's pride : She saw her glories star by star expire. And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride Where the car climbed, the capitol ; far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, ' here was, or is,' where all is doubly night ? 1 The tomb of the Scipios was discovered and rifled in 1780. 6 [ 81 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY LXXXI The double night of ages, and of her, Night^s daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap All round us ; we but feel our way to err : The ocean hatli his chart, the stars their map. And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; But Eome is as the desert where we steer Stumbling o^er recollections ; now we clap Our hands, and cry ' Eureka ! ^ it is clear — When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. LXXXII Alas, the lofty city ! and alas. The trebly hundred triumphs I and the day When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! Alas, for Tully's voice, and Yirgirs lay. And Livy's pictured page ! — but these shall be Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Eome was free ! LXXXIII thou, whose chariot rolFd on Fortune's wheel. Triumphant Sylla ! thou, who didst subdue Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due [ 82 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew O^er prostrate Asia ; — thou, who with thy frown Annihilated senates — Eoman_, too, With all thy vices, for tliou didst lay down With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown, LXXXIV The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine To what would one day dwindle that which made Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine By aught than Eonians Rome should thus be laid ? She who was named Eternal, and arrayed Her warriors but to conquer — she who veiFd Earth with her haughty shadow, and disj^lay^d, Until the o^er-canopied horizon faiPd, Her rushing wings — Oh, she who was Almighty haiFd ! Lxxxvni And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ! ^ She-wolf, whose brazen-imaged dugs impart The milk of conquest yet within the dome Where, as a monument of antique art. Thou standest ; mother of the mighty heart, Which the great founder suckM from thy wild teat, ScorchM by the Roman Jove^s ethereal dart, And thy limbs black with lightning — dost thou yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? 1 According to Cicero, the bronze statute of the wolf was struck by lightning. [ 83 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY XCVI Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be^ And Freedom find no champion and no child Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, arm^d and undefiled ? Or must such minds be nourished in the wild, Deep in the unpruned forest, "'midst the roar Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more Such seeds within her breast^ or Europe no such shore? XCVII But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime. And fatal have her Saturnalia been To Freedom^s cause, in every age and clime ; Because the deadly days Avhich we have seen, And vile Ambition, that built up between Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, And the base pageant last upon the scene. Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Which nips lifers tree, and dooms man^s worst — his second fall. XCVIII Yet, Freedom, yet thy banner, torn but flying, Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind ; Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying. The loudest still the tempest leaves behind : [ 84 ] 3 S. > 2, ^ •^ THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind. Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth. But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. XCIX There is a stern round tower of other days,^ Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, Such as an army^s baffled strength delays. Standing with half its battlements alone. And with two thousand years of ivy grown, The garland of eternity, where wave The green leaves over all by time overthrown ; — What was this tower of strength ? within its cave What treasure lay so locked, so hid ? A woman^s grave. But who was she, the lady of the dead, Tomb\l in a palace ? Was she chaste and fair ? Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed ? What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear ? What daughter of her beauties was the heir ? How lived, how loved, how died she ? Was she not So honoured — and conspicuously there. Where meaner relics must not dare to rot. Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? ^ Tomb of Cecilia Metella, on the Appiaa Way, used as a fortress in the Middle Ages. [ 85 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY CI Was she as those who love their lords, or they Who love the lords of others ? — such have been Even in the olden time, Eome^s annals saj. Was she a matron of Cornelians mien, Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen. Profuse of joy — or ''gainst it did she war, Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar Love from amongst her griefs ? — for such the affections are. CII Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb That weighM upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o^'er her beauty,' and a gloom In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom Heaven gives its favourites — early death ; yet shed A sunset charm around her, and illume With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead. Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. cm Perchance she died in age — surviving all. Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray On her long tresses, which might yet recall, It may be, still a something of the day [ 86 ] 5 ^ THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 When tliey were braided, and her proud array And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed By Eome. — But whither would Conjecture stray ? Tims mucli alone we know — Metella died, The wealthiest Eoman's wife. Behold his love or pride ! CIV I know not why, but standing thus by thee, It seems as if I had thine inmate known. Thou tomb ! and other days come back on me With recollected music, though the tone Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan Of dying thunder on the distant wind ; Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone Till I had bodied forth the heated mind Eorms from the floating wreck which Euin leaves behind; CV And from the planks, far shattered o'er the rocks, Built me a little bark of hope, once more To battle with the ocean and the shocks Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar Which rushes on the solitary shore Where all lies foundered that was ever dear. But could I gather from the wave-worn store Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer ? There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. [ 87 1 WITH BYRON IN ITALY CVI Then let the winds liowl on ! their harmony Shall henceforth be my music, and the night The sound shall temper with the owlets^ cry. As I now hear them, in the fading liglit Dim o^er the bird of darkness'' native site. Answering each other on the Palatine, AVith their large eyes all glistening gray and bright. And sailing pinions. Upon such a shrine What are our petty griefs ? — let me not number mine. CVII Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown Matted and massM together, hillocks heap'd On what were chambers, arch crush^l, column strown In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steep'd In subterranean damps where the owl peep\i. Deeming it midnight : — Temples, baths, or halls ? Pronounce who can ; for all that Learning reapM Prom her research hath been, that these are walls — Behold the Imperial Mount ! 't is thus the mighty falh CVIII There is the moral of all human tales ; ''T is but the same rehearsal of the past, Pirst Preedom and then Glory — when that fails. Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. [ 88 ] /JOLUMN in Roman Forum, named in 1818 Column of Phocas. Excavations in 1904 reveal an earlier date by four centuries, and place it in the time of Diocletian (a.d. 284). Tully was not so eloquent as thou. Thou nameless column with the buried base. " — Childe Harold, Canto IV, stanza ex, p. 89. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 And History, with all her volumes vast. Hath but one page, — 't is better written here Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass'd All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear. Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask. — Away with words, draw near, CIX Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep, — for here There is such matter for all feeling : — Man ! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. Ages and realms are crowded in this span. This mountain, whose obliterated plan The pyramid of empires pinnacled. Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van Till the sun's rays with added flame were filPd ! Where are its golden roofs ? where those who dared to build ? CX Tully was not so eloquent as thou. Thou nameless column with the buried base ! ^ What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow ? Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 1 This column ceased to be " nameless " in 1818 when it received the name by which it has since been called— Column of Phocas. ArchjEolo- gists in 1904, owing to explorations round the "buried base/' have decided that it belongs to the time of Diocletian, a. d. 284, and not Phocas. [ 89 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Titus' or Trajan's ? No — 't is that of Time : Triumph^ arch, pillar, all he doth displace Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb ^ To crush the imperial urn whose ashes slept sublime, CXI Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Eome, And looking to the stars. They had contained A spirit which with these would find a home. The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, The Eoman glo*be, for after none sustainM But yielded back his conquests : he was more Tlian a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd With household blood and wine, serenely wore His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore. CXII Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place ^ Where Ptome embraced her heroes ? where the steep Tarpeian, fittest goal of Treason's race. The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap Cured all ambition ? Did the conquerors heap Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field below, A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — The Forum, where the immortal accents glow. And still the eloquent air breathes — burns with Cicero ! 1 The statue of St. Peter supplants that of Trajan on the top of Trajan's column. 2 The temple of Jupiter probably stood on the southeast section of the Capitoline Hill, the present site of Palazzo Cafl'arelli. [ 90 ] o THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 CXIII The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood : Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, Erom the first hour of empire in the bud To that when further worlds to conquer MVd ; But long before had Freedom's face been veiFd, And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; Till every lawless soldier who assaiFd Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, Or raised tlie venal voice of baser prostitutes. CXIV Then turn we to her latest tribune's name. From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — Eienzi ! last of Eomans ! While the tree Of freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf. Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — Tlie forum's champion, and the people's chief — Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas, too brief. cxv Egeria, sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast ! w^hate'er thou art Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, [ 91 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY The nympholepsj of some fond despair ; Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, Who found a more than common votary there Too much adoring ; whatsoever thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. CXVI The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place. Whose green, wild margin now no more erase Art's works ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, PrisonM in marble ; bubbling from the base Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep. CXVII Fantastically tangled. The green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; Plowers fresh in hue, and many in their class. Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its skies. [ 92 ] '^ '5 = 1 S ■>^' '~«: S « s- -^ ^ 5f t C ^ o c s » - ?■ c- -^ - ^ S • S- THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 CXVIII Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, Egeria ! thj all heavenly bosom beating For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover. The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting With her most starry canopy ; and seating Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle ! CXIX And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying. Blend a celestial with a human heart ; And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, Share with immortal transports ? Could thine art Make them indeed immortal, and impart The purity of heaven to earthly joys, Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — The dull satiety which all destroys — And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys ? cxx Alas ! our young affections run to waste. Or water but the desert ; whence arise But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, Eank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, [ 93 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, And trees whose gums are poison ; — such the plants Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. CXXI Love ! no habitant of earth thou art — An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart. But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; The mind hath made tliee, as it peopled heaven. Even with its own desiring phantasy. And to a thought such shape and image given. As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied wrung — and riven. CXXII Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. And fevers into false creation : — where, Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? Where are the charms and virtues which we dare Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, The unreacVd Paradise of our despair, Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, And overpowers the page where it would bloom again ? [ 94 ] T \RPEIAN Rock, Rome. " The steep Tar peian, fittest goal of Treasons race. The promontory ivhence the Traitor''s Leap Cured all ambition.'" — Childe Harold, Canto IV, stanza cxii, p. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 CXXTII Who loves, raves — 't is youth^s frenzy ; but the cure Is bitterer still. As charm by charm unwinds Which robed our idols, and we see too sure Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind^s Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, Eeaping the whirlwind from the oftsown winds ; The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun. Seems ever near the prize, — wealthiest when most undone. CXXIV We wither from our youth, we gasp away — Sick — sick ; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst. Though to the last, in verge of our decay,, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. Love, fame, ambition, avarice — ''t is the same, Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst — For all are meteors with a different name, And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. cxxv Pew — none — find what they love or could have loved. Though accident, blind contact, and the strong Necessity of loving, have removed Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, [ 95 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY EnvenomM with irrevocable wrong ; And Circumstance_, that nnspiritual god And miscreator, makes and helps along Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, "Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust we all have trod. CXXVI Our life is a false nature, ^t is not in The harmony of things, — this hard decree. This uneradicable taint of sin. This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew — Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see — And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. CXXVII Yet let us ponder boldly ; 't is a base Abandonment of reason to resign Our right of thought, our last and only place Of refuge — this, at least, shall still be mine. Though from our birth the faculty divine Is chained and tortured — cabinM, cribbM, confined, And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine Too brightly on the unprepared mind, The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. [ 96 ] gTATUE of the Laocoon, Vatican Gallery at Rome. '■'■ Turning to the Vatican, go see Laocoon s torture dignifying pain — A father'' s love and mortal's agony With an immortal's patience blending .'''' — Childe Harold, Canto IV, stanza clx, p. 104. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 CXXVIII Arches on arches ! as it were that Eome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, — Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine As 't were its natural torches, for divine Should be the light which streams here, to illume This long-explored but still exhaustless mine Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume CXXIX Hues which have words and speak to ye of heaven. Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument. And shadows forth its glory. There is given Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, A spirit's feeling ; and where he hath leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power And magic in the ruin'd battlement. For which the palace of the present hour Must yield ifs pomp and wait till ages are its dower. CXXXIX And here the buzz of eager natioijs ran. In murmur'd pity or loud-roar'd applause. As man was slaughtered by his fellow man. And wherefore slaughtered ? wherefore, but because 7 [ 97 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Such were the bloody Circus^ genial laws. And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not ? What matters Tvhere we fall to fill the maws Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. CXL I see before me the Gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand — his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low — And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now The arena swims around him — he is gone. Ere ceased the inhuman shout which haiFd the wretch who won. CXLI He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes Were with his heart and that was far away ; He reckM not of the life he lost nor prize. But where his rude hut by the Danube lay. There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — All this rushM with his blood. — Shall he expire And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire ! [ 98 ] t!3 ^ Q ^ Cc 05 ^•= a -i '^ ^ s <5 •. ^.~" ^ 1 a. -^ _^ i. ^ r* a ©■ S- 5' 5 a ^ c 5 5 a- -• :^ § ^ ^ S:. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 CLXII But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast Long'd for a deathless lover from above And madden'd in that vision — are exprest All that ideal beauty ever blessed The mind with in its most unearthly mood. When each conception was a heavenly guest — A ray of immortality — and stood, Starlike, around, until they gathered to a god ! CLXIII And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven ' The fire which we endure, it was repaid By him to whom the energy was given AVhich this poetic marble hath array'd With an eternal glory — which, if made By human hands, is not of human thought : And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid One ringlet in the dust; nor hath it caught A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 't was wrought. CLXXIII Lo, Nemi ! navelPd in the woody hills So far, that the uprooting wind which tears The oak from his foundation, and which spills The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears [ 105 1 WITH BYRON IN ITALY Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; — And, calm as cherishM hate, its surface wears A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, All coiFd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. CLXXIV And near Albano's scarce divided waves Shine from a sister valley ; and afar Tile Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, *" Arms and the Man,'' whose re-ascending star Eose o^er an empire : but beneath thy right TuUy reposed from Rome ; and where yon bar Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight The Sabine farm was tilFd, the weary bard^s delight. CLXXV But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, And he and I must part — so let it be : His task and mine alike are nearly done; Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; The midland ocean breaks on him and me, And from the Alban Mount we now behold Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold Those waves, we followed on till the dark Euxine rolFd [ 106 ] A POLLO Belvedere, in Vatican Gallery at Rome. '* Lord of the tinerring bow. The God of life and poes^y and light, — The Sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow All radiant from his triumph in the fight.'''' — Childe Harold, Canto IV, stanza clxi, p. 104, THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 CLXXVI Upon the blue Symplegades. Long years — Long, though not very many — since have done Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears Have left us nearly where we had begun : Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run ; We have had our reward, and it is here^ — That we can yet feel gladdenM by the sun, And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. CLXXVII Oh, that the Desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair Spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her ! Ye Elements, in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted, can ye not Accord me such a being ? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot. Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot ? CLXXVIII There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes. By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : [107] WITH BYRON IN ITALY I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From tliese our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. CLXXIX Eoll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin, his control Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelFd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. CLXXX His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise. Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay. And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. [ 108 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 CLXXXI The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations qaake And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee and arbiter of war, — These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada^s pride or spoils of Trafalgar. CLXXXII Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — Assyria, Greece, Eome, Carthage, what are they ? Thy waters washM them power while they were free, And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou. Unchangeable save to thy wild waves^ play ; Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow ; Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest now. CLXXXIII Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime [ 109 ] WITH BVRON IN ITALY Dark-heaving ; — boundless,, endless^ and sublime — The image of Eternity — the throne Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. CLXXXIV And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward. From a boy I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror — ''t was a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. CLXXXV My task is done — my song hath ceased — my theme Has died into an echo ; it is fit The spell should break of this protracted dream. The torch shall be extinguish^! which hath lit My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ, — Would it were worthier ! but I am not now That which I have been — and my visions flit Less palpably before me — and the glow Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. [110 ] i" 1 S ^ O w THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 CLXXXVI Farewell ! a word that must be_, and hath been — A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — farewell ! Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought which once was his, if on ye swell A single recollection, not in vain He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell; Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain. If such there were — with you, the moral of his strain ! TO JOHN MUEEAY Yenice, October 23, 1817- Mr. Whistlecraft ^ has no greater admirer than myself. I have written a story in 89 stanzas, in imitation of him, called Beppo (the short name for Giuseppe, that is, the Joe of the Italian Joseph), which I shall throw you into the balance of the 4*** Canto to help you round to your money; but you perhaps had better publish it anony- mously; but this we will see to by and bye. With regard to a future large edition, you may print all, or any thing, except English Bards^ to the republica- tion of which at 7io time will I consent. I would not reprint them on any consideration. I don't think them 1 No7n-de-plttme of John Hookham Frerc 2 " English Bcirds and Scotch Reviewers," written by Byron at the age of 21, was full of injustice and indiscriminate abuse, which he now regrets. [ 111 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY good for much, even in point of poetry; and, as to other things, you are to recollect that I gave up the publication on account of the Hollands, and I do not think that any time or circumstances can neutralise my suppression. Add to which, that, after being on terms with almost all the bards and Critics of the day, it would be savage at any time, but worst of all now when in another countrij to revive this foolish lampoon. . . . The Eeview of Manfred came very safely, and I am much pleased with it. It is odd that they should say (that is, somebody in a magazine whom the Edinburgh controverts) that it was taken from Marlow's Faustus, which I never read nor saw. An American, who came the other day from Germany, told Mr. Hobhouse that Manfred was taken from Goethe's Faitst. The devil may take both the Faustuses, German and English, — I have taken neithef. EHOM ''BEPPO: A VENETIAN STOEY^ X Of all the places where the Carnival Was most facetious in the days of yore. For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball. And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more Than I have time to tell now, or at all, Yenice the bell from every city bore, — And at the moment when I fix my story, That sea-born city was in all her glory. [ 112 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 XI They Ve pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, Black eyes, archM brows, and sweet expressions still ; Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, In ancient arts by moderns mimickM ill; And like so many Venuses of Titian's (The best 's at Morence — see it, if ye will), They look when leaning over the balcony. Or steppM from out a picture by Giorgione, XII Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best ; And when you to Manfrini's palace go. That picture (howsoever fine the rest) Is loveliest to my mind of all the show ; It may perhaps be also to ?/our zest, And that 's the cause I rhyme upon it so : 'T is but a portrait of his son, and wife, And self; but suck a woman ! love in life ! XIII Love in full life and length, not love ideal. No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name. But something better still, so very real, That the sweet model must have been the same ; A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, Wer 't not impossible, besides a shame. The face recalls some face, as 't were with pain. You once have seen, but ne'er will see again ; 8 [ US -] WITH BYRON IN ITALY XIV One of those forms whicli flit by us, when we Are young and fix our eyes on every face ; And, oh ! the loveliness at times we see In momentary gliding, the soft grace. The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree. In many a nameless being we retrace, "Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know. Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below. XV I said that like a picture by Giorgione Venetian women were, and so they are. Particularly seen from a balcony (For beauty 's sometimes best set off afar). And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, They peep from out the blind, or o^er the bar; And, truth to say, they ''re mostly very pretty, And rather like to show it, more 's the pity 1 XVI For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs. Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter^ Which flies on wings of light-heeFd Mercuries V7ho do such things because they know no better; And then, God knows what mischief may arise When love links two young people in one fetter. Vile assignations, and adulterous beds, Elopements, broken vows and hearts and heads. [ 114 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 XYII Sliakspeare described the sex in Desdemona As very fair, but yet suspect in fame. And to this day from Venice to Yerona Such matters may be probably the same. Except that since those times was never known a Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, Because she had a ^' cavalier servente/' XVIII Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) Is of a fair complexion altogether. Not like that sooty devil of Othello's Which smothers women in a bed of feather. But worthier of these much more jolly fellows; When weary of the matrimonial tether His head for such a wife no mortal bothers. But takes at once another, or another's. XIX Didst ever see a Gondola ? For fear You should not, I '11 describe it you exactly : 'T is a long cover'd boat that 's common here. Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly; Eow'd by two rowers, each call'd ''Gondolier," It glides along the water looking blackly. Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe. Where none can make out what you say or do. [ 115 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY XX And up and down the long canals they go. And under the Eialto shoot along, By night and day, all paces, swift or slow ; And round the theatres, a sable throng, They wait in their dusk livery of woe, — But not to them do woful things belong, For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, Like mourning coaches when the funeral ''s done. XLI With all its sinful doings, I must say, That Italy 's a pleasant place to me, Wlio love to see the Sun shine every day. And vines (not naiFd to walls) from tree to tree FestoonM, much like the back scene of a play Or melodrame, which people flock to see. When the first act is ended by a dance In vineyards copied from the south of France. XLII I like on Autumn evenings to ride out, Without being forced to bid my groom be sure My cloak is round his middle strapped about. Because the skies are not the most secure ; I know too that, if stopped upon my route Where the green alleys windingly allure, Eeeling with grapes red wagons choke the way, — In England ^t would be dung, dust, or a dray. [ 116 ] IVTONUMENT to Niccolo Machiavelli, in Santa Croce, Florence. Designed by Spinazzi. Here Machiavellts earth return d to lohence it rose. " — Childe Harold, Canto IV, stanza liv, p. 71. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 XLIII I also like to dine on becaficas, To see the Sun set^ sure he ^11 rise to-morrow. Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as A drunken man^s dead eye in maudlin sorrow. But with all Heaven t' himself; that day will break as Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. XLIV I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in That not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural. Which we 're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. XLV I like the women too (forgive my folly). From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze. And large black eyes that flash on you a volley Of rays tliat say a thousand things at once. To the high dama's brow, more melancholy. But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance. Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes. Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. [ 117 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY XLYI Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire Eaphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, In what he hath bequeathe us ? — in what guise, Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre, Would words describe thy past and present ghjw, While yet Canova can create below? XLVII "England! with all thy faults I love thee still,'' I said at Calais and have not forgot it ; I like to speak and lucubrate my fill ; I like the government (but that is not it) ; I like the freedom of the press and quill ; I like the Habeas Corpus (when we Ve got it) ; I like a parliamentary debate. Particularly when 't is not too late ; XL VIII I like the taxes, when they 're not too many ; I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear ; I like a beefsteak, too, as well as any ; Have no objection to a pot of beer ; I like the weather, when it is not rainy, That is, I like two months of every year. And so God save the Eegent, Church, and King ! Which means that I like all and every thing. [ 118 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 XLIX Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, Poor's rate, Reform, mj own, the nation's debt. Our little riots just to show we're free men, Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women. All these I can forgive, and those forget. And greatly venerate our recent glories. And wish they were not owing to the Tories. LXXV One hates an author that 's all autJior, fellows In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink. So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous. One don't know what to say to them, or think. Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows ; Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink Are preferable to these shreds of paper. These unquencli'd snuffings of the midnight taper. LXXVI Of these same we see several, and of others. Men of the world, who know the world like men, Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers. Who think of something else besides the pen ; But for the children of the " mighty mother's,'^ The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, I leave them to their daily "tea is ready," Smug coterie, and literary lady. [ 119 1 WITH BYRON IN ITALY LXXVII The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention Have none of these instructive pleasant people. And one to them would seem a new invention, Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple ; I think \ would almost be worth while to pension (Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) A missionary author, just to preach Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. LXXVIII No chemistry for them unfolds her gases. No metaphysics are let loose in lectures. No circulating library amasses Eeligious novels, moral tales, and strictures Upon the living maimers, as they pass us ; No exhibition glares with annual pictures; They stare not on the stars from out their attics. Nor deal (thank God for that !) in mathematics. LXXIX "Why I thank God for tliat is no great matter, I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose. And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, I Tl keep them for my life (to come) in prose ; I fear I have a little turn for satire. And yet methinks the older that one grows Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. [ 120 ] M ONUMENT to Alfieri, in Santa Croce, Florence, Designed by Canova. " Here repose Angela'' Sy Alfieri" s hones."'' — Childe Harold, Canto IV, 8tai.za liv, r- 71. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 TO JAMES WEDDEEBUEN WEBSTER Venice, May 3P.* 1818. Dear Webster, — I am truly sorry to hear of your domestic misfortune, and, as I know the inefficacy of words, shall turn from the subject. I am not even aware of your return to France, where I presume that you are a resident. For my own part after going down to Florence and Eome last year, I returned to Venice, where I have since remained — and may probably continue to remain for some years — being partial to the people, the language, and the habits of life ; there are few English here, and those mostly birds of passage, excepting one or two v/ho are domesticated like myself. I have the Palazzo Mocenigo on the CanaF Grande for three years to come, and a pretty Villa in the Euganean hills for the Summer for nearly the same term. While I remain in the city itself, I keep my horses on an Island with a good beach, about half a mile from the town, so that I get a gallop of some miles along the shore of the Adriatic daily ; the Stables belong to the Fortress, but are let on fair terms. I was always very partial to Venice, and it has not hitherto disappointed me; but I am not sure that the English in general would like it. I am sure that I should 7iotj if thei/ did; but, by the benevolence of God, tliey prefer Florence and Naples, and do not infest us greatly here. In other respects it is very agreeable for Gentlemen of desultory habits — women — Avine — and wassail being all extremely fair and reasonable — theatres, etc., good — [ 121 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY and Society (after a time) as pleasant as an}^ where else (at least to my mind), if you will live with them in their own way — which is different, of course, from the Ultra- montane in some degree. The Climate is Italian and tliat's enough, and the Gondolas, etc., etc., and habits of the place make it like a romance, for it is by no means even now the most regular and correct moral city in the universe. Young and old — pretty and ugly — high and low — are employed in the laudable practice of Lovemaking — and though most Beauty is found amongst the middling and lower classes — this of course only renders their amatory habits more universally diffused. I shall be very glad to liear from or of you when you are so disposed — and with my best regards to Lady Frances — believe me, Yery truly yours, B. P. S. — If ever you come this way, let me have a letter beforehand, in case I can be of use. TO JOHN MUERAY Venice, February 1, 1819. Dear Sir, — After one of the concluding stanzas of the first Canto of Don Juan, which ends with (I forget the number) — To have when the original is dust, A book, a damned bad picture, and worse bust, [ 122 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 insert the following stanza — What are the hopes of man ? Old Egypt's King Cheops erected tlie first Pyramid And largest, thinking it was just the thing To keep his Memory whole, and Mummy hid, But Somebody or Other rummaging Burglariously broke his Coffin's lid : Let not a Monument give you or me hopes. Since not a pinch of dust is left of Cheops ! ^ I have written to you several letters, some with addi- tions, and some upon the subject of the poem itself, which my cursed puritanical committee ^ have protested against publishing ; but we will circumvent them on tliat point in the end. I have not yet begun to copy out the second Canto, which is finished, from natural laziness, and the discouragement of the milk and water they have thrown upon the first. I say all this to them as to you ; that is, for you to say to them, for I will have nothing underhand. If they had told me the poetry was bad, I would have acquiesced ; but they say the contrary, and then talk to me about morality — the first time I ever heard the word from any body who was not a rascal that used it for a purpose. I maintain that it is the most moral of poems; but if people won't discover the moral, tliat is their fault, not 1 " Dou Juan," Canto I, stanza ccxix. 2 Byron's friends, Hobhouse, Kinnaird, Scrope Davies, Moore, and Frcre, to whom the first Canto of " Don Juan " had been submitted, decided unanimously against its publication. The first two Cantos, however, were published on July 15, 1819, but without the name of either author or publisher. [ 123 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY mine. I have already written to beg that in any case you will print fifty for private distribution. I will send you the list of persons to whom it is to be sent afterwards. "Within this last fortnight I have been rather indisposed with a rebellion of Stomach, which would retain nothing (liver, I suppose), and an inability, or phantasy, not to be able to eat of any thing with relish but a kind of Adriatic fish called Scampi, which happens to be the most indigesti- ble of marine viands. However, within these last two days, I am better, and Very truly yours, Byron. TO JOHN MUERAY Venice, April 6, 1819. Deae Sir, — The second Canto of Don Juan was sent on Saturday last, by post, in four packets, two of four and two of three sheets each, containing in all two Imndred and seventeen stanzas, octave measure. But I will permit no curtailments, except those mentioned about Castlerengh and the two Bohs^ in the Introduction. You sha^n^t make Canticles of my Cantos. The poem will please, if it is lively ; if it is stupid, it will fail ; but I will have none of your damned cutting and slashing. If you please, you may publish anonymously ; it will perhaps be better ; but I will battle my way against them all, like a Porcupine. So you and Mr. roscolo,^ etc., want me to undertake 1 Part of which was finally retained. 2 Ugo, originally Niccolo, Eoscolo (1778-1827), a native of Zaule, patriot, poet, dramatist, and critic. [ 124 ] jV/rOxNUiVIENT to Michel Angelo, in Scinta Croce, Florence. Designed by Vasari. " Here repose Angelo^s . . . hones.'"' — Cliilde Harold, Canto IV, stanza liv, p. Tl. THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 what you call a " great work '"? — an Epic poem^ I suppose, or some such pyramid. I'll try no such thing; I hate tasks. And then "seven or eight years" ! God send us all well this day three months, let alone years. If one's years can't be better employed than in sweating poesy, a man had better be a ditcher. And works, too ! — is Childe Harold nothing? You have so many '^ divine'' poems, is it nothing to have written a Human one ? with- out any of your worn-out machinery. Why, man, I could have spun the thoughts of the four cantos of that poem ijito twenty, had I wanted to book-make, and its passion into as many modern tragedies. Since you want length, you shall have enough of Juan, for I '11 make 50 cantos. And Foscolo, too ! Why does he not do something more than the Letters of Ortis, and a tragedy, and pamphlets ? He has good fifteen years more at his com- mand than I have : what has he done all that time ? — proved his Genius, doubtless, but not fixed its fame, nor done his utmost. Besides, I mean to write my best work in Italian, and it will take me nine years more thoroughly to master the language ; and then if my fancy exist, and I exist too, I will try what I can do really. As to the Estimation of the Eng- lish which you talk of, let them calculate what it is worth, before they insult me with their insolent condescension. I have not written for their pleasure. If they are pleased, it is that they chose to be so; I have never flattered their opinions, nor their pride; nor will I. Neither will I make " Ladies' books '^ al dilettar lefemine [ 125 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY e la plebe. I have written from the fulness of my mind, from passion, from impulse, from many motives, but not for their "svreet voices/'' I know the precise worth of popular applause, for few Scribblers have had more of it ; and if I chose to swerve into their paths, I couhl retain it, or resume it, or increase it. But I neither love ye, nor fear ye ; and though I buy with ye and sell with ye, and talk with ye, I will neither eat with ye, drink with ye, nor pray with ye. They made me, without my search, a species of popular Idol ; they, without reason or judgment, beyond the caprice of their good pleasure, threw down the Image from its pedestal ; it was not broken with the fall, and they would, it seems, again replace it — but they shall not. You ask about my health : about the beginning of the year I was in a state of great exliaustion, attended by such debility of Stomach that nothing remained upon it ; and I was obliged to reform my " way of life,^'' which was con- ducting me from the ^'yellow leaf^' to the Ground, with all deliberate speed. I am better in health and morals, and very much yours ever, Bn. TO JOHN MUEEAY Bologna, June 7, 1819. Dear Sir, — Tell Mr. Hobhouse that I wrote to him a few days ago from Ferrara. It will therefore be idle in him or you to wait for any further answers or returns of proofs from Venice, as I have directed that no English [ 126 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 letters be sent after me. The publication can be pro- ceeded in without, and I am already sick of your remarks, to which I think not the least attention ought to be paid. Tell Mr. Hobhouse that, since I wrote to him^ I had availed myself of my Eerrara letters, and found the society much younger and better there than at Venice. I was very much pleased with the little the shortness of my stay permitted me to see of the Gonfaloniere Count Mosti, and his family and friends in general. I have been picture-gazing this morning at the famous Domenichino and Guido,^ both of which are superlative. I afterwards went to the beautiful Cemetery of Bologna, beyond the walls, and found, besides the superb Burial- ground, an original of a Custode, wdio reminded me of the grave-digger in Hamlet. lie has a collection of Capuchins' skulls, labelled on the forehead, and taking down one of them, said, " This was Brother Desiderio Berro^ who died at forty — one of my best friends. I begged his head of his brethren after his decease, and they gave it me. I put it in lime and then boiled it. Here it is, teeth and all, in excellent preservation. He was the merriest, cleverest fellow I ever knew. Wherever he went, he brought joy ; and when any one was melancholy, the sight of him was enough to make him cheerful again. He walked so actively, you might have taken him for a dancer — he joked — he laughed — oh ! he was such a Frate as I never saw before, nor ever shall again ! '' 1 Probably Domenichino's " Martyrdom of St. Peter, the Dominican," or bis " Martyrdom of St. Agnes," and Guide's " Slaughter of the laaocents." [ 127 ] WITH BYRON IxN ITALY He told me that he had himself planted all the Cypresses in the Cemetery; that he had the greatest attachment to them and to his dead people; that since 1801 they had buried fifty-three thousand persons. In showing some older monuments, there was that of a Eoman girl of twenty, with a bust by Bernini. She was a Princess Barberini, dead two centuries ago : he said tliat, on opening her grave, they had found her hair complete, and " as yellow as gold.''' Some of the epitaphs at Ferrara pleased me more than the more splendid monuments of Bologna ; for instance : — " Martini Luigi Implora pace." " Lucrczia Picini Implora eteriia quiete." Can any thing be more full of pathos ? Those few words say all that can be said or sought : the dead had had enough of life; all they wanted was rest, and this they ^^ implore!' There is all the helplessness, and humble hope, and deathlike prayer, that can arise from the grave — " implora pace." I hope, whoever may survive me, and shall see me put in the foreigners' burying-ground at the Lido, within the fortress by the Adriatic, will see those two words, and no more, put over me. I trust they won't think of "pickling, and bringing me home to Clod or Blunderbuss Hall.'' I am sure my bones would not rest in an English grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that country. I believe the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed^ could I suppose that any of my friends [ 128 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 would be base enough to convey my carcase back to your soil. I would not even feed your worms, if I could help it. ODE ON VENICE I Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls Are level with the waters, there shall be A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee. What should thy sons do ? — anything but weep : And yet they only murmur in their sleep. In contrast with their fathers — as the slime. The dull green ooze of the receding deep. Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam. That drives the sailor shipless to his home. Are they to those that were ; and thus they creep. Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets. O agony ! that centuries should reap No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred years Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears ; And every monument the stranger meets. Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets. And even the Lion all subdued appears. And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum. With dull and daily dissonance, repeats The echo of thy tyrant's voice along The soft waves, once all musical to song, 9 [ 129 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng Of gondolas — and to the busy hum Of cheerful creatures^ whose most sinful deeds Were but the overheating of the heart. And flow of too much happiness, which needs The aid of age to turn its course apart From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. But these are better than the gloomy errors. The weeds of nations in their last decay. When "Vice walks forth with her unsoftenM terrors. And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; And Hope is nothing but a false delay. The sick mane's lightning half an hour ere death. When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, And apathy of limb, the dull beginning Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning. Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away ; Yet so relieving the o^er-tortured clay. To him appears renewal of his breath. And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ; — And then he talks of life, and how again He feels his spirits soaring — albeit weak. And of the fresher air, which he would seek ; And as he whispers knows not that he gasps. That his thin finger feels not what it clasps. And so the film comes o'er him — and the dizzy Chamber swims round and round — and shadows busy. At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam. Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, [ 180 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 And all is ice and blackness^ — and the earth That which it was the moment ere our birth. II There is no hope for nations ! Search the page Of many thousand years — the daily scene. The flow and ebb of each recurring age. The everlasting to he which hath heeriy Hath taught us nought or little : still we lean On things tliat rot beneath our weight, and wear Our strength away in wrestling with the air ; For 't is our nature strikes us down : the beasts Slaughtered in hourly hecatombs for feasts Are of as high an order — they must go Even wdiere their driver goads them, though to slaughter. Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, What have they given your children in return ? A heritage of servitude and woes, A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. What ! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn, 0''er which you stumble in a false ordeal, And deem this proof of loyalty the real ; Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars. And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ? All that your sires have left you, all that Time Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime. Spring from a different theme ! — Ye see and read. Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed ! Save the few spirits, who, despite of all. And worse than all, the sudden crimes engendered [ 131 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY By the down-thundering of the prison-wall^ And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tenderM, Gushing from Ereedom^s fountains — when the crowd, MaddenM with centuries of drought, are loud. And trample on each other to obtain The cup which brings oblivion of a chain Heavy and sore, — in which long yoked they ploughed The sand, — or if there sprung the yellow grain, ^T was not for them, their necks were too much bowM, And their dead palates chewed the cud of pain : — Yes ! the few spirits — who, despite of deeds Which they abhor, confound not with the cause Those momentary starts from Nature^s laws, Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth With all her seasons to repair the blight With a few summers, and again put forth Cities and generations — fair, when free — Eor, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! Ill Glory and Empire ! once upon these towers With Freedom — godlike Triad ! how ye sate ! The league of mightiest nations, in those hours When Venice was an envy, might abate, 'But did not quench, her spirit — in her fate All were enwrapped : the feasted monarchs knew And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate. Although they humbled. With the kingly few The many felt, for from all days and climes [ 132 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 She was the voyager's worship ; — even her crimes Were of the softer order — born of Love, Slie drank no blood, nor fatten^l on the dead, But ghiddenM where her harmless conquests spread ; Por these restored the Cross, that from above Hallowed her sheltering banners, which incessant riew between earth and the unholy Crescent, Which, if it waned and dwindled. Earth may thank The city it has clothed in chains, which clank Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles ; Yet she but shares with them a common woe. And caird the " kingdom " of a conquering foe, — But knows what all and, most of all, we know — With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! IV The name of Commonwealth is past and gone O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe; Venice is crushed, and Holland deigns to own A sceptre, and endures the purple robe. If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time, For tyranny of late is cunning grown. And in its own good season tramples down The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and Bequeathed, a heritage of heart and hand, [ 133 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY And proud distinction from each other land, "Whose sons must bow them at a monarches motion, As if his senseless sceptre were a wand Full of the magic of exploded science, — Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime. Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag. The floating fence of Albion^s feebler crag, May strike to those whose red right hands have bought Eights cheaply earned with blood : — Still, still, for ever Better, though each man^s life-blood were a river. That it should flow and overflow, than creep Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, Damn'd like the dull canal with locks and chains. And moving, as a sick man in his sleep. Three paces and then faltering : — better be Where the extinguish^ Spartans still are free. In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o^er the deep Fly, and one current to the ocean add. One spirit to the souls our fathers had, One freeman more, America, to thee ! TO JOHN MUUEAY Ravenna, June 29, 1819. I have been here (at Eavenna) these four weeks, having left Venice a month ago ; — I came to see my Arnica, the Countess Guiccioli, who has been, and still continues, very [ 134 ] THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 unwell. . . . She is only twenty years old,, but not of a strong constitution. . . . She has a perpetual cough and an intermittent fever^ but bears up most gallantly in every sense of the word. Her husband (this is his third wife) is the richest noble of Eavenna, and almost of Eomagna; he is also not the youngest, being upwards of threescore, but in good preservation. All this will appear strange to you, who do not understand the Meridian morality, nor our way of life in such respects, and I cannot at present expound the difference ; — but you would find it much the same in these parts. At Faenza there is Lord Kinnaird with an opera girl ; and at the inn in the same town is a Neapolitan Prince, who serves the wife of the Gonfaloniere of that city. I am on duty here — so you see " Cosi fan i\)Xti e tut^^.^^ I have my horses here — saddle as well as carriage — and ride or drive every day in the forest, the Pineta, the scene of Boccaccio's novel, and Dryden's fable of Honoria, etc., etc., and I see my Dama every day at the proper (and improper) hours; but I feel seriously uneasy about her health, which seems very precarious. In losing her, I should lose a being who has run great risks on my account, and whom I have every reason to love — but I must not think this possible. I do not know wliat I should do if she died, but I ought to blow my brains out — and I hope that I should. Her husband is a very polite personage, but I wish he would not carry me out in his Coach and Six, like Whittington and his Cat. You ask me if I mean to continue B. J., etc. How sliould I know ? what encouragement do you give me, all [ 135 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY of jou, -with your nonsensical prudery ? publish the two Cantos, and then you will see. I desired Mr. Kinnaird to speak to you on a little matter of business ; either he has not spoken, or you have not answered. You are a pretty pair, but I will be even with you both. TO JOHN MUEEAY Bologna, August 12, 1819. You are right, Gifford is right, Crabbe is right,^ Hob- house is right — you are all right, and I am all wrong ; but do, pray, let me have that i)leasure. Cut me up root and branch ; quarter me in the (Quarterly ; send round my disjecti membra poetcs, like those of the Levite^s Concu- bine ; make me, if you will, a spectacle to men and angels ; but don't ask me to alter, for I can't : — I am obstinate and lazy — and there 's the truth. But, nevertheless, I will answer your friend C[ohen], who objects to the quick succession of fun and gravity, as if in that case the gravity did not (in intention, at least) heighten the fun. His metaplior is, that ^'^ we are never scorched and drenched at the same time.'' Blessings on his experience ! Ask him these questions about " scorch- ing and drenching." Did he never play at Cricket, or walk a mile in liot weather ? Did he never spill a dish of tea over himself in handing the cup to his charmer, to the great shame of his nankeen breeches ? Did he never swim 1 Concerning "Don Juau." [ 136 ] IRAJAN'S Column in loruni of Trajan, Rome. " //« was more Than a mere Alexander, and, unstaind With household blood and ivine, serenely vmre His sovereign virtues — still ice Trajan s name adore.' j-ii^.i-i^ Wo^.^i.i r'^,^¥r^i\r \ Bi/ron's residence in 18 W and 1821 THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 'T is vain to struggle — let me perisli young — Live as I lived, and love as I have loved ; To dust if I return, from dust I sprung. And then, at least, my heart can ne^er be moved. Ju7ie 1819. [First published, 1824.] TO THOMAS MOOEE January 2, 1820. Eor my own part, I had a sad scene since you went. Count Gu. came for his wife, and none of those conse- quences which Scott prophesied ensued. There was no damages, as in England, and so Scott lost his wager. But there was a great scene, for she would not, at first, go back with him — at last, she did go back with him ; but he in- sisted, reasonably enough, that all communication should be broken off between her and me. So, finding Italy very dull, and having a fever tertian, I packed up my valise, and prepared to cross the Alps ; but my daughter fell ill, and detained me. After her arrival at Ravenna, the Guiccioli fell ill again too ; and at last, her father (who had, all along, opposed the liaison most violently till now) wrote to me to say that she was in such a state that he begged me to come and see her, — and that her liusband had acquiesced, m consequence of her relapse, and that he (her father) would guarantee all this, and that there would be no further scenes in conse- quence between them, and that I should not be compro- mised in any way. I set out soon after, and have been [ 151 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY here ever since. I found her a good deal altered, but getting better : all this comes of reading Corinna} The Carnival is about to begin, and I saw about two or three hundred people at the Marquis Cavalli's tlie other evening, with as much youth, beauty, and diamonds among the women, as ever averaged in the like number. My appearance in waiting on the Guiccioli was considered as a thing of course. The Marquis is her uncle, and naturally considered me as her relation. The paper is out, and so is the letter. Pray write. Address to Yenice_, whence the letters will be forwarded. Yours, etc., B. TO EICHARD BELGEAYE HOPPNEU Ravenna, January 20, 1820. I have not decided anything about remaining at Eavenna. I may stay a day, a week, a year, all my life ; but all this depends upon what I can neither see nor foresee. I came because I was called, and will go the moment that I per- ceive what may render my departure proper. My attach- ment has neither the blindness of the beginning, nor the microscopic accuracy of the close to such liaisons; but "time and the hour^^ must decide upon what I do. I can as yet say nothing, because I hardly know anything beyond what I have told you. I wrote to you last post for my moveables, as there is 1 Byron and Teresa had read " Corinne " together on the occasion of his visit the preceding summei; [ 152 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 no getting a lodging with a chair or table here ready ; and as I have already some things of the sort at Bologna, I have directed them to be moved ; and wish the like to be done with those of Yenice, that I may at least get out of the Alhergo Imperiale, which is imperial in all true sense of the epithet. . . . The snow is a foot deep here. There is a theatre, and opera, — the Barber of Seville. Balls begin on Monday next. Pay the porter for never looking after the gate, and ship my chattels, and let me know, or let Castelli let me know, how my lawsuits go on — but fee him only in pro- portion to his success. Perhaps we may meet in the spring yet, if you are for England. I see Hobhouse has got into a scrape, which does not please me ; he should not have gone so deep among those men without calculating the consequences. I used to think myself the most imprudent of all among my friends and acquaintances, but almost begin to doubt it. Yours, etc. TO JOHN MUEPtAY Ravenna, February 21, 1820. I have finished my translation of the first Canto of the *' Morgante Maggiore '' of Pulci, which I will transcribe and send : it is the parent, not only of Whistlecraft, but of all jocose Italian poetry.^ You must print it side by side with the original Italian, because I wish the reader to 1 Compare "Don Juan," Canto IV, stanza vi., p. 2J2. [ 153 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY judge of the fidelity : it is stanza for stanza, and often line for line, if not word for word. You ask me for a volume of manners, etc., on Ital}^ : perhaps I am in the case to know more of them than most Englishmen, because I have lived among the natives, and in parts of the country w^here Englishmen never resided before (I speak of Eomagna and this place particularly) ; but there are many reasons why I do not choose to touch in print on such a subject. I have lived in their houses and in the heart of their families, sometimes merely as " amico di casa" and sometimes as " amico di cuore^' of the Dama, and in neither case do I feel myself authorized in making a book of them. Their moral is not your moral; their life is not your life ; you would not understand it : it is not English, nor French, nor German, which you would all understand. The Conventual education, the Cavalier Servitude, the habits of thought and living are so entirely different, and the difference becomes so much more striking the more you live intimately with them, that I know not how to make you comprehend a people, who are at once temperate and profligate, serious in their character and buffoons in their amusements, capable of impressions and passions, which are at once sudden and durable (what you find in no other nation), and who actually have no society (what we would call so), as you may see by their Comedies : they have no real comedy, not even in Goldoni ; and that is because they have no Society to draw it from. Their Conversazioni are not Society at all. They go to the theatre to talk, and into company to hold their tongues. The women sit in a circle, and the men gather into [ 154 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 groups, or they play at dreary Faro or ''Lotto reale" for small sums. Their Academic are Concerts like our own, with better music and more form. Their best tilings are the Carnival balls and masquerades, when everybody runs mad for six weeks. After tlieir dinners and suppers, they make extempore verses and buffoon one another ; but it is in a humour which you would not enter into, ye of the North. In their houses it is better. I should know something of the matter, having had a pretty general experience among their women, from the fisherman's wife up to the NohiV Bonnay whom I serve. Their system has its rules, and its fitnesses, and decorums, so as to be reduced to a kind of discipline or game at hearts, which admits few deviations, unless you wish to lose it. They are extremely tenacious, and jealous as furies; not permitting their lovers even to marry if they can help it, and keeping them always close to them in public as in private whenever they can. In short, they transfer marriage to adultery, and strike the not out of that commandment. The reason is, that they marry for their parents, and love for themselves. They exact fidelity from a lover as a debt of honour, while they pay the husband as a tradesman, that is, not at all. You hear a per- son's character, male or female, canvassed, not as depending on their conduct to their husbands or wives, but to their mistress or lover. And — and — that 's all. If I wrote a quarto, I don't know that I could do more than amplify what I have here noted. It is to be observed that while they do all this, the greatest outward respect is to be paid to the husbands, not only by the ladies, but by their [ 155 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Serventi — particularly if the Iiusbaiid serves no one him- self (which is not often the case, however) : so that you would often suppose them relations — the Servente making the figure of one adopted into the family. Sometimes the ladies run a little restive and elope, or divide, or make a scene; but this is at starting, generally, w^hen they know no better, or when they fall in love with a foreigner, or some such anomaly, — and is always reckoned unnecessary and extravagant. You enquire after " Dante's Prophecy " : I have not done more than six hundred lines, but will vaticinate at leisure. THE PKOPHECY OP DANTE 'T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast tlieir shadows before. Campbell. DEDICATION Lady ! ^ if for the cold and cloudy clime Where I was born, but wdiere I would not die. Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy I dare to build the imitative rhyme, Harsh Eunic copy of the South^sj sublime. Thou art the cause ; and howsoever I Pall short of his immortal harmony, Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth, Spakest ; and for thee to speak and be obeyM ^ Teresa Guiccioli. [ 156 ] T 0MB of Dante at Ravenna. Happier Ravenna '. on thy hoary shore. Fortress of falllny empire^ honour d sleeps The immortal exile. " — Childe Harold, Canto IV, stanza lix, p. 73. THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Are one ; but only in the sunny South Such sounds are uttcrM, and such charms display^. So sweet a hinguage from so fair a mouth — Ah ! to what effort would it not persuade? Ravenna, Juue 21, ISl'J. PREFACE In the course of a visit to the city of Eavenna in the summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author that hav- ing composed something on the subject of Tasso's confine- ment, he should do the same on Dante^s exile, — the tomb of the poet forming one of the principal objects of interest in that city, both to the native and to the stranger. "On this hint I spake/' and the result has been the following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered to the reader. If ^they are understood and approved, it is my purpose to continue the poem in various other cantos to its natural conclusion in the present age. The reader is requested to suppose tliat Dante addresses him in the interval between the conclusion of the Divina Commedia and his death, and shortly before the latter event, foretell- ing the fortunes of Italy in general in the ensuing centuries. In adopting this plan I have had in my mind the Cassandra of Lycophron, and the Pro2)hecy of Nereus by Horace, as well as the Prophecies of Holy Writ. The measure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, wliich I am not aware to have seen hitherto tried in our language, except it .may be by Mr. Hayley, of whose translation I never saw but one extract, quoted in tlie notes to Caliph Vatlieh ; so that — if I do not err — this poem may be considered as a [ IST ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY metrical experiment. The cantos are short, and about the same length of those of the poet whose name I have bor- rowed, and most probably taken m vain. Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the present day, it is difficult for any who have a name, good or bad, to escape translation. I have had the fortune to see the fourth canto of GJiilde Harold translated into Italian versi sciolti, — that is, a poem written in the Spenserean stanza into hlanh verse, without regard to the natural divisions of the stanza or of the sense. If the present poem, being on a national topic, should chance to undergo the same fate, I would request the Italian reader to remember that when I have failed in the imitation of his great ^' Padre Alighier,^^ I have failed in imitating that which all study and few understand, since to this very day it is not yet settled what was the meaning of the allegory in the first canto of the Inferno, unless Count Marchetti^s ingenious and proba- ble conjecture may be considered as having decided the question. He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am not quite sure that he would be pleased with my success, since the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, are particularly jealous of all that is left them as a nation — their litera- ture; and in the present bitterness of the classic and romantic war, are but ill-disposed to permit a foreigner even to approve or imitate them, without finding some fault with his ultramontane presumption. I can easily enter into all this, knowing what would be thought in England of an Italian imitator of Milton, or if a transla- tion of Monti, or Pindemonte, or Arici, should be held up [ 158 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 to the rising generation as a model for their future poetical essays. But I perceive that I am deviating into an address to the Italian reader, when my business is with the English one ; and be they few or many, I must take my leave of both. CANTO THE FIRST Once more in man's frail world ! which I had left So long that ^t was forgotten ; and I feel The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft Of the immortal vision which could heal My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal. Where late my ears rung with the damned cries Of souls in hopeless bale ; and from that place Of lesser torment, whence men may arise Pure from the fire to join the angelic race ; Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless'd My spirit with her light ; and to the base Of the eternal Triad, — first, last, best. Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God ! Soul universal ! — led the mortal guest Unblasted by the glory, though he trod From star to star to reach the almighty throne. O Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod So long hath pressed and the cold marble stone. Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love. Love so inefi*able and so alone, Tliat nought on earth could more my bosom move, And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet [ 159 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY That without which my soul, like the arkless dove, Had wandered still in search of, nor her feet Eelieved her wing till found, — without thy light My paradise had still been incomplete. Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought, Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought With the world^s war and years and banishment And tears for thee, by other woes untaught ; For mine is not a nature to be bent By tyrannous faction and the brawling crowd, And thougli the long, long conflict hath been spent In vain, and never more (save when the cloud Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud Of me) can I return, though but to die. Unto my native soil, — they have not yet Quench''d the old exile's spirit, stern and high. But the sun, though not overcast, must set. And the night cometh ; I am old in days, And deeds, and contemplation, and have met Destruction face to face in all his ways. . The world hath left me, what it found me, pure, And if I have not gathered yet its praise, I sought it not by any baser lure. Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name May form a monument not all obscure (Though such was not my ambition's end or aim), To add to the vain-glorious list of those [ 160 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Who dabble in the pettiness of fame. And make men's fickle breath the wind that blows Their sail, and deem it glorj to be classed With conquerors and virtue's other foes In bloody chronicles of ages past. I would have had my Florence great and free : O Florence ! Florence ! unto me thou wast Like that Jerusalem which the almighty He Wept over, ' but thou wouldst not ! ' As the bird Gathers its young, I would have gathered thee Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, Against the breast that cherished thee was stirr'd Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce. And doom this body forfeit to the fire.^ Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse To him who /or that country would expire, But did not merit to expire d^ her. And loves her, loves her even in her ire. The day may come when she will cease to err. The day may come she would be proud to have The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave. But this shall not be granted ; let my dust Lie where it falls ; nor shall the soil which gave Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume My indignant bones, because her angry gust 1 In 1302, a decree was issued that Dante and his associates in exile should be burned if they fell into the hands of their enemies. 11 [ 161 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Forsooth is over and repeaPd her doom : No, she denied me what was mine — my roof, And shall not have what is not hers — my tomb. Too long her armed wrath hath kept aloof The breast w^iich would have bled for her, the heart That beat, the mind that was temptation proof. The man who fought, toiFd, traveled, and eacli part Of a true citizen fulfilFd, and saw For his reward the Guelf s ascendant art Pass his destruction even into a law. These things are not made for forgetfulness, Florence shall be forgotten first ; too raw The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress Of such endurance too prolong\l to make My pardon greater, her injustice less. Though late repented. Yet — yet for her sake I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine. My own Beatrice, I would hardly take Vengeance upon the land which once was mine. And still is hallowM by thy dust's return. Which would protect the murderess like a shrine And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. Though, like old Marius ^ from Minturnse's marsh And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn At times with evil feelings hot and harsh. And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe Writhe in a dream before me and o'er-arch My brow w^ith hopes of triumph, — let them go ! 1 Marius, proconsul of Africa, prosecuted, fined, and banished by bis province. [ 162 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Such are the last infirmities of those Who long have sufFerM more than mortal woe, And yet, being mortal still, have no repose But on the pillow of Eevenge — Revenge, Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change. When we shall mount again, and they that trod Be trampled on, while Death and Ate range O'er humbled heads and severed necks. — Great God ! Take these thoughts from me ; to thy hands I yield My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod Will fall on those who smote me, — be my shield ! As thou hast been in peril, and in pain. In turbulent cities, and the tented field. In toil, and many troubles borne in vain For Florence. I appeal from her to Thee ! Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign. Even in that glorious vision, which to see And live was never granted until now. And yet thou hast permitted this to me. Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow The sense of earth and earthly things come back, Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low. The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack. Long day, and dreary night ; the retrospect Of half a century bloody and black. And the frail few years I may yet expect Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear. For I have been too loug and deeply wrecked On the lone rock of desolate Despair [ 163 ] WITH ^YRON IN ITALY To lift my eyes more to the passing sail Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare ; Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my wail ? I am not of this people nor this age, And yet my harpings will unfold a tale Which shall preserve these times when not a page Of their perturbed annals could attract An eye to gaze upon their civil rage. Did not my verse embalm full many an act Worthless as they who wrought it. ''T is the doom Of spirits of my order to be racFd In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume Their days in endless strife, and die alone ; Then future thousands crowd around their tomb, And pilgrims come from climes where they have known The name of him, who now is but a name. And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone. Spread his — by him unheard, unheeded — fame. And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die Is nothing ; but to wither thus, to tame My mind down from its own infinity. To live in narrow ways with little men, A common sight to every common eye, A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, Eipp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things That make communion sweet, and soften pain — To feel me in the solitude of kings Without the power that makes them bear a crown. To envy every dove his nest and wings Which waft him Avhere the Apennine looks down [ 164 ] - d < ^ Q THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Oil Arno, till he perches, it may be. Within my all inexorable town, Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,^ Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought Destruction for a dowry, — this to see And feel, and know without repair, hath taught A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free : I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, They made an Exile — not a slave of me. CANTO THE SECOND The Spirit of the fervent days of Old, When words were things that came to pass, and thought FlashM o^er the future, bidding men behold Their children's children's doom already brought Forth from the abyss of time which is to be. The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought Shapes that must undergo mortality, — What the great Seers of Israel wore wdthin, That spirit was on them, and is on me. And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed This voice from out the Wilderness, the sin Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed. The only guerdon I have ever known. Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still to bleed, 1 Gemma, Dante's wife and the mother of his seven children, did not share his exile. There is a tradition, but no proof, that she had a violent temper. [ 165 ] WITPI BYRON IN ITALY Italia ? Ah ! to me such things, foreshown With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget In thine irreparable wrongs mj own. We can have but one country, and even yet Thou ^rt mine — my bones shall be within thy breast. My soul within thy language, which once set With our old Eoman sway in the wide West ; But I will make another tongue arise As lofty and more sweet, in which expressed The heroes ardour, or the lover^s sighs. Shall find alike such sounds for every theme That every v/ord, as brilliant as thy skies, Shall realise a poet^s proudest dream, And make thee Europe^s nightingale of song; So that all present speech to thine shall seem The note of meaner birds, and every tongue Confess its barbarism wlien compared with thine. This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wTong, Thy Tuscan Bard, the banisliM Ghibelline. Woe ! woe ! the veil of coming centuries Is rent, — a thousand years which yet supine Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise. Heaving in dark and sullen undulation, Float from eternity into these eyes ; The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station, The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, The bloody chaos yet expects creation, But all things are disposing for thy doom ; The elements await but for the word, ^ Let there be darkness ! ' and thou grow^st a tomb ! [ 166 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Yes ! thou, so beautiful, slialt feel the sword ; Thou, Italy ! so fair that Paradise, Eevived in thee, blooms forth to man restored : Ah ! must the sons of Adam lose it twice ? Thou, Italy ! whose ever golden fields, Plough-'d by the sunbeams solely, would suffice For the world's granary ; thou, whose sky heaven gilds With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue ; Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew. And formal the Eternal City's ornaments From spoils of kings wdiom freemen overthrew ; Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints. Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made Her home ; thou, all which fondest fancy paints. And finds her prior vision but portrayed In feeble colours, wdien the eye — from the Alp Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp Nods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er thee, And wistfully implores, as 't were, for help To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still The more approach'd, and dearest were they free ; Thou — thou must wdther to each tyrant's will. The Goth hath been, the German, Frank, and Hun Are yet to come ; and on the imperial hill Euin, already proud of the deeds done By the old barbarians, there awaits the new. Throned on the Pain tine, while lost and won [ 16T ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Eome at her feet lies bleeding ; and the hue Of human sacrifice and Eoinan slaughter Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue. And deepens into red the saffron water Of Tiber, thick with dead. The helpless priest. And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, Vow^d to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased Their ministry. The nations take their prey, Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast And bird, wolf, vtdture, more humane than they Are ; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore Of the departed, and then go their way ; But those, the human savages, explore All paths of torture, and insatiate yet. With Ugolino-hungcr prowl for more. Nine moons shall rise o^er scenes like this and set ; ^ The chiefless army of the dead, which late Beneath the traitor Princess banner met, Ilath left its leader''s ashes at the gate ; Had but the royal llebel lived, perchance Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate. Oh ! Eome, the spoiler or the spoil of Prance, Prom Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance But Tiber shall become a mournful river. Oil ! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, Crush them, ye rocks ! floods whelm them, and for ever ! 1 Refen-iiig to the siege and capture of Rome by the Constable of Bourbon, who himself perished in the assault. [ 168 ] THE YEARS 18^0 AND 1821 Why sleep the idle avalanches so. To topple on the lonely pilgrim^s head ? Why doth Eridanus bat overflow The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed ? Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey ? Over Cambyses' host the desert spread Her sandy ocean, and the sea waves' sway EolFd over Pharaoh and his thousands, — why, Mountains and waters, do ye not as they ? And you, ye men ! Eomans, who dare not die. Sons of the conquerors who overthrew Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew. Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylae ? Their passes more alluring to the view Of an invader ? is it they, or ye, That to eacli host the mountain-gate unbar. And leave the march in peace, the passage free ? Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car. And makes your land impregnable, if earth Could be so ; but alone she Avill not war. Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth In a soil where the mothers bring forth men : Not so with those whose souls are little worth ; Eor them no fortress can avail, — the den Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting Is more secure than walls of adamant, when The hearts of those within are quivering. Are ye not brave? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil Ilath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to bring [ 169 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Against Oppression ; but how vain the toil, While still Division sows the seeds of woe And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil. Oh ! my own beauteous land ! so long laid low, So long the grave of thy own children's hopes, When there is but required a single blow To break the chain, yet — yet the Avenger stops, And Doubt and Discord step ^twixt thine and thee. And join their strength to that which with thee copes ; What is there wanting then to set thee free. And show thy beauty in its fullest light ? To make the Al])s impassable ; and we. Her sons, may do this with 07ie deed — Unite. CANTO THE FOURTH Many are poets w4io have never penned Their inspiration, and perchance the best : They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend Their thoughts to meaner beings ; they compressed The god within them, and rejoin^ the stars Unlaureird upon eartli, but far more blessM Than those who are degraded by the jars Of passion, and their frailties linkM to fame. Conquerors of high renown but full of scars. Many are poets but without the name. For what is poesy but to create Prom overfeeling good or ill ; and aim At an external life beyond our fate. And be the new Prometheus of nev/ men, [ ITO ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain And vultures to the heart of the bestower, Who, having lavish''d his high gift in vain, Lies chainM to his lone rock by the seashore ? So be it : we can bear. — But thus all they Whose intellect is an o'erinastering power Which still recoils from its encumbering clay Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoever The form which their creations may essay, Are bards ; the kindled marble^s bust may wear More poesy upon its speaking brow Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear. One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, Or deify the canvas till it shine With beauty so surpassing all below. That they who kneel to idols so divine Break no commandment, for high heaven is there Transfused, transfiguratcd ; and the line Of poesy, wliich peoples but the air With thought and beings of our thought reflected. Can do no more. Then let the artist share The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected Eaints o'er the labour unapproved — Alas ! Despair and Genius are too oft connected. Within the ages which before me pass Art shall resume and equal even the sway Which with Apelles and old Phidias She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. Ye shall be taught by Euin to revive [ ni ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY The Grecian forms at least from their decay ; And Eoman souls at last again shall hve In Roman works wrought by Italian hands ; And temples, loftier than the old temples, give New wonders to the world ; and while still stands The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar A dome, its image, vhile the base expands Into a fane surpassing all before. Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : ne^er Such sight hath been unfolded by a door As this, to which all nations shall repair, And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven. And the bold Architect unto whose care The daring charge to raise it shall be given. Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord, "Whether into the marble chaos driven His chisel bid the Hebrew, at whose word Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone. Or hues of Hell be by his pencil pour\l Over the damnM before the Judgment-throne, Such as I saw tliem, such as all shall see. Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, — The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me, ^ The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms Which form tlie empire of eternity. Amidst the clash of swords and clang of helms, ^ The inspiration received from Dante by Michel Angelo is to be seen plainly iu his treatment of the Last Judgment and of the Brazen Serpent iu the Sistiue Chapel, Rome. [ 172 ] rpHE Last Judgment," in Sistine Chapel, Rome, by Michel Aiigelo. " Hues of Hell he hy his pencil pour''d Over the dtumid before the huh/tnent-throne/' ~ The Pr. aecy of Dante, Canto IV, p. 172. THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 The age which I anticipate, no less Shall be the Age of Beauty ; and while whelms Calamity the nations with distress. The genius of my country shall arise, A cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, Lovely in all its branches to all eyes, Fragrant as fair, and recognised afar. Wafting its native incense through the skies. Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war. Weaned for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze On canvas or on stone ; and they who mar All beauty upon earth, compelFd to praise. Shall feel the power of that which they destroy ; And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise To tyrants who but take her for a toy Emblems and monuments, and prostitute Her charms to pontiffs proud, who but employ The man of genius as the meanest brute ^ To bear a burthen and to serve a need, To sell his labours and his soul to boot. Who toils for nations may be poor indeed. But free ; who sweats for monarchs is no more Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and fee'd, Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door. Oh, Power that rulest and iiispirest ! how Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power Is likest thine in heaven in outward show. Least like to thee in attributes divine. Tread on the universal necks that bow, 1 Alluding to Julius II and Leo X and their treatment of Michel Angelo. [ 173 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY And then assure us that their rights are thine ? And how is it that thej, the sons of fame, Whose inspiration seems to them to shine From high, they whom the nations oftest name, Must pass their days in penury or pain, Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame, And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain ? Or if their destiny be born aloof From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, In their own souls sustain a harder proof, Tiie inner war of passions deep and fierce ? Florence ! when thy harsh sentence razed my roof, I loved thee ; but the vengeance of my verse. The hate of injuries which every year Makes greater, and accumulates my curse, Shall live, outliving all thou boldest dear — Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even iliatj The most infernal of all evils here, The sway of petty tyrants in a state ; For such sway is not limited to kings. And demagogues yield to them but in date. As swept off sooner ; in all deadly things Which make men hate themselves and one another. In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs From Death the Sin-born's incest with his mother, In rank oppression in its rudest shape, Tlie faction Chief is but tlie Sultan's brother. And the worst despot 's far less human ape : — Florence ! when this lone spirit, which so long Yearn'd, as the captive toiling at escape, [ 174 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 To fly back to thee in despite of wrong, An exile, saddest of all ])risoners, Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong. Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars, Winch shut him from the sole small spot of earth Where — whatsoe'er his fate — he still were hers. His country's, and might die where he had birth — Florence ! when this lone spirit shall return To kindred spirits, thou wdlt feel my worth. And seek to honour with an empty urn The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain — Alas ! " What have I done to thee, my people ? " i Stem Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass The limits of man's common malice, for All that a citizen could be I was ; Eaised by thy will, all thine in peace or war. And for this thou hast warr'd with me. — 'T is done : I may not overleap the eternal bar Built up between us, and will die alone. Beholding with the dark eye of a seer The evil days to gifted souls foreshown. Foretelling them to those who will not hear. As in the old time, till the hour be come When Truth shall strike their eyes through many a tear. And make them own the Propliet in his tomb.^ 1 The begiuTiing of one of Dante's letters to the people of Florence. 2 This hour came very soon after Dante's death, when the city of Florence begged for Dante's remains to be buried there. But RavcDna refused, and Dante's tomb is one of Ravenna's chief prides. [ ns ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY TO JOHN MUERAY Ravenna, March 20, 1820. W Murray, — Last post I sent you TAe Vision of Dante, — four first cantos. Enclosed you will find, line for li7ie, in tkird rhyme {terza rima), of which your British Blackguard reader as yet understands nothing, Fanny of Rimini, You know that she was' born here, and married, and slain, from Gary, Boyd, and such people already. I have done it into cramp English, line for line, and rhyme for rhyme, to try the possibility. You had best append it to the poems already sent by last three posts. I shall not allow you to play the tricks you did last year, with the prose you joo^^f-scribed to Mazeppa, which I sent to you not to be published, if not in a periodical paper, — and there you tacked it, without a word of explanation and be damned to you. If this is published, publish it with the original, and together with the Fulci translation, or the Dante Imitation. I suppose you have both by now, and the Juan long before. Yours, B. '^FRANCESCA OF RIMINI ** Translation froni the Inferno of Dante, Canto 5tA ^ The Land where I was born sits by the Seas, Upon that shore to which the Po descends, With all his followers, in search of peace. Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends. Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en From me, and me even yet the mode offends. [ 176 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Love, who to none beloved to love again Hcraits, seized me with wish to please, so strong. That, as thou see'st, yet, yet it doth remain. Love to one death conducted us along, But Caina waits for him our life who ended' : These were the accents uttered by her tongue. — Since I first listened to these Souls offended, I bowM my visage and so kept it till — when ) bended. And recommenced : ' Alas ! unto such ill How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies Led these their evil fortune to fulfill ! ' And then I turned unto their side my eyes. And said, ^ Francesca, thy sad destinies Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. But tell me, in the Season of sweet sighs. By what and how thy Love to Passion rose. So as his dim desires to recognise ? ^ Then she to me : ^ The greatest of all woes ( recall to mind ) Is to < . , „ > our happy days ( remnid us oi ) ^^"^ *' -, ( ^^^«* 1 , . . In misery, and j , i , j thy teacher knows. But if to learn our passion's first root preys Upon thy spirit with such Sympatliy, I will < T , } as he who weeps and says. — ( do ^ even ) ^ ^ 1 "In some of the editions it is 'diro,' in others 'faro'; — an essen- tial difference between * saying ' and * doing,' which J know not how to 12 [ 177 ^ WITH BYRON IN ITALY We read one day for pastime, seated nigh. Of Lancilot, how love enchained him too. We were alone, quite unsuspiciously, But oft our eyes met, and our Cheeks in hue All o^er discoloured by that reading were ; -n , • , 1 1 71 ( overthrew But one ponit only wholly ] ( us overthrew ; When we read the 5 -it. \ smile of her, ( long-sighed-ior ) To be thus kist by such \ ': ' \ lover, ( devoted ) He, who from me can be divided ne^er. Kissed my mouth, trembling in the act all over. Accursed was the book and he who wrote ! That day no further leaf we did uncover.' — While thus one Spirit told us of their lot. The other wept, so that with pity's thralls I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote. And fell down even as a dead body falls.'' TO JOHN MUREAY Eavenna, April 9, 1820. I^^ S^^ — Ii"i the name of all the devils in — the printing office, why don't you write to acknowledge the receipt of the second, third, and fourth packets, viz., the Pulci — translation and original, the Bayiticles, the Observations on, etc.? You forget that you keep me in hot water till I decide. Ask Foscolo. The d d editions drive me mad." (Byron's Note. ) [ I'^s ] THE YEAKS 1820 AND 1821 know whether they are arrived, or if I must have the bore of recopyiiig. I send you " A Song of Triumph '' by W. Botherby, Escf.^ price sixpence, on the Election of J. C. H.,Esq?, for Westminster Qnot for publication) ; Would you go to the House by the true gate, Much faster than ever Whig Charley went ; Let Parliament send you to Newgate, And Newgate will send you to Parliament. Have you gotten the cream of translations, Francesca of Rimini, from i\\Q Inferno ^^ Why, I have sent you a warehouse of trash witliin the last month, and you have no sort of feeling about you : a pastry-cook would have had twice the gratitude, and thanked me at least for the quantity. P. S. — I have begun a tragedy on the subject of Marino Faliero, the Doge of Venice ; but you shaii't see it these six years, if you don't acknowledge my packets with more quickness and precision. Alioays write, if but a line, by return of post, when anything arrives, which is not a mere letter. TO JOHN MURRAY Ravenna, April 23, 1820. Dear Murray, — The proofs don't contain the last stanzas of Canto second, but end abruptly with the 105th Stanza. [ 179 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY I told you long ago that the new Cantos ^ were not good, and I also told you a reason : recollect, I do not oblige you to publish them ; you may suppress them, if you like, but I can alter nothing. I have erased the six stanzas about those two impostors, Southey and Words- worth (which I suppose will give you great pleasure), but I can do no more. I can neither recast, nor replace ; but I give you leave to put it all into the fire, if you like, or not to publish, and I think that 's sufficient. I told you that I wrote on with no good will — that I had been, not frightened, but liiirt, by the outcry, and, besides that, when I wrote last November, I was ill in body, and in very great distress of mind about some private things of my own ; but you would have it : so I sent it to you, and to make it lighter, cut it in tw^o — but I can't piece it together again. I can^t cobble : I must " either make a spoon or spoil a horn,''^ — and there ''s an end ; for there 's no remeid : but I leave you free will to suppress the whole, if you like it. About the Morgante Mag g lore, I won't have a line 07nitted : it may circulate, or it may not; but all the Criticism on earth shan't touch a line, unless it be because it is badly translated. Now you say, and I say, and others say, that the translation is a good one ; and so it shall go to press as it is. Pulci must answer for his own irreligion : I answer for the translation only. . . . My love to Scott. I shall think higher of knighthood ever after for his being dubbed. By the way, he is the first poet titled for his talent in Britain : it has happened 1 "Don Juan," Cantos III, IV. [ 180 ] QTATUE of Moses in San Pietro, in Vincoli, Rome. Designed by Michel Angelo. " Into the marble chaos driven His chisel hid the Hebrew^ at whose word Israel left Egypt.'"' — Prophecy of Daute, Canto IV, p. 172. THE YEARS 18.^0 AND 1821 abroad before now; but on the continent titles are univer- sal and worthless. Why don't jou send me Ivanhoe and the Monastery ? I have never written to Sir Walter, for I know he has a thousand things, and I a thousand nothings, to do ; but I hope to see him at Abbotsford before very long, and I will sweat his Claret for him, though Italian abstemiousness has made my brain but a shilpit ^ concern for a Scotch sitting inter pocula. I love Scott and Moore, and all the better brethren; but 1 hate and abhor that puddle of wat^rworms whom you have taken into your troop in the history line I see. I am obliged to end abruptly. Tours, B. P. S. — You say that one lialf^ is very good : you are wrong ; for, if it were, it would be the finest poem in exist- ence. Where is the poetry of which one half is good ? is it the ^neid ? is it Milton'^ ? is it Bryden's ? is it any one's except Fope'^ and Goldsmith's, of which all is good ? and yet these two last are the poets your pond poets would explode. Bat if one half oi the two new Cantos be good in your opinion, what the devil would you have more? No — - no : no poetry is generally good — only by fits and starts — and you are lucky to get a sparkle here and there. You might as well want a Midnight all stars as rhyme all perfect. 1 Balmawhapple, carousing at Luckie Macleary's, and fortified by the Bear and the Hen, "pronounced the claret shilpit, and demanded brandy with great vociferation " {Waverhij, Chap. xi). ^ Of "Don Juan." [ 181 1 WITH BYRON IN ITALY TO THOMAS MOORE Eayenna, August 31, 1820. • ••••• I verilj believe that nor you, nor any man of poetical temperament, can avoid a strong passion of some kind. It is the poetry of life. What should I liave known or written, had I been a quiet, mercantile politician, or a lord in waiting ? A man must travel, and turmoil, or there is no existence. Besides, I only meant to be a Cavalier Ser- vente, and had no idea it would turn out a romance^ in the Anglo fashion. However, I suspect I know a thing or two of Italy — more than Lady Morgan has picked up in her posting. What do Englishmen know of Italians beyond their museums and saloons — and some hack . . . en passant ? Now, I have lived in the heart of their houses, in parts of Italy freshest and least influenced by strangers, — have seen and become (^pars magna ftti) a portion of their hopes, and fears, and passions, and am almost inoculated into a family. This is to see men and things as they are. You say that I called you " quiet " — I don^t recollect anything of the sort. On the contrary, you are always in scrapes. FEOM BYEON^S DIAEY January 29, 1821. Eead Schlegel. Of Dante he says, "that at no time has the greatest and most national of all Italian poets ever [ 182 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 been much the favourite of his countrymen/' 'T is false ! There have been more editors and commentators (and imi- tators, ultimately) of Dante than of all their poets put together. No£ a favourite! Why, they talk Dante — write Dante — and think and dream Dante at this moment (1821) to an excess, which would be ridiculous, but that he deserves it. In the same style this German talks of gondolas on the Arno ^ — a precious fellow to dare to speak of Italy ! He says also that Dante's cliief defect is a want, in a word, of gentle feelings. Of gentle feelings ! — and Prancesca of Eimini — and the father's feelings in Ugohno — and Beatrice — and " La Pia ! '' Why, there is gentle- ness in Dante beyond all gentleness, when he is tender. It is true that, treating of the Christian Hades, or Hell, there is not much scope or site for gentleness — but who dul Dante could have introduced any " gentleness '' at all into Hell ? Is there any in Milton's ? No — and Dante's Heaven is all love, and glory, and majesty. Oue o'clock. I have found out, however, where the German is right — it is about the Vicar of Wakefield. ^' Of all romances in miniature (and, perhaps, this is the best shape in which Eomance can appear) the Vicar of Wakefield is, I think, the most exquisite." He thinks ! — he might be sure. But it is very well for a Schlegel. I feel sleepy, 1 lu Lectiu-e xi {Lectures on the History of Literature, p. 297), speak- ing of Tasso, Schlegel says, " Individual parts and episodes of Ms poem are frequently sung in the gondolas of the Arno and the Po." [ 183 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY and may as well get me to bed. To-morrow there will be fine weather. " Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay." Tebruary 14, 1821. Heard the particulars of the late fray at Eussi^ a town not far from this. It is exactly the fact of Romeo and Giulietta — not Romeo, as the Barbarian writes it. Two families of Contadini (peasants) are at feud. At a ball, the younger part of the families forget their quarrel, and dance together. An old man of one of them enters, and reproves the young men for dancing with the females of the opposite family. The male relatives of the latter resent this. Both parties rush home and arm themselves. They meet directly, by moonlight, in the public way, and fight it out. Three are killed on the spot, and six wounded, most of them dangerously, — pretty well for two families, methinks — and all factj of the last week. Another assassination has taken place at Cesenna — in all about forty in Romagna within the last three months. These people retain much of the middle ages. February 18, 1821. To-day I have had no communication with my Car- bonari cronies ; ^ but, in the meantime, my lower apart- ments are full of their bayonets, fusils, cartridges, and what not. I suppose that they consider me as a depot, to be sacrificed, in case of accidents. It is no great matter, supposing that Italy could be liberated, who or ^ Members of the secret society of whicli Byron was the leader. [ 184 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 what is sacrificed. It is a grand object — the ^^x^ poetry of politics. Only think — a free Italy!!! Why, there has been nothing like it since the days of Augustus. I reckon the times of Csesar (Julius) free ; because the com- motions left every body a side to take, and the parties were pretty equal at the set out. But, afterwards, it was all praetorian and legionary business — and since! — we shall see, or, at least, some will see, what card will turn up. It is best to hope, even of the hopeless. The Dutch did more than these fellows have to do, in the Seventy Years' War. TO THOMAS MOOEE Ravenna, January 2, 1821. With regard to our purposed Journal,^ I will call it what you please, but it should be a newspaper, to make \ipay. We can call it "The Harp,'' if you like — or any- thin o^. I feel exactly as you do about our " art,'' but it comes over me in a kind of rage every now and then, like . . . , and then, if I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing, which you describe in your friend,^ I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as 1 The mention of a Journal at this date shows Byron's ambition, which was finally gratified by the publication of The Liberal more than a year later. But Moore dropped out of the scheme in the meantime, and Shelley and Leigh Hunt tpok it up. 2 Lord John Russell. [ 185 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY d pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain. I wish you to think seriously of the Journal scheme — for I am as serious as one can be, in this world, about any- thing. As to matters here, they are high and mighty — but not for paper. It is much about the state of things betwixt Cain and Abel. There is, in fact, no law or government at all : and it is wonderful how well things go on without them. Excepting a few occasional murders, (every body killing whomsoever he pleases, and being killed, in turn, by a friend, or relative, of the defunct,) there is as quiet a society and as merry a Carnival as can be met with in a tour through Europe. There is nothing like habit in these things. I shall remain here till May or June, and, unless '''honour comes unlooked for," we may perhaps meet, in Erance or England, within the year. Yours, etc. Of course, I cannot explain to you existing circum- stancesj as they open all letters. TO THOMAS MOOEE Ravenna, July 5, 1821. • • • a . • I have had a friend of your Mr. Irving's — a very pretty lad — a Mr. Coolidge, of Boston — only somewhat too full of poesy and " entusymusy." I was very civil to him during his few hours' stay, and talked with him much of Irving, whose writings are my delight. But I suspect [ 186 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 that he did not take quite so much to me, from his having expected to meet a misanthropical gentleman, in wolf- skin breeches, and answering in fierce monosyllables, instead of a man of this world. I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that there is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state ? I have had a curious letter to-day from a girl in England (I never saw her), who says she is given over of a decline, but could not go out of the world without thanking me for the delight which my poesy for several years, etc., etc., etc. It is signed simply N. N. A. and has not a word of "cant"*^ or preachment in it upon any opinions. She merely says that she is dying, and that as I had contributed so highly to her existing pleasure, she thought that she might say so, begging me to htm her letter — which, by the way, I can not do, as I look upon sucli a letter in such circumstances as better tlian a diploma from Gottingen. I once had a letter from Drontheim in Norway (but not from a dying woman), in verse, on the same score of gratulation. These are the things which make one at times believe one^s self a poet. But if I must believe that . . ., and such fellows, are poets also, it is better to be out of the corps. I am now in the fifth act of Foscari, being the third tragedy in twelve months, besides proses ; so you perceive that I am not at all idle. And are you, too, busy? I doubt that your life at Paris draws too much upon your [ 187 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY time, which is a pity. Can^t you divide your day, so as to combine both? I have had plenty of all sorts of worldly business on my hands last year^ and yet it is not so difficult to give a few hours to the Muses. This sentence is so like . . . that Ever, etc. If we were together, I should publish both my plays (periodically) in owy joint journal It should be our plan to publish all our best things in that way. TO JOHN MURRAY Ravenna, July 6, 1821. At the particular request of the Contessa G. I have promised not to continue Bon Juan. You will there- fore look upon these 3 cantos as the last of that poem. She had read the two first in the French translation, and never ceased beseeching me to write no more of it. The reason of this is not at first obvious to a superficial observer of foreign manners; but it arises from the wish of all women to exalt the sentiment of the passions, and to keep up the illusion which is .eir empire. Now Bon Juan strips off this illusion, and laughs at that and most other things. I never knew a woman who did not protect RoiisseaUi nor one who did not dislike de Gram- mont, Gil Bias, and all the comedy of the passions, when brought out naturally. But "King^s blood must keep word," as Serjeant Bothwell says. Write, you Scamp ! [ 188 ] 5 S v. 5» a ^ a^ o ^ 5 '^^ •< ^ 12. THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Your parcel of extracts never came and never will : you should have sent it by the post ; but you are growing a sad fellow, and some fine day we shall have to dissolve partnership. TO JOHN MUEEAY July 14th, 1821. Dear Sir, — According to your wish, I have expedited by this post two packets addressed to J. Barrow, Esq'% Admiralty, etc. The one contains the returned proofs, with such corrections as time permits, of Sardanapalus, Tlie other contains the tragedy of The Two Foscari in five acts, the argument of which Foscolo or Hobhouse can ex- plain to you ; or you will find it at length in P. Daru^s history of Venice : also, more briefly, in Sismondi's /. R. An outline of it is in the Pleasures of Memory also. The name is a dactyl, ^^ Fdscari." Have the goodness to write by return of Post, which is essential. I trust that Sardanapalus will not be mistaken for a political play, which was so far from my intention that I thought of nothing but Asiatic history. The Venetian play, too, is rigidly historical. My object has been to dramatise, like the Greeks (a modest phrase !), striking passages of history, as they did of history and mythology. You will find all this very 2«;dike Shakespeare ; and so much the better in one sense, for I look upon him to bo the worst of models, though the most extraordinary of writers. It has been my object to be as simple and severe as Alfieri, and I have broken down the poetry as nearly as I could to common language. The liardship is, that in [ 189 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY these times one can neither speak of kings nor Queens without susjncion of politics or personalities. I intended neither. TO JOHN MUUEAY [Undated.] Dear Sir, — The enclosed letter is written in bad humour, but not without provocation. However, let it (that is, the bad humour) go for little ; but I must re- quest your serious attention to the abuses of the printer, which ought never to have been permitted. You forget that all the fools in London (the chief purchasers of your publications) will condemn in me the stupidity of your printer. For instance, in the Notes to Canto fifth, " the Adriatic shore of the Bosphorus,''^ instead of the Asiatic ! ! All this may seem little to you — so fine a gentleman with your ministerial connections ; but it is serious to me, v»^ho am thousands of miles off, and have no opportunity of not proving myself the fool your printer makes me, except your pleasure and leisure, forsooth. , The Gods prosper you, and forgive you, for I won^t. B. TO JOHN MURRAY R?, September 4th, 1821. Dear Sir, — By Saturday's post, I sent you a fierce and furibund letter upon the subject of the printer's blunders in Bon Juan. I must solicit your attention to the toj)ic, though my wrath has subsided into sullenness. [ 190 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Yesterday I received Mr. Mawman, a friend of yours, and because he is a friend (di yours ; and that ^s more than I would do in an English case, except for those v/hom I lionour. I was as civil as I could be among packages, even to the very chairs and tables ; for I am going to Fisa in a few weeks, and have sent and am sending off my chattels. It regretted me that, my books and everything being packed, I could not send you a few things I meant for you ; but they were all sealed and baggaged, so as to have made it a Month^s work to get at them again. I gave him an envelope, with the Italian Scrap in it,^ alluded to in my Gilchrist defence. Hobhouse will make it out for you, and it will make you laugh, and him too, the spelling par- ticularly. The ^' Mericani" of whom they call me the *^ Capo '' (or Chief), means " Americans,^' which is the name given in Romagna to a part of the Carbonari ^ ; that is to say, to the popular part, the troops of the Carbonari. They were originally a society of hunters in the forest, who took that name of Americans, but at present comprize some thousands, etc. ; but I shan^t let you further into the secret, which may be participated with the postmasters. Why they thought me their Chief, I know^ not: their Chiefs are like ^^ Legion, being Many.'^ However, it is a post of more honour than profit, for, now that they are 1 An anouymous letter which Byron had received, threatening hira with assassination. 2 The Italian Carbonari was a political society whose hond was one of disaffection rather than principle. Owing to want of cohesion and diversity of political aims, it collapsed, and it met the disapproval of Mazzini and later Italian patriots. They took their name from the charcoal-burners (Carbonari). [ 191 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY persecuted, it is fit that I should aid them ; and so 1 have done, as far as my means will permit. They will rise again some day, for these fools of the Government are blundering : they actually seem to know nothing ; for they have arrested and banished many of their own party, and let others escape who are not their friends. TO JOHN MURRAY Ravenna, September 12t^ 1821. Dear Sie, — By Tuesday's post, I forwarded, in three packets, the drama of Cain, in three acts, of which I request the acknowledgment when arrived. To the last speech of Eve, in the last act {i. e. where she curses Cain), add these three lines to the concluding one — May the Grass wither from thy foot ! the Woods Deny thee shelter ! Earth a home ! the Dust A Grave ! the Sun his light ! and Heaven her God ! There ^s as pretty a piece of Imprecation for you, when joined to the lines already sent, as you may wish to meet with in the course of your business. But don^t forget the addition of the above three lines, which are clinchers to Eve's speech. Let me know what GifFord thinks (if the play arrives in safety) ; for I have a good opinion of the piece, as poetry : it is in my gay metaphysical style, and in the Manfred line. You must at least commend my facility and variety, when you consider what I have done within the last fifteen [ 192 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 months, with my head, too, full of other and of mundane matters. But no doubt you will avoid saying any good of it, for fear I should raise the price upon you : that 's right — stick to business ! Let me know what your other raga- muffins are writing, for I suppose you don^t like starting too many of your Vagabonds at once. You may give them the start, for anything I care. If this arrives in time to be added to the other two dramas, publish them together : if not, publish it separately, in the same form, to tally for the purchasers. Let me have a proof of the whole speedily. It is longer than 3Ia?t/red. Why don't you publish my Fulci ? ^ the best thing I ever wrote, with the Italian to it. I wish I was alongside of you : nothing is ever done in a man's absence ; every body runs counter, because they can. If ever I do return to England (which I shan't though), I will write a poem to which English Bards, etc., shall be New Milk, in com- parison. Your present literary world of mountebanks stands in need of such an Avatar; but I am not yet quite bilious enough : a season or two more, and a provocation or two, will wind me up to the point, and then, have at the whole set ! I have no patience with the sort of trash you send me out by way of books; except Scott's novels, and three or four other things, I never saw such work or works. Campbell is lecturing, Moore idling, Southey twaddling, "Wordsworth drivelling, Coleridge muddling, Joanna Baillie piddling, Bowles quibbling, squabbling, and snivelling. 1 Translation of Pulci's " Morgante Maggiore." 13 [ 193 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Milman will do, if lie don^t cant too much, nor imitate Southej : the fellow has poesj in him ; but he is envious, and unhappy, as all the envious are. Still he is among the best of the day. Barry Cornwall will do better by- and-bye, I dare say, if he don^t get spoilt by green tea, and the praises of Pentonville and Paradise Eow. The pity of these men is, that they never lived either in high life, nor in solitude : there is no medium for the knowl- edge of the busy or the still world. If admitted into high life for a season, it is merely as spectators — they form no part of the Mechanism thereof. Now Moore and I, the one by circumstances, and the other by birth, happened to be free of the corporation, and to have entered into its pulses and passions, quarum partes fimniis. Both of us have learnt by this much which nothing else could have taught us. Yours^ B. TO THOMAS MOORE Ravenna, September, 19, 1821. I AM in all the sweat, dust, and blasphemy of an uni- versal packing of all my things, furniture, etc., for Pisa, whither I go for the winter. The cause has been the exile of all my fellow Carbonics, and, amongst them, of the whole family of Madame G. ; who, you know, was divorced from her husband last week, " on account of P.P., clerk of this parish,^^^ and who is obliged to join her father and 1 An allusion to Pope's " Memoirs of P.P., Clerk of this Parish." [ 194 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 relatives, now in exile there, to avoid being shut up in a monastery, because the Pope's decree of separation re- quired her to reside in casa paterna, or else, for decorum's sake, in a convent. As I could not say with Hamlet, "Get thee to a nunnery,'' I am preparing to follow them. It is awful work, this love, and prevents all a man's projects of good or glory. I wanted to go to Greece lately (as everything seems up here) with her brother, who is a very fine, brave fellow (I have seen him put to the proof), and wild about liberty. But the tears of a w^oman who has left her husband for a man, and the weakness of one's own hearty are paramount to these projects, and I can hardly indulge them. We were divided in choice between Switzerland and Tuscany, and I gave my vote for Pisa, as nearer the Medi- terranean, which I love for the sake of the shores which it washes, and for my young recollections of 1809. Switzer- land is a curst selfish, swinish country of brutes, placed in the most romantic region of the world. I never could bear the inhabitants, and still less their English visitors ; for which reason, after writing for some information about houses, upon hearing that there was a colony of English all over the cantons of Geneva, etc., I immediately gave up the thought, and persuaded the Gambas to do the same. Wliat are you doing, and where are you ? in England ? Nail Murray — nail him to his own counter — till he shells out the thirteens. Since I wrote to you, I have sent him another tragedy — Cainhy immc — making three in MS. [ 195 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY now in his hands, or in the printer's. It is in the Manfred metaphysical stj^e, and full of some Titanic declamation ; — Lucifer being one of the drayn. pers., who takes Cain a voyage among the stars,, and afterwards to " Hades/^ where he shows him the phantoms of a former world, and its in- habitants. I have gone upon the notion of Cuvier, that the world has been destroyed three or four times, and was inhabited by mammoths, behemoths, and what not ; but not by man till the Mosaic period, as, indeed, is proved by the strata of bones found ; — those of all unknown animals, and known, being dug out, but none of mankind. I have, therefore, supposed Cain to be shown, in the rational Preadamites, beings endowed with a higher intelligence than man, but totally unlike him in form, and with much greater strength of mind and person. You may suppose the small talk which takes place between him and Lucifer upon these matters is not quite canonical. The consequence is, that Cain comes back and kills Abel in a fit of dissatisfaction, partly with the politics of Para- dise, which had driven them all out of it, and partly because (as it is written in Genesis) AbePs sacrifice was the more acceptable to the Deity. I trust that the Ehapsody has arrived — it is in three acts, and entitled " A Mystery" according to the former Christian custom, and in honour of what it probably will remain to the reader. YourS; etc. [ 196 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 FEOM " MARINO FALIEEO, DOGE OF VENICE " Act III. Scene I — Scene^ the Space heiween the Canal and the Church of San Giovanni e San Paolo. An equestrian Statue before it. A Gondola lies in the Canal at some distance. Enter the Doge alone, disguised. Doge {solus) . I am before the liour, the hour whose voice, Pealing into the arch of night, might strike These palaces with ominous tottering, And rock their marbles to the corner-stone, Waking the sleepers from some hideous dream Of indistinct but awful augury Of that which will befall them. Yes, proud city ! Thou must be cleansed of the black blood which makes thee A lazar-house of tyranny : the task Is forced upon me, I have sought it not ; And therefore was I punishM, seeing this Patrician pestilence spread on and on. Until at length it smote me in my slumbers. And I am tainted, and must wash away The plague spots in the healing wave. Tall fane ! Where sleep my fathers, whose dim statues shadow The floor which doth divide us from the dead, AVhere all the pregnant hearts of our bold blood. Mouldered into a mite of ashes, hold In one shrunk heap what once made many heroes. When what is now a handful shook the earth — [ 197 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Fane of the tutelar saints who guard our house ! Vault where two Doges rest — my sires ! ^ who died The one of toil, the other in the field. With a long race of other lineal chiefs And sages, whose great labours, wounds, and state I have inherited, — let the graves gape. Till all thine aisles be peopled with the dead. And pour them from thy portals to gaze on me ! I call them up, and them and thee to witness What it hath been which put me to this task — Their pure high blood, their blazon-roll of glories. Their mighty name dishonoured all in me. Not d?/ me, but by the ungrateful nobles We fought to make our equals, not our lords : — And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave, Who perishM in the field, where I since conquered. Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs Of thine and Venice' foes, there offered up By thy descendant, merit such acquittance ? Spirits ! smile down upon me ; for my cause Is yours, in all life now can be of yours, — Your fame, your name, all mingled up in mine. And in the future fortunes of our race ! Let me but prosper, and I make this city Free and immortal, and our house's name Worthier of what you were, now and hereafter ! ^ " All that is said of liis Ancestral Doges as buried in this church is altered from the fact, they being in St. Mark's. Make a note of this and put Editor as the subscription to it." (Byron, in a letter to Murray, Oct. 13, 1820.) I 198 ] o h3 o THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Act IV. Scene I. — Palazzo of the Patrician Lioni. Ltoni laying aside the mash and cloak which the Vene- tian nobles wore in public , attended hy a Domestic, Lioni. I will to rest, right weary of this revel, The gayest we have liekl for many moons. And yet, I know not why, it cheered me not ; There came a heaviness across my heart. Which, in the lightest movement of the dance, Though eye to eye, and hand in hand united Even with the lady of my love, oppressed me, And through my spirit chilFd my blood, until A damp like death rose o'er my brow. I strove To laugh the thought away, but 't would not be ; Through all the music ringing in my ears A knell was sounding as distinct and clear, Though low and far, as e 'er the Adrian wave Eose o'er the city's murmur in the night, Dashing against the outward Lido's bulwark : So that I left the festival before It reached its zenith, and will woo my pillow For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness. Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and light The lamp within my chamber. AnL Yes, my lord : Command you no refreshment ? [ 199 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Lioni, Nought, save sleep. Which will not be commanded. Let me hope it, [Exit Antonio. Though my breast feels too anxious ; I will try Whether the air will calm my spirits ; ■'t is A goodly night ; the cloudy wind which blew Erom the Levant hath crept into its cave, And the broad moon has brighten^. What a still- ness ! [ Goes to an o^en lattice. And what a contrast with the scene I left. Where the tall torches' glare, and silver lamps* More pallid gleam along the tapestried walls. Spread over the reluctant gloom, which haunts Those vast and dimly latticed galleries, A dazzling mass of artificial light. Which showM all things, but nothing as they were. There Age essaying to recall the past. After long striving for the hues of youth At the sad labour of the toilet, and IPull many a glance at the too faithful mirror. Pranks forth in all the pride of ornament, Forgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood Of the indulgent beams, which show, yet hide. Believed itself forgotten, and was foolM. There Youth, which needed not, nor thought of such Vain adjuncts, lavished its true bloom, and health. And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome press Of flushed and crowded wassailers, and wasted [ 200 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Its hours of rest in dreaming this was pleasure. And so shall waste them till the sunrise streams On sallow cheeks and sunken eyes, which should not Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. The music, and the banquet, and the wine — The garlands, the rose odours, and tlie flowers — The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments — The white arms and the raven hair — the braids And bracelets ; swanlike bosoms, and the necklace. An India in itself; yet dazzling not The eye like what it circled ; the thin robes, Floating like light clouds 'twixt our gaze and heaven ; The many-twinkling feet so small and sylphlike, Suggesting the more secret symmetry Of the fair forms which terminate so well — All the delusion of the dizzy scene. Its false and true enchantments — art and nature. Which swam before my giddy eyes, that drank The sight of beauty as the parchM pilgrim^s On Arab sands the false mirage which offers A lucid lake to his eluded thirst, — Are gone. Around me are the stars and waters — Worlds mirrored in the ocean, goodlier sight Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass ; And the great element, which is to space What ocean is to earth, spreads its blue depths. Softened with the first breathings of the spring ; The high moon sails upon her beauteous way. Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces, [ 201 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts. Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles. Like altars ranged along the broad canal, Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed Eear'd up from out the waters, scarce less strangely Than those more massy and mysterious giants Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics, Which point in Egypt's plains to times that have No other record. All is gentle : nought Stirs rudely ; but, congenial with the night. Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit. The tinklings of some vigilant guitars Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress, And cautious opening of the casement, showing That he is not unheard, while her young hand, Fair as the moonlight of which it seems part. So delicately white, it trembles in The act of opening the forbidden lattice. To let in love through music, makes his heart Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight ; — the dash Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle Of the far lights of skimming gondolas. And the responsive voices of the choir Of boatmen answering back with verse for verse ; Some dusky shadow checkering the Rialto ; Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering spire. Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade The ocean-born and earth-commanding city — How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm ! I thank thee. Night ! for thou hast chased away [ 202 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Those horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, I could not dissipate ; and with the blessing Of thy benign and quiet influence, Now will I to my couch, although to rest Is almost wronging such a night as this. FEOM " THE TWO FOSCAEI '' Act I. Scene I. (Jacopo Foscari, haviug been imprisoned in Candia on suspicion of Climes against the government is brought back to Venice for trial.) The Guard conducts Jacopo to a window of the Ducal Palace. Guard, There, sir, ^t is Open — How feel you ? Jac. Fos. Like a boy — Oh, Yenice ! Guard. And your limbs ? Jac, Fos. Limbs ! how often have they borne me Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I have skimmM The gondola along in childish race. And, masqued as a young gondolier, amidst My gay competitors, noble as I, [ 203 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Raced for our 2:)leasure in the pride of strength ; Wliile the fair j^opulace of crowding beauties. Plebeian as patrician, cheerM us on "With dazzling srailes, and wishes audible. And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands. Even to the goal ! — How many a time have I Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more daring. The wave all roughened ; with a swimmer's stroke Flinging the billows back from mj drench\l hair. And laughing from mj lip the audacious brine. Which kissM it like a wine-cup, rising o'er The waves as they arose, and prouder still The loftier they uplifted me ; and oft. In wantonness of spirit, plunging down Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen By those above, till they waxM fearful ; then Eeturning with my grasp full of such tokens As showed that I had searchM the deep : exulting. With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep The long-suspended breath, again I spurned The foam which broke around me, and pursued My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy then. Guard, Be a man now : there never was more need Of manhood's strength. Jac. Fos. {looking from the lattice). My beautiful, my own. My only Venice — this is breath ! Thy breeze, [ S04 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face ! Thj very winds feel native to my veins. And cool them into calmness ! How unlike The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades, Whicli howFd about my Candiote dungeon and Made my heart sick. Guard. I see the colour comes Back to your cheek : Heaven send you strength to bear What more may be imposed ! — I dread to think on 't. Jac. Fos. They will not banish me again ? — No — no, Let them wring on ; I am strong yet. Guard. Confess, And the rack will be spared you. Jac. Fos. I confessed Once — twice before : both times they exiled me. Gtmrd. And the third time will slay you. Jac. Fos. Let them do so, So I be buried in my birth-place : better Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewhere. [ 205 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Guard. And can you so much love the soil which hates you ? Jac. Fos. The soil ! — Oh no, it is the seed of the soil Which persecutes me ; but my native earth Will take me as a mother to her arms. I ask no more than a Venetian grave, A dungeon, what they will, so it be here. • ••••• EROM "CAIN'' Act I. Scene I. • • • • • • Cain [solus). And this is Life — Toil ! and wherefore should I toil ? — because My father could not keep his place in Eden. What had / done in this ? — I was unborn : I sought not to be born ; nor love the state To which that birth has brought me. Why did he Yield to the serpent and the woman ? or, Yielding, why suffer ? What was there in this ? The tree was planted, and why not for him ? If not, why place him near it, where it grew. The fairest in the centre ? They have but One answer to all questions, " 'T was his will. And he is good/' How know I that ? Because He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow ? [ 206 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 I judge but by the fruits — and they are bitter — Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. Whom have we here ? — A shape like to the angels. Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect Of spiritual essence : why do I quake ? Why should I fear him more than other spirits, AVliom I see daily wave their fiery sAvords Before the gates round which I linger oft. In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those Gardens which are my just inheritance. Ere the night closes o'er the inhibited walls And the immortal trees which overtop The cherubim-defended battlements ? If I shrink not from these, the fire-armM angels. Why should I quail from him who now approaches ? Yet he seems mightier far than them, nor less Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful As he hath been, and might be : sorrow seems Half of his immortality. And is it So ? and can aught grieve save humanity ? He cometh. Enter Lucifer. Lucifer. Mortal ! Cain. Spirit, who art thou ? Lucifer. Master of spirits. [ 207 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Cain, And being so^ canst thou Leave them, and walk with dust ? Lucifer. I know the thoughts Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. Cain, How! You know my thoughts ? Lticifer, They are the thoughts of all Worthy of thought ; — ''t is your immortal part Which speaks within you. Cain, What immortal part ? This has not been reveaPd : the tree of life Was withheld from us by my father's folly. While that of knowledge, by my mother^s haste. Was plucked too soon ; and all the fruit is death ! Lucifer. They have deceived thee ; thou shalt live. Cai7i. I live, But live to die : and, living, see no thing To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, [ g08 ] s ^ ■ O ?3 THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 A loathsome, and yet all invincible Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — And so I live. Would I had never lived ! Lucifer. Thou livest, and must live for ever : think not The earth, which is thine outward covering, is Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be No less than thoa art now. Cain. No less f and why No more ? And ye Lucifer. It may be thou shalt be as we. Cain. Lucifer, Are everlasting, Cain. Are ye happy ? Lucifer. We are mighty, Cain. Are ye happy ? Lucifer. No ; art thou ? H [ 209 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Cain. How should I be so ? Look on me ! Lucifer. Poor clay ! And thou pretendest to be wretched ! Thou ! Cain. I am : — and thou_, with all thy mighty what art thou ? L^icifer. One who aspired to be what made thee^ and Would not have made thee what thou art. Cain. Ah! Thou look'st almost a god ; and — Lucifer. I am none : And having faiFd to be one, would be nought Save what I am. He conquerM ; let him reign ! Cain, Who? Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker and the earth's. Cain. And heaven's. And all that in them is. So I have heard His seraphs sing ; and so my father saitli. [ 210 ] THE YEARS 1820 AxND 1821 Lucifer, They say — what they must sing and say on pain Of being that which I am — and tliou art — Of spirits and of men. Cain. And what is that ? Lucifer. Souls who dare use their immortality — Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant in His everlasting face, and tell him that His evil is not good ! If he has made. As he saith — which I know not, nor believe — But, if he made us — he cannot unmake : We are immortal ! — nay, he M have us so. That he may torture : let him ! He is great — But, in his greatness, is no happier than We in our conflict ! Goodness would not make Evil ; and what else hath he made ? But let him Sit on his vast and solitary throne, Creating worlds, to make eternity Less burthensome to his immense existence And unparticipated solitude ; Let him crowd orb on orb : he is alone Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant ; Could he but crush himself, 't were the best boon He ever granted : but let him reign on. And multiply himself in misery ! Spirits and men, at least we sympathise — [ 211 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY And, suffering in concert, make our pangs, Innumerable, more endurable, By the unbounded sympathy of all With all ! But He! so wretched in his height, So restless in his wretchedness, must still Create, and re-create — Cam. Thou speak^st to me of things which long have swum In visions through my thought : I never could Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. My father and my mother talk to me Of serpents, and of fruits and trees : I see The gates of wliat they call their Paradise Guarded by fiery-sworded cherubim. Which shut them out, and me : I feel the weight Of daily toil and constant thought : I look Around a world where I seem nothing, with Thoughts which arise within me, as if they Could master all things : — but I thought alone This misery was mine. — My father is Tamed down ; my mother has forgot the mind Which made her thirst for knowledge at the risk Of an eternal curse ; my brother is A watching shepherd boy, who offers up The firstlings of the flock to him who bids The earth yield nothing to us without sweat ; My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn Than the birds' matins ; and my Adah, my Own and beloved, she, too, understands not [ 212 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 The mind which overwhehns me : never till Now met I aught to sympathise with me. ■'T is well — I ratlier would consort with spirits. Lucifer. And hadst thou not been fit by thine own soul For such companionship, I would not now Have stood before thee as I am : a serpent Had been enough to charm ye, as before. Cain. Ah ! didst thou tempt ray mother ? Lucifer. I tempt none. Save Avith the truth : was not the tree, the tree Of knowledge ? and was not the tree of life Still fruitful ? Did / bid her pluck them not ? Did / plant things prohibited within The reach of beings innocent, and curious By their own innocence ? I would have made ye Gods ; and even He who thrust ye forth, so thrust ye Because ' ye should not eat the fruits of life. And become gods as we/ Were those his words ? Cain. They were, as I have heard from those who heard them, In thunder. Lucifer. Then who was the demon ? He Who would not let ye live, or he who would [ 213 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Have made ye live for ever in the joy And power of knowledge ? Cain. Would they had snatched both The fruits, or neither ! Lucifer. One is yours already ; The other may be still. Cain. How so ? Lucifer. By being Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself And centre of surrounding things — 't is made To sway. Cain. But didst thou tempt my parents ? Lucifer. I? Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, or how ? Cain. They say the serpent was a spirit. Lttcifer. Who Saith that ? It is not written so on high .: [ 214 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 The proud One will not so far falsify, Though man's vast fears and little vanity Would make him cast upon the spiritual nature His own low failing. The snake was the snake — No more ; and yet not less than those he tempted, In nature being earth also — more in wisdom, Since he could overcome them, and foreknew The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. ThinFst thou I 'd take the shape of things that die ? Cain. But the thing had a demon ? Lucifer. He but woke one In those he spake to with his forky tongue. I tell thee that the serpent was no more Than a mere serpent : ask the cherubim "Who guard the tempting tree. When thousand ages Have rolFd o'er your dead ashes, and your seed's, The seed of the then world may thus array Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all That bows to him who made things but to bend Before his sullen, sole eternity ; But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy Fond parents listened to a creeping thing, And fell. For what should spirits tempt them ? What Was there to envy in the narrow bounds Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade [ 215 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Space — but I speak to thee of what thou know'st not, With all tliy tree of knowledge. Cain. But thou canst not Speak aught of knowledge which I would not know. And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind To know. Lucifer. And heart to look on ? Cain. Be it proved. Lucifer. Darest thou to look on Death ? Cain. He has not yet Been seen. Lucifer. But must be undergone. Cain. My father Says he is something dreadful, and my mother "Weeps when he 's named ; and Abel lifts his eyes To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth, And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me, And speaks not. [ 216 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Lucifer, And thou? Cain. Thoughts unspeakable Crowd in my breast to burning, when I hear Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems, Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him? I wrestled with the lion, when a boy. In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. Lucifer. It has no shape ; but will absorb all things That bear the form of earth-born being. Cain, Ah! I thought it was a being : who could do Such evil things to beings save a being ? Lucifer, Ask the Destroyer. Who? Lucifer. The Maker — call him Which name thou wilt : he makes but to destroy. Cain. I knew not that, yet thought it, since I heard Of death ; although I know not what it is, [ 217 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Yet it seems horrible. I have looked out In the vast desolate night in search of him ; And when I saw gigantic shadows in The umbrage of the walls of Eden, chequered By the far-flashing of the cherubs^ swords, I watch'd for what I thought his coming ; for With fear rose longing in my heart to know What 't was which shook us all — but nothing came. And then I turnM my weary eyes from off Our native and forbidden Paradise, Up to the lights above us, in the azure. Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die ? Lucifer. Perhaps — but long outlive both thine and thee. Cain. I ■'m glad of that : I would not have them die — They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear, I feel, it is a dreadful thing ; but what, I cannot compass : ''t is denounced against us, Both them who sinn'd and sinned not, as an ill — WhatiU? I/ucifer. To be resolved into the earth. But shall I know it ? I cannot answer. Cain. Lucifer. As I know not death, [ 218 ] ^ ^ Q - I r ^ Si- THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Cain. Were I quiet earth That were no evil ; would I ne'er had been Aught else but dust ! Lucifer. That is a grovelling wish, Less than thy father's, for he wished to know. Cain. But not to live, or wherefore pluck'd he not The life-tree? Lucifer, He was hindered. Cain. Deadly error ! Not to snatch first that fruit : — but ere he pluck'd The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. Alas ! I scarcely now know what it is. And yet I fear it — fear I know not what ! Jjiicifer. And I, who know all things, fear nothing : see What is true knowledge. Cain. Wilt thou teach me all ? Lucifer. Ay, upon one condition [ 219 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Cain, Name it. Lucifer. That Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy Lord. Cain. Thou art not the Lord my father worships. Lucifer, No. Cain, His equal ? Lmcifer. No ; — I have nought in common with him Nor would : I would be aught above — beneath — Aught save a sharer or a servant of His power. I dwell apart ; but I am great : — Many there are who worship me^, and more Who shall — be thou amongst the first. Enter Adah. Adah, My brother, I have come for thee; It is our hour of rest and joy — and we Have less without thee. Thou hast labour'd not [ 220 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 This morn; but I have done thy task : the fruits Are ripe^ and glowing as the light which ripens ; Come away. Cain. Seest thou not ? Adah. I see an angel ; We have seen many : will he share our hour Of rest ? — he is welcome. Cain. But he is not like The angels we have seen. Adah. Are, there, then, others? But he is welcome, as they were : they deign'd To be our guests — will he ? Cain (to Lncifer'). Wilt thou ? Lucifer. I ask Thee to be mine. Cain. I must away with him. Adah. And leave us ? [ 221 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Cain, Ay. Adah. And me ? Cain. Beloved Adah ! Adah. Let me go witli thee. Lucifer. No, she must not. Adah. Who Art thou that steppest between heart and heart ? Cain. He is a god. Adah. How know^st thou ? Cain. He speaks like A god. Adah. So did the serpent, and it lied. [ 222 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Lucifer. Thou errest, Adah ! — was not the tree that Of knowledge ? Adah. Ay — to our eternal sorrow. Lucifer, And yet that grief is knowledge — so he lied not : And if he did betray you, 'i was with truth ; And truth in its own essence cannot be But good. Adah. But all we know of it has gathered Evil on ill : expulsion from our home. And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness ; Eemorse of that which was — and hope of that Which Cometh not. Cain ! walk not with this spirit. Bear with what we have borne, and love me — I Love thee. Lucifer. More than thy mother and thy sire ? Adah. I do. Is that a sin, too ? Lucifer. No, not yet : It one day will be in your children. [ 223 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Adah. What ! Mast not my daughter love her brother Enoch ? Lucifer, Not as thou lovest Cain. Adah. Oh, my God ! Shall they not love and bring forth things that love Out of their love ? have they not drawn their milk Out of this bosom ? was not he, their father, Born of the same sole womb, in the same hour With me ? did we not love each other ? and In multiplying our being multiply ThhiECs which will love each other as we love Them ? — And as I love thee, my Cain ! go not Forth with this spirit ; he is not of ours. Lucifer. The sin I speak of is not of my making, And cannot be a sin in you — whatever It seem in those who will replace ye in Mortality. Adah. What is the sin which is not Sin in itself ? Can circumstance make sin Or virtue ? — if it doth, we are the slaves Of — [ 224 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Lucifer, Higher things than ye are slaves : and higher Than them or ye would be so, did they not Prefer an independency of torture To the smooth agonies of adulation, In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking prayers, To that which is omnipotent, because It is omnipotent, and not from love, But terror and self-hope. Adah. Omnipotence Must be all goodness. Lucifer, Was it so in Eden? Adah. Fiend ! tempt me not with beauty ; thou art fairer Than was the serpent, and as false. Lucifer, As true. Ask Eve, your mother : bears she not the knowledge Of good and evil ? Adah. Oh, my mother ! thou Hast plucks a fruit more fatal to thine offspring Than to thyself ; thou at the least hast passM 15 [ 225 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent And happy intercourse with happy spirits : But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, Are girt about by demons, wlio assume The words of God and tempt us with our own Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou Wert worked on by the snake in thy most flush'd And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. I cannot answer this immortal thing Which stands before me; I cannot abhor him; I look upon him with a pleasing fear. And yet I fly not from him : in his eye There is a fastening attraction which Pixes my fluttering eyes on his ; my heart Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me near. Nearer, and nearer : — Cain — Cain — save me from him ! Cain, What dreads my Adah ? This is no ill spirit. Adah, He is not God — nor God's : I have beheld The cherubs and the seraphs ; he looks not Like them. Cain. But there are spirits loftier still — The archangels. Lucifer, And still loftier than the archangels. Adah. Ay — but not blessed. [ 226 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Lucifer. If the blessedness Consists in slavery — no. Adah. I have heard it said. The seraphs love most — cherubim knoio most ; And this should be a cherub — since he loves not. Lucifer. And if the higher knowledge quenches love, What must he he you cannot love when known ? Since the all-knoAving cherubim love least, The seraphs^ love can be but ignorance : That they are not compatible, the doom Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since there is No other choice. Your sire has chosen already ; His worship is but fear. Adah. Oh, Cain ! choose love. Cain. For thee, my Adah, I choose not — it was Born with me — but I love nought else. Adah. Our parents ? Cain. Did they love us when they snatched from the tree That which hath driven us all from Paradise ? [ 227 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Adah. We were not born then — and if we had been, Should we not love them and our children, Cain ? Cain. My little Enoch ! and his lisping sister ! Could I but deem them happy, I would half Forget — but it can never be forgotten Through thrice a thousand generations ! never Shall men love the remembrance of the man Who sow^d the seed of evil and mankind In the same hour ! They pluck^l the tree of science. And sin — and not content with their own sorrow, Begot me — thee — and all the few that are, And all the unnumbered and innumerable Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be, To inherit agonies accumulated By ages ! — and / must be sire of such things ! Thy beauty and thy love — my love and joy. The rapturous moment and the placid hour, All we love in our children and each other. But lead them and ourselves through many years Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, Intercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure, To Death — the unknown! Methinks the tree of knowledge Hath not fulfilPd its promise : ■ — if they sinnM, At least they ought to have known all things that are Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. [ 228 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 What do they know ? — that they are miserable. What need of snakes and fruits to teach ns that ? Adah, I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou Wert happy — Cain. Be thou happy, then, alone — I will have nought to do with happiness. Which humbles me and mine. Adah. Alone I could not, Nor wo2dd be happy : but with those around us, I think I could be so, despite of death, Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though It seems an awful shadow — if I may Judge from what I have heard. Lucifer. And thou couldst not Alone J thou say'st, be happy ? Adah. Alone ! Oh, my God ! Who could be happy and alone, or good ? To me my solitude seems sin ; unless When I think how soon I shall see my brother. His brother, and our children, and our parents. Lucifer. Yet thy God is alone ; and is he happy, Lonely, and good ? [ 229 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Adah. He is not so ; he hath The angels and the mortals to make happy. And thus becomes so in diffusing joy. What else can joy be, but the spreading joy ? Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh from Eden ; Or of his first-born son : ask your own heart ; It is not tranquil. Adah. Alas, no ! and you — Are you of heaven ? Lucifer. If I am not, enquire The cause of this all-spreading happiness (Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good Maker of life and living things ; it is His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear. And some of us resist, and both in vain. His seraphs say ; but it is worth the trial. Since better may not be without. There is A wisdom in the spirit, which directs To right, as in the dim blue air the eye Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon The star which w^atches, welcoming the morn. Adah. It is a beautiful star ; I love it for Its beauty. [ 230 ] THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 Lucifer. And why not adore ? Adah. Our father Adores the Invisible only. Lucifer, But the symbols Of the Invisible are the loveliest Of what is visible ; and yon bright star Is leader of the host of heaven. Adah. Our father Saith that he has beheld the God himself Who made him and our mother. Lucifer. Hast ihou seen him ? Adah. Yes — in his works. Jjucifer. But in his being ? Adah. No — Save in my father, who is God's own image; Or in his angels, who are like to thee — And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful In seeming : as the silent sunny noon, All light, they look upon us ; but thou seem'st [ 231 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds Streak the deep purple, and unnumbered stars Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault With things that look as if they would be suns ; So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing, Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them, They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. [ S32 1 THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 "PORTRAIT of Byron painted by Vincenzo Camuccini. Now in eallerv of S. Luca, Rome. THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 PISA : LEGHORN: GENOA INTRODUCTORY yfT about the time of Byron's removal to Pisa, ^/g tlie three dramas — ^' Sardanapalus,'' ''The Two Foscari,'' and *' Cain " — were published together i/n a single volume, " Cain " aroused at once a tremendous outcry. Although Goethe praised it extravagantly and Shelley called it " apocalyptic,'^ Byron's countrymen in England denounced it as blasphemous, devilish, satanic, and every similar adjective in the language. Abuse was heaped not only on author, but on publisher. John Murray not only was attacked in journals and pamphlets, but he was also threatened with prosecution in the courts for " disseminating moral poison." Jeffrey, in the " Edinburgh Review," called it " an argument di- rected against the goodness and power of the Deity and against the reasonableness of religion in general." Tliis was the attitude of the English public at large. Byron, in his early letters to his friends from Pisa, makes eloquent defence. To the reader of " Cain," in the year 1906, when so many things in controversy in 1822 have become accepted beliefs, the excitement seems out of all pro- [ 235 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY 'portion to the cause. " Cain " was indeed a protest against the prevailing theology of the day; but Wordsworth had already led the way by his revolt against the mechanical interpretation of the universe, Shelley was prophesying a regeneration through the gentle means of faithfulness and love, and Byron's note, although of sterner and more defiant tone, was in unison with these other poets, and with advanced thinkers generally. With the publication of Byron^s next drama, " Werner,"" his connection with Murray as publisher and, except at rare intervals, as correspondent, is at an end. Murray had no wish to encounter fresh obloquy by publishing the new cantos (VI— XI) of " Don Juan," and he held the manuscript of " The Vision of Judgment *' so long that Byron naturally grew impatient and recalled it. The copyrights of future poems were transferred to John Hunt. But by this time that " Journal of his own," of which he had been dreaming for years, and for which he and Shelley had been preparing the way for months, was now ready, and the first issue of " The Liberal " appeared October 15, 1822. The articles from Byron were " The Vision of Judgment," a prose " Letter to the Editor of * My Grandmother's Re- view ' " (the British), and some " Epigrams on Lord Castlereagh." Shelley, whose death, however, occurred before the day of publication, had contributed " May- day Night," a translation from Goethe's '* Faust "; [ 236 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 the remainder of the articles were hy the editor, LeigJi Hunt. It was published in England hy the editor's brother, John Hunt, and it was at once -fiercely at- tacked on all sides. The " Literary Gazette " in describing its contents said, " Lord Byron has con- tributed impiety, vulgarity, inhumanity, and heart- lessness; Mr. Shelley, a burlesque upon Goethe; and Mr. Leigh Hunt, conceit, trumpery, ignorance, and wretched verse.'' The daily press was even more vio- lent, " The Courier " calling it a " scoundrel-like pub- lication,'' " a foul blot upon our national literature." The periodical was short-lived, ceasing with its fourth number in July, 1823;^ — were any similar number of pages ever printed at a greater price of happiness, friendship, even life itself? Leigh Hunt with invalid wife and seven children had been brought from Eng- land and settled in the lower floor of Byron's palace at Pisa, where the two families speedily became so obnoxious to each other that future co-operation be- came almost impossible; the voyage which cost Shelley his life was made in returning to his own home after going to greet his friend and to help establish him in his new home; and Leigh Hunt, after the deaths of both his partners, found himself and family stranded, almost a beggar, in a foreign land. But notwithstanding all misadventures, the nearly two years which Byron spent at Pisa, including his summer residence at Leghorn, are the years of his life which the admirers of his poetry can regard with [ 237 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY least apology. He had the daily companionship of Shelley — Byron was always at his best with Shelley — and the rest of that congenial company which in- cluded Edward and Jane Williams, Medwin, Trelaw- ney, Taafe, and, of course, the Gamhas. West, the American artist who painted his portrait at that time, says, " Upon the whole, I left him with an impression that he possessed an excellent heart which had been misconstrued on all hands from little else than a reck- less levity of manners which he took a whimsical pride in opposing to those of other people. ^^ Byron's household continued to be carefully watched at Pisa, as it had been at Ravenna, by the agents of the Austrian government. An Italian version of " The Prophecy of Dante'' had appeared, and was declared " not written in the spirit of our Government or any Italian Government. Lord Byron makes Dante his spokesman and the prophet of democratic independ- ence, as if this were the salvation of Italy," etc., etc. Moreover, a street riot, beginning between the servants of the Byron household and a Pisan sergeant-major, ended by involving both servants and masters in a trial at court which dragged on for several weeks. The government being anxious to be rid of the whole party took advantage of this and a subsequent offence against local laws at the Leghorn villa to warn the Gambas that unless they left the country within three days formal sentence of banishment would be passed upon them. A respite of a few days was granted, [ 238 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 however^ hut in July^ 1822, they took 'passports for Genoa; thither Byron followed them in the month of September. The new home was the Villa Saluzzo at Albaro, about two miles from Genoa. Here Byron continued ''Don Juan,'' with cantos XII— XVI, and wrote also another satire, *' The Age of Bronze,'' an idyllic tale of the South Seas, and " The Island." Here also he was visited by Captain Blaquiere sent by a London Committee to urge him to take command of an expedition to Greece to aid in the war for Greek independence. Byron could not long resist an appeal so flattering as well as so congenial, and after but little hesitation consented, sailing July H, 1823, With the remaining nine months of his life, until his death on the 19th of April, 182^, this volume is not concerned. Politics and war now usurped the place of poetry; his correspondence henceforth relates almost exclusively to procuring from England every penny of his income for the cause he had at heart; his whole energy is given to mitigating the necessary horrors of war, and to introducing humanity in the treatment of prisoners. " Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it "; hard men, comparative strangers, wept over his death, and the Greek Governor-General confessed his own inadequacy to his task when left without his chief counsellor. A monument in Athens commemorates Byron's [ 239 ] WITH BYRON LN ITALY memory; hut neither the Greek wish — that he might he huried in the temple of Theseus — nor his own — to he huried in Italian soil — was granted, and the hody was taken to England in the expectation that it would he placed in Westminster Abbey. This being denied by the Dean of the Abbey, Byron was laid to rest among his ancestors in the village church of Hucknall Torkard, near Nottingham, A mural tab- let, placed by his half-sister, is inscribed to his mem- ory. There is no epitaph; but he who seeks this spot will recall there Shelley^ s lines from ^^Adonais "; Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like Heaven was bent An early but enduring monument. FROM '^DETACHED THOUGHTS'' 1. Oh ! talk not to me of a name great in story ; The days of our Youth are the days of our Glory, And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two and twenty Are worth all your laurels though ever so plenty. 2. "What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled ? 'T is but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled : Then away with all such from the head that is hoary, What care I for the wreaths that can o?zl^ give Glory ? [ MO ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 3. Oh ! Fame ! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'T was less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear One discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 4. There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; Her Glance was the best of the rays that surround thee. When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was Glory. I composed these stanzas (except the fourth, added now) a few days ago, on the road from Florence to Pisa. Pisa, Nov. 6'^^ 1821. TO JOHN MUREAY Pisa, December 4, 1821. I have got here into a famous old feudal palazzo on the Arno, large enough for a garrison, with dungeons below and cells in the walls, and so full of Ghosts^ that the learned Fletcher (my valet) has begged leave to change his room, and then refused to occupy his new room, because there were more ghosts there than in the other. It is quite true that there are most extraordinary noises (as in all old buildings), which have terrified the servants so as to incommode me extremely. There is one place where people were evidently walled up ; for there is but one possible passage, broken through the wall, and then meant to be closed again upon the inmate. The house 16 [ 241 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY belonged to the Lanfraiiclii family. (the same mentioned by Ugolino in his dream, as his persecutor with Sismondi), and has had a fierce owner or two in its time. The stair- case, etc., is said to have been built by Michel Agnolo (sic). It is not yet cold enough for a fire. What a climate ! I am, however, bothered about these spectres (as they say the last occupants were, too), of whom I have as yet seen nothing, nor, indeed, heard {inyself) \ but all the other ears have been regaled by all kinds of supernatural sounds. The first night I thought I heard an odd noise, but it has not been repeated. I have now been here more than a month. Yours, Byron. TO SIR WALTER SCOTT Pisa, January 12, 1822. I am glad you accepted the inscription.^ I meant to have inscribed The Foscarmi to you instead ; but, first, I heard that Cain was thought the least bad of the two as a composition ; and, 2dly, I have abused Southey like a pickpocket, in a note to The Foscarini, and I recollected that he is a friend of yours (though not of mine), and tliat it would not be the handsome thing to dedicate to one friend anything containing such matters about another. However, I ''11 work the Laureate before I have done with 1 Tlio dedication of " Cain." [ 242 ] ►ALAZZO Lanfranchi, now called Toscanelli. Design attributed to Michel Ansrelo. Byron s residence in Pisa. — See Letter to John Murray, p. 241. THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 liim^ as soon as I can muster Billingsgate therefor. I like a row, and always did from a boy, in the course of which propensity, I must needs say, that I have found it the most easy of all to be gratified, personally and poetically. You disclaim " jealousies ^^ ; but I would ask, as Boswell did of Johnson, "of ivliom could you be jealous?" — of none of the living certainly, and (taking all and all into consideration) of which of ihx^ dead ? I don't like to bore you about the Scotch novels (as they call them, though two of them are wholly English, and the rest half so), but noth- ing can or could ever persuade me, since I was the first ten minutes in your company, that you are not the man. To me those novels have so much of " Auld lang syne '' (I was bred a canny Scot till ten years old), that I never move w^ithout them ; and when I removed from Ravenna to Pisa the other day, and sent on my library before, they were the only books that I kept by me, although I already have them by heart. January 27, 1822. I delayed till now concluding, in the hope that I should have got The F irate, who is under way for me, but has not yet hove in sight. I hear that your daughter is mar- ried, and I suppose by this time you are half a grand- father — a young one, by the way. I have heard great things of Mrs. Lockhart's j^ersonal and mental charms, and much good of her lord : that you may live to see as many novel Scotts as there are Scott's novels, is the very bad pun, but sincere wish of Yours ever most affectionately, etc. [ 243 ] WITH BYROx\ IN ITALY P. S. — Why don't you take a turn in Italy? You would find yourself as well known and as welcome as in the Highlands among the natives. As for the English, you would be with them as in London ; and I need not add, that I should be delighted to see you again, which is far more than I shall ever feel or say for England, or (with a few exceptions " of kith, kin, and allies '') any- thing that it contains. But my "heart warms to the tartan," or to anything of Scotland, which reminds me of Aberdeen and other parts, not so far from the High- lands as that town, about Livercauld and Braemar, where I was sent to drink goat's/*^^ in 1795-6, in consequence of a threatened decline after the scarlet fever. But I am gossiping, so, good-night — and the gods be with your dreams ! Pray, present my respects to Lady Scott, who may, perhaps, recollect having seen me in town in 1815. I see that one of your supporters (for, like Sir Hilde- brand, I am fond of Guillim) is a mermaid ; it is my crest too, and with precisely the same curl of tail. There 's concatenation for you : — I am building a little cutter at Genoa, to go a-cruising in the summer. I know i/ou like the sea, too. TO JOHN MURRAY Pisa, Fy S^*^ 1822. Dear Sir, — Attacks upon me were to be expected ; but I perceive one upon ^ou in the papers, which I con- fess that I did not expect. How, or in what manner, [ 244 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 yoti ^ can be considered responsible for M^mt / publish, I am at a loss to conceive. If Cain be " blasphemous/-' Paradise Lost is "blasphe- mous/^ and the very words of the Oxford Gentleman, "Evil, be thou my Good^'' are from that very poem, from the mouth of Satan ; and is there anything more in that of Lucifer in the Mystery ? Cai)i is nothing more than a drama, not a piece of argument : if Lucifer and Cain speak as the first Murderer and the first Eebel may be supposed to speak, surely all the rest of the personages talk also according to their characters — and the stronger passions have ever been permitted to the drama. I have even avoided introducing the Deity, as in Scripture (though Milton does, and not very wisely either) ; but have adopted his Angel as sent to Cain instead, on purpose to avoid shocking any feelings on the subject by falling short of what all uninspired men must fall short in, viz., giving an adequate notion of the effect of the presence of Jehovah. The Old Mysteries intro- duced him liberally enough, and all this is avoided in the New one. The Attempt to bulli/ you, because they think it won^t succeed with me, seems to me as atrocious an attempt as ever disgraced the times. What ? when Gibbon^s, Hume's, Priestley's, and Drummond's publishers have been al- lowed to rest in peace for seventy years, are you to be ^ As the publisher of " Cain," Murray had been attacked in a pamphlet called "A Remonstrance " signed " Oxoniensis." The writer took the posi- tion : " You are responsible to that society whose institutions you con- tribute to destroy ; and to those individuals whose dearest hopes you insult, and would annihilate." [ 245 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY singled out for a work of fiction^ not of history or argu- ment? There must be something at the bottom of this — some private enemy of your own: it is otherwise incredible. I can only say, Me, me ; en adsum qiiifeci, — that any proceedings directed against you, I beg, may be transferred to me, who am willing, and ought, to endure them all > that if you have lost money by the publication, I will refund any or all of the Copyright; that I desire you will say, that both i/oii and Mr. Gijford remonstrated against the publication, as also Mr. Hobhouse ; that / alone occa- sioned it, and I alone am the person who, either legally or otherwise, should bear the burthen. If they prosecute, I will come to England — that is, if, by meeting it in my own person, I can save yours. Let me know : you sha'n't suffer for me, if 1 can help it. — Make any use of this letter which you please. Yours ever, Byron. P. S. — You will now perceive that it was as well for you, that I have decided upon changing my publisher; though that was not my motive, but dissatisfaction at one or two things in your conduct, of no great moment perhaps even then. But now, all such things disappear in my regret at having been unintentionally the means of getting you into a scrape. Be assured that no momentary irrita- tion (at real or supposed omissions or commissions) shall ever prevent me from doing you justice when you deserve it, or that I will allow you (if I can avoid it), to partici- pate in any odium or persecution, which ought to fall on [ 246 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 me only. I had been laughing with some of my corre- spondents at the rumours, etc., till I saw this assault upon you ; and I should at that too, if I did not think that it may perhaps hurt your feelings or your business. When you. re-publish (if you do so) The Foscari, etc., etc., to the note upon Southey add Mr. Southey's ansiver (which was in the papers) : this is but fair play ; and I do not desire it out of an affected contempt. What my rejoinder to him will be, is another concern, and is not for publication. Let me have your answer : remember ore to Gilford, and do not forget to state that both you and he objected to publishing Cain in its present form. As for what the Clergyman says of Bon Juan, you have brought it upon yourself by your absurd half and half prudery, which, I always foresaw, would bother you at last. An author^s not putting his name, is nothing — it has been always the custom to publish a thousand anony- mous things ; but who ever heard before of a publisher'' s affecting such a Masquerade as yours was ? However, now, you may put my name to the Juans, if you like it, though it is of the latest to be of use to you. I always stated to you, that m?/ only objection was, in case of the law deciding against you, tliat they would annihilate my guardianship of the Child. But now (as you really seem in a damned scrape), they may do what they like with me, so that I can get you out of it : but, cheer up : though I have "led my ragamuffins where they are well ^peppered,' ''■' I will stick by them as long as they will keep the field. I write to you about all this row of bad passions and absurdities with the Summer Moon (for here our Winter [ 247 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY is clearer than your Dog days) lighting the winding Arno, with all her buildings and bridges, so quiet and still ! — What Nothings we are before the least of these Stars ! TO THOMAS MOORE Pisa, March 4, 1822. With respect to " Eeligion/^ can I never convince you that / have no such opinions as the characters in tliat drama,-^ which seems to have frightened everybody ? Yet they are nothing to the expressions in Goethe's Faust (which are ten times hardier), and not a whit more bold than those of Milton's Satan. My ideas of a character may run away with me : like all imaghiative men, I, of course, embody myself with the character while I draw it, hut not a moment after the pen is from off the paper. I am no enemy to religion, but the contrary. As a proof, I am educating my natural daughter a strict Catholic in a convent of Eomagna j for I think people can never have enottgh of religion, if they are to have any. I incline, myself, very much to the Catholic doctrines ; but if I am to write a drama, I must make my characters speak as I conceive them likely to argue. As to poor Shelley,^ who is another bugbear to you and the world, he is, to my knowledge, the least selfish and the mildest of men — a man who has made more sacrifices of his fortune and feelings for others than any 1 "Cain." 2 Moore had attributed the tone of " Cain " to Shelley's influence. [ MS ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 I ever heard of. With his speculative opinions I have nothing in common, nor desire to have. Tlie truth is, m}^ dear Moore, you live near the stove of society, wliere you are unavoidably influenced by its heat and its vapours. I did so once — and too much — and enough to give a colour to my whole future existence. As my success in society was not inconsiderable, I am surely not a prejudiced judge upon the subject, unless in its favour ; but I think it, as now constituted, /^^/^^ to all great original undertakings of every kind. I never courted it then, when I was young and high in blood, and one of its '' curled darlings '' ; and do you think I would do so nowy when I am living in a clearer atmosphere? One thing ouli/ might lead me back to it, and that is, to try once more if I could do any good in politics ; but not in the petty politics I see now preying upon our miserable country. Do not let me be misunderstood, however. If you speak your own opinions, they ever had, and will have, the greatest weight with me. But if you merely echo the monde (and it is difficult not to do so, being in its favour and its ferment), I can only regret that you should ever repeat anything to which I cannot pay attention. But I am prosing. The gods go with you, and as much immortality of all kinds as may suit your present and all other existence. [ 249 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY TO JOHN MURRAY Pisa, March 15tli, 1822. As to " a poom in the old way to interest the women/'' as yon call it, I shall attempt of that kind nothing further. I follow the bias of my own mind, without considering whether women or men are or are not to be pleased. But this is nothing to my publisher, who must judge and act according to popularity. Therefore let the things take their chance : if tJiei/ pay^ you will pay me in proportion ; and if they donH, I must. The Noel affairs, I hope, will not take me to England. I have no desire to revisit that country, unless it be to keep you out of a prison (if this can be effected by my taking your place), or perhaps to get myself into one, by exacting satisfaction from one or two persons who take advantage of my absence to abuse me. Further than this, I have no business nor connection with England, nor desire to have, out of my own family and friends, to whom I wish all prosperity. Indeed, I have lived upon the whole so little in England (about five years since I was one and twenty), that my habits are too continental, and your climate would please me as little as the Society. I saw the Chancellor's report^ in a Erench paper. Pray, why don't they prosecute the translation of Lucre- tius or the original, with its " Primus in orbe Deos fecit Timor, " or " Tantum Religio potuit suadere Malorum ? " ^ Couceruing the prosecution for pubhcation of " Caiu." [ 250 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 I have only seen one review of the book^ and tliat was in Galignani^s magazine, quoted from the MontJily. It was very favourable to the plays, as Compositions. TO JOHN MUHEAY MoNTENERO, iicai* Lcglioru, May 26, 1822. Since I came here, I have been invited by the Ameri- cans on board of their Squadron, where I was received with all the kindness which I could wish, and with more ceremony than I am fond of. I found them finer ships than your own of the same class, well manned and officered. A number of American gentlemen also were on board at the time, and some ladies. As I was taking leave, an American lady asked me for a rose which I wore, for the purpose, she said, of sending to America something which I had about me, as a memorial. I need not add, that I felt the compliment properly. Captain Chauncey showed me an American and very pretty edition of my poems, and offered me a passage to the United States, if I would go there. Commodore Jones was also not less kind and attentive. I have since received the enclosed letter, desir- ing me to sit for my picture for some Americans.^ It is 1 " Leghorn, 25t^ May, 1822. " Casa del Cousole Olandese, San Marco. " My Lord, — If Captain Chauncey of the U. S. Ship Ontario had not left Leghorn a day sooner than he expected, it was his intention to have communicated in person the substance of this note. " Lord Chatham, in the British Senate, and the Eulogist of Washing- ton, are solitary examples in English Literatui-e of those who have done justice to our character. My friend Mr. West of Mississippi, a student in the Academy at Florence, has been desired to request permission to paint a [ 251 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY singular that, in the same year that Lady Noel ^ leaves by will an interdiction for my daughter to see her father's portrait for many years, the individuals of a nation, not remarkable for their liking to the English in particular, nor for flattering men in general, request me to sit for my " pourtraicture,"*' as Baron Bradwardine calls it. I am also told of considerable literary honours in Germany. Goethe, I am told, is my professed patron and protector. At Leipsic, this year, the highest prize was proposed for a translation of two Cantos of Childe Harold. I am not sure that this was at Leipsic, but Mr. Bancroft ^ was my authority — a good German Scholar (a young American), and an acquaintance of Goethe's. Goethe and the Germans are particularly fond of Bon Juan, which they judge of as a work of Art. I had heard something like this before through Baron Lutzerode. The translations have been very frequent of several of the portrait of your Lordship for the Academy of Fine Arts at New York. I would not have ventured to intrude this request upon your Lordship's patience — if I did not know how much we should value in our own country a portrait of Lord Byron painted hy an American, who has already obtained at home some reputation in his art. I beg your Lordship to attribute whatever might appear rude or unreasonable in this note to anything other than to a want of the great respect with which " I have the honor to be "Your Lordship's Mo. Ob*. Serv*. " Geokge H. Buuen, of New York. "TotheRt. Hou^'e Lord Byron, Montenero." 1 The maternal grandmother of Byron's daughter Ada. 2 In the Lenox Library, New York, is a duodecimo edition of Bon Juan, with the inscription, "Mr. George Bancroft. From the Author Noel Byron, May 22, 1822." [ S52 ] T\7'ILLIAM E. WEST'S Portrait of Byron. THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 worksj and Goethe made a comparison between Faust and Man/red. All this is some compensation for your English native brutality, so fully displayed this year (I mean not your individually) to its brightest extent. TO THOMAS MOOEE MoNTENERo, ViLLA DuPUY, near Leghorn, June 8, 1822. I have read the recent article of Jeffrey in a faithful transcription of the impartial Galignani. I suppose the long and short of it is, that he wishes to provoke me to reply. But I won't, for I owe him a good turn still for his kindness by-gone. Indeed, I presume that the present opportunity of attacking me again was irresistible; and I can't blame him, knowing what human nature is. I shall make but one remark : — wdiat does he mean by elaborate ? ^ The whole volume was written with the greatest rapidity, in the midst of evolutions, and revolutions, and persecu- tions, and proscriptions of all who interested me in Italy. They said the same of Lara, which, yoif^ know, was written amidst balls and fooleries, and after coming home from masquerades and routs, in the summer of the sovereigns. Of all I have ever written, they are perhaps the most carelessly composed; and their faults, whatever they may 1 In Jeffrey's review of "Cain," lie liad said "The whole argument — and a very elaborate and specious argument it is — is directed against the goodness or the power of the Deity, and against the reasonableness of religion in general ; and there is no answer so much as attempted to the offensive doctrines that arc so strenuously inculcated." [ 253 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY be, are those of negligence, and not of labour. I do not think this a merit, but it is a fact. Yours ever and truly, N. B. P. S. — You see the great advantage of my new signa- ture ; — it may either stand for " Nota Bene '^ or " Noel Byron,^^ and, as such, will save much repetition, in writing either books or letters. Since I came here, I have been invited on board of the American squadron, and treated with all possible honour and ceremony. They have asked me to sit for my picture ; and, as I was going away, an American lady took a rose from me (which had been given to me by a very pretty Italian lady that very morning), because, she said, " She was determined to send or take something which I had about me to America."*^ There is a kind of Lalla Rookh incident for you ! However, all these American honours arise, perhaps, not so much from their enthusiasm for my '' Poeshic '' as their belief in my dislike to the English, — in which I have the satisfaction to coincide with them. I would rather, however, have a nod from an American, than a simff'-box from an emperor.^ TO ISAAC DISEAELI MoNTENERO, ViLLA DupuY, 11? Leghorn, June 10, 1822. I really cannot know whether I am or am not the Genius you are pleased to call me, but I am very willing 1 Lady Holland had hcen left a snuff-box by Napoleon, which had been given to him by the Pope for his clemency in sparing Rome. [ 254 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 to put up with the mistake, if it be one. It is a title dearly enough bought by most men, to render it endurable, even when not quite clearly made out, which it never can be till the Posterity, whose decisions are merely dreams to ourselves, has sanctioned or denied it, while it can touch us no further. Mr. Murray is in possession of an MSS. Memoir of mine (not to be published till I am in my grave) which, strange as it may seem, I never read over since it was written and liave no desire to read over again. In it I have told what, as far as I know, is the truth — not the whole truth — for if I had done so I must have involved much private and some dissipated history ; but, neverthe- less, nothing but the truth, as far as regard for others permitted it to appear. I do not know whether you have seen those MSS. ; but as you are curious in such things as relate to the human mind, I should feel gratified if you had. I also sent him (Murray) a few days since, a common- place book, by my friend Lord Clare, containing a few things which may perhaps aid his publication in case of his surviving me. If there are any questions which you would like to ask me as connected Avith your Philosophy of the literary Mind {jf mine be a literary mind), I will answer them fairly or give a reason for not — good, bad, or indifferent. At present I am paying the penalty of having helped to spoil the public taste, for, as long as I wrote in the false exaggerated style of youth and the times in which we live, they applauded me to the very echo ; and within [ 255 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY these few years, when I have endeavoured at better things and written what I suspect to have the principle of duration in it, the Church, the Chancellor, and all men — even to my grand patron Francis Jeffrey Esq'f of the E. R. — have risen up against me and my later publi- cations. Such is Truth ! Men dare not look her in the face, except by degrees : they mistake her for a Gorgon, instead of knowing her to be a Minerva. I do not mean to apply this mythological simile to my own endeavours. I have only to turn over a few pages of your volumes to find innumerable and far more illustrious instances. It is lucky that I am of a temper not to be easily turned aside though by no means difficult to irritate. But I am making a dissertation instead of ^'riting a letter. I write to you from the Yilla Diipuy, near Leghorn, with the islands of Elba and Corsica visible from my balcony, and my old friend the Mediterranean rolling blue at my feet. As long as I retain my feeling and my passion for Nature, I can partly soften or subdue my other passions and resist or endure those of others. I have the honour to be, truly, your obhged and faithful Ser^, Noel Byron. TO THOMAS MOORE Pisa, July 12, 1822. Leigh Hunt is here, after a voyage of eight months, during which he has, I presume, made the Periplus of [ %5Q ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 Hanno the Carthaginian,^ and with much the same speed. He is setting up a Journal, to which I have promised to contribute ; and in the first number the Vision of Judg- ment, by Quevedo Eedivivus, will probably appear, with other articles. Can you give us anything ? He seems sanguine about the matter, but {entre nous) I am not. I do not, how- ever, like to put him out of spirits by saying so ; for he is bilious and unwell. Do, pray, answer this letter immediately. Do send Hunt anything in prose or verse of yours, to start him handsomely — any lyrical, iricdX, or what you please. TO JOHN MUERAY Pisa, August 3, 1822. I presume you have heard that Mr. Shelley and Capt. Williams were lost on the Tth^ ul*.° in their passage from Leghorn to Spczia in their own open boat. You may imagine the state of their families. I never saw such a scene, nor wish to see such another. You were all brutally mistaken about Shelley who was, without exception, the best and least selfish man I 1 The irepitrKovs of Hanno tlie Carthaginian, originally written in the Punic language, and afterwards translated into Greek, was inscribed on a tablet in the Temple of Cronos at Carthage. Hanno was sent on a mission beyond the Pillars of Hercules, to found Libyphoenician towns. '^ Au error. This disaster occurred on the 8th of July. n [ 257 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY ever knew. I never knew one who was not a beast in comparison. TO THOMAS MOOEE Pisa, August 27, 1822. We have been burning the bodies of Shelley and Williams on tlie sea-shore, to render them fit for removal and regular interment. You can have no idea what an extraordinary effect such a funeral pile has, on a desolate shore, with mountains in the background and the sea before, and the singular appearance the salt and frankin- cense gave to the flame. All of Shelley was consumed except his heart, which would not take the flame, and is now preserved in spirits of wine. Leigh Hunt is sweating articles for his new Journal ; and both lie and I think it somewhat shabby in you not to contribute. Will you become one of the properriolers ? "Do, and we go snacks." I recommend you to think twice before you respond in the negative. I have nearly {/inite three) four new cantos of Bon Juan ready. I obtained permission from the female Cen- sor Mornni^ of my morals to continue it, provided it were immaculate; so I have been as decent as need be. There is a deal of war — a siege, and all that, in the style, 1 Countess Guiccioli, who had exacted Byron's promise to write no more cantos of " Don Juan," on the completion of Canto V. [ 258 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 graphical and teclinical, of the shipwreck m Canto Second, which " took/' as they say in the E,ow. Yours, etc. P. S. — That . . . Galignani has about ten lies in one paragraph. It was not a Bible that was found in Shelley's pocket, but John Keats's poems. However, it would not have been strange, for he was a great admirer of Scripture as a composition. / did not send my bust to the academy of New York ; but I sat for my picture to young West,^ an American artist, at the request of some members of that Academy to 1dm that he would take my portrait, — for the Academy, I believe. I had, and still have, thoughts of South America, but am fluctuating between it and Greece. FROM "DON JUAN," CANTO I Wanted — A Hero I I WANT a hero : an uncommon want. When every year and month sends forth a new one. Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant. The age discovers he is not the true one ; 1 William Edward West (1788-1857) went to Italy in 1819 to study art. The artist wx-ote to his father after completing Byron's picture — " His friends say it is the only likeness ever taken of him, all the others being ideal heads." Several replicas are in existence. The original, Avitli the portrait of Countess Guiccioli made at the same time, is said to be owned by Mr. Joy of Hartham Park, Wilts. [ 259 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, I ■'11 therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan — We all have seen him, in the pantomime, Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. II Yernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe, Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk. And fiird their sign posts then, like Wellesley now ; Each in their turn like Banquo^s monarchs stalk. Followers of fame, ^ nine farrow '' of that sow : Prance, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier Eecorded in the Moniteur and Courier. Ill Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Payette, Were French, and famous people, as we know : And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau, With many of the military set. Exceedingly remarkable at times. But not at all adapted to my rhymes. IV Nelson was once Britannia^s god of war. And still should be so, but the tide is tuniM ; There ^s no more to be said of Trafalgar, ■'T is with our hero quietly inurnM j [ 260 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 Because the army 's grown more popular. At which the naval people are concerned ; Besides, the prince is all for the land-service. Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis. Brave men were living before Agamemnon And since, exceeding valorous and sage, A good deal like him too, though quite the same none ; But then they shone not on the poet's page. And so have been forgotten : — I condemn none. But can't find any in the present age Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one) ; So, as I said, I '11 take my friend Don Juan. YI Most epic poets plunge ' in medias res ' (Horace makes this the heroic turn-pike road), And then your liero tells, whene'er you please, What went before — by way of episode. While seated after dinner at his ease. Beside his mistress in some soft abode. Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern. Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. VII That is the usual method, but not mine — My way is to begin with the beginning ; The regularity of my design Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, [ 261 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY And therefore I shall open with a line (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father,, And also of his mother, if you ''d rather. Things Sweet CXXII 'T is sweet to hear At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep The song and oar of Adrians gondolier, By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep ; ^T is sweet to see the evening star appear ; 'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep Erom leaf to leaf ; 't is sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. CXXIII ■'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home ; 'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come ; ''T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark. Or luird by falling waters ; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds. The lisp of children, and their earliest words. CXXIV Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth. Purple and gushing : sweet are our escapes Prom civic revelry to rural mirth ; [ 262 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 Sweet to the miser are his gUttering heaps, Sweet to the father is his first-born^s birth, Sweet is revenge — especially to women. Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen, cxxv Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet The unexpected death of some old lady Or gentleman of seventy years complete, Who \e made ^ us youth ^ wait too — too long already For an estate, or cash, or country seat. Still breaking, but with stamina so steady That all the Israelites are fit to mob its Next owner for their double-damnM post-obits. CXXVI ^T is sweet to win, no matter how, one^s laurels, By blood or ink ; ^t is sweet to put an end To strife ; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend : Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world ; and dear the schoolboy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. CXXVII But sweeter still than this, than these, than all. Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd — all 's known — [ 263 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY And life yields nothing further to recall "Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown. No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Pire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. FEOM "DON JUAN/* CANTO 11 The Shipwreck • »•••• XLIX ^ WAS twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters ; like a veil. Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is maskM but to assail, Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown. And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale. And the dim desolate deep : twelve days Jiad Pear Been their familiar, and now Death was here. L Some trial had been making at a raft, "With little hope in such a rolling sea, A sort of thing at which one would have laughM, If any laughter at such times could be. Unless with people who too much have quaif'd. And have a kind of wild and horrid glee. Half epileptical and half hysterical : — Their preservation would have been a miracle. [ 264 ] ^ a S ? i ■* id THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 LI At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars, And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose. That still could keep afloat the straggling tars. For yet they strove, although of no great use : There was no light in heaven but a few stars, The boats put off overcrowded with their crews ; She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port. And, going down head foremost — sunk, in short. LII Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell — Then shriekM the timid, and stood still the brave. Then some leapM overboard with dreadful yell. As eager to anticipate their grave ; And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell. And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave. Like one w^ho grapples witli his enemy. And strives to strangle him before he die. LIII And first one universal shriek there rush'd. Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd. Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash Of billows ; but at intervals there gushM, Accompanied with a convulsive splash, A sohtary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony. [ 265 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY LIV The boats, as stated, had got off before, And ill them crowded several of the crew ; And yet their present hope was hardly more Than what it had been, for so strong it blew There was slight chance of reacliing any shore ; And then they were too many, though so few Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat. Were counted in them when they got afloat. LX 'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet. That the sail was becalm^ between the seas, Though on the wavers high top too much to set, They dared not take it in for all the breeze : Each sea curFd o'er the stern, and kept them w^t, And made them bale without a moment's ease. So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd. And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. LXI Nine souls more went in her : the long-boat still Kept above water, with an oar for mast. Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast : Though every wave rolFd menacing to fill, And present peril all before surpassed. They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter. And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. [ 266 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 LXII The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign Of the continuance of the gale : to run Before the sea until it should grow fine, Was all that for the present could be done : A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine Were served out to the people, who begun To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags. And most of them had little clothes but rags. LXIII They counted thirty, crowded in a space Which left scarce room for motion or exertion ; They did their best to modify their case, One half sate up, though numbed with the immersion, While toother half were laid down in their place At watch and watch ; thus, shivering like the tertian Ague in its cold fit, they fiird their boat, With nothing but the sky for a great coat. CII Pamine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had done Their work on them by turns, and thimiM them to Such things a mother had not known her son Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew ; By night chilFd, by day scorchM, thus one by one They perish'd, until wither^ to these few, But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter. In washing down Pcdrillo with salt water. [ 267 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY cm As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen Unequal in its aspect here and there^ They felt the freshness of its growing green, That waved in forest-tops, and smoothed the air, And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare Lovely seemM any object that should sweep Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. CIV The shore lookM wild, without a trace of man, And girt by formidable waves ; but they Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran. Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay : A reef between them also now began To show its boiling surf and bounding spray, But finding no place for their landing better, They ran the boat for shore, — and overset her. CV But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont; And having learnt to swim in that sweet river, Had often turned the art to some account : A better swimmer you could scarce see ever. He could, perhaps, have passM the Hellespont, As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) Leander, Mr. Ekenbead, and I did. [ 268 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 CVI So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, He buoyM his boyish limbs, and strove to ply With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark. The beach which lay before him, high and dry : The greatest danger here was from a shark. That carried off his neighbour by the thigh; As for the other two, they could not swim, So nobody arrived on shore but him. CVII Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar. Which, providentially for him, was wasVd Just as his feeble arms could strike no more. And the hard wave o^erwhelmM him as 't was dashed Within his grasp ; he clung to it, and sore The waters beat while he tliereto was lashM ; At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he EolFd on the beach, half-senseless, from the sea : CVTII There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave. From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung, Should suck him back to her insatiate grave : And there he lay, full length, where he was flung. Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave. With just enough of life to feel its pain. And deem that it was saved, perhaps, in vain. [ 269 ] WITH BYRON IiN ITALY CIX With slow and staggering effort he arose, But sunk again upon his bleeding knee And quivering hand ; and then he looked for those Who. long had been his mates upon the sea ; But none of them appearM to share his woes, Save one, a corpse, from out the famisliM three, Who died two days before, and now had found An unknown barren beach for burial ground. CX And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, And down he sunk ; and as he sunk, the sand Swam round and round, and all his senses passM : He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand DroopM dripping on the oar (their jury-mast). And, like a witherM lily, on the land His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, As fair a thing as e'er was formM of clay. CXI How long in his damp trance young Juan lay He knew not, for the earth was gone for him, And Time had nothing more of night nor day For his congealing blood, and senses dim ; xVnd how this heavy faintness pass'd away He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb. And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life. Tor Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife. [ 270 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 CXII His eyes lie open'd, shut, again unclosed. For all was doubt and dizziness ; he thought lie still was in the boat and had but dozed, And felt again with his despair o'er wrought. And wish'd it death in which he had reposed; And then once more his feelings back were brought, And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen A lovely female face of seventeen. CXIII 'T was bending close o'er his, and the small mouth Seem'd almost prying into his for breath ; And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth Ptecall'd his answering spirits back from death; And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe Each pulse to animation, till beneath Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh To these kind efforts made a low reply. CXIV Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair arm Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung ; And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, Pillow'd his death-like forehead ; then she wrung His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm ; And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers, too. [ 271 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY CXV And lifting him with care into the cave, The gentle girl and her attendant, — one Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave. And more robust of figure, — then begun To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave Light to the rocks that roof d them, which the sun Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er She was, appeared distinct, and tall, and fair. CXVI Her brow was overhung with coins of gold. That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair — Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were rolPd In braids behind ; and though her stature were Even of the highest for a female mould. They nearly reached her heel ; and in her air There was a something which bespoke command. As one who was a lady in the land. CXVII Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes Were black as death, their lashes the same hue. Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies Deepest attraction ; for when to the view Eorth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, Ne^'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew ; ^T is as the snake late coilM, who pours his length, And liurls at once his venom and his strength, [ 272 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 CXVIII Her brow was white and low^ her cheek's pure dye Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us sigh Ever to have seen such ; for she was one Fit for the model of a statuary (A race of mere impostors, when all 's done - I Ve seen much finer women, ripe and real, Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal). CXIX I '11 tell you why I say so, for 't is just One should not rail without a decent cause : There was an Irish lady, to whose bust I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was A frequent model ; and if e'er she must Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws. They will destroy a face which mortal thought Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought. cxx And such was she, the lady of the cave : Her dress was very different from the Spanish, Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave ; For, as you know, the Spanish women banish Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave Around them (what I hope will never vanish) The basquina and the mantilla, they Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 18 [ 273 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY CXXI But with our damsel this was not the case : Her dress was many-colourM, finely spun ; Her locks curFd negligently round her face, But through them gold and gems profusely shone : Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace Plowed in her veil, and many a precious stone Plash'd on her little hand ; but, what was shocking,, Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking. CXXH The other female's dress was not unlike. But of inferior materials : she Had not so many ornaments to strike. Her hair had silver only, bound to be Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike. Was coarser; and her air, though firm, less free ; Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her eyes As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. cxxni And these two tended him, and cheerM him both With food and raiment, and those soft attentions. Which are (as I must own) of female growth. And have ten thousand delicate inventions : They made a most superior mess of broth, A thing which poesy but seldom mentions. But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's Achilles ordered dinner for new comers. [ S74 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 CXXIV I '11 tell you who they were^ this female pair, Lest they should seem princesses in disguise ; Besides^, I hate all mystery^ and that air Of clap-trap which your recent poets prize ; And so, in short, the girls they really were They shall appear before your curious eyes. Mistress and maid ; the first was only daughter Of an old man who lived upon the water. CXXV A fisherman he had been in his youth, And still a sort of fisherman was he ; But other speculations were, in sooth, Added to his connection with the sea, Perhaps not so respectable, in truth : A little smuggling, and some piracy. Left him, at last, the sole of many masters Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. CXXVI A fisher, therefore, was he, — though of men. Like Peter the Apostle, — and he fished For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then. And sometimes caught as many as he wishM ; The cargoes he confiscated, and gain He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade. By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. [ 275 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY CXXVII He was a Greek, and on his isle had built (One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) A very handsome house from out his guilt. And there he lived exceedingly at ease ; Heaven knows what cash he got or blood he spilt, A sad old fellow was he, if you please ; But this I know, it was a spacious building, Pull of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. CXXVIII He had an only daughter, calFd Haidee, The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles ; Besides, so very beautiful was she, Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles : Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree She grew to womanhood, and between whiles Eejected several suitors, just to learn How to accept a better in his turn. CXXIX And walking out upon the beach, below The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — Don Juan, almost famishM, and half drown'd; But being naked, she was shocFd, you know. Yet deemed herself in common pity bound. As far as in her lay, " to take him in, A stranger " dying, with so white a skin. [ 276 ] § ^ '^ B^ ^ S" >^ ^ V «c w THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 CXXX But taking him into her father's house Was not exactly the best way to save, But like conveying to the cat the mouse, Or people in a trance into their grave ; Because the good old man had so much '' vov<;" Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, He would have hospitably cured the stranger. And sold him instantly when out of danger. CXXXI And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best (A virgin always on her maid relies) To place him in the cave for present rest : And when, at last, he openM his black eyes. Their charity increased about their guest; And their compassion grew to such a size. It openM half the turnpike-gates to heaven (St. Paul says, 'tis the toll which must be given). cxxxn They made a fire, — but such a fire as they Upon the moment could contrive with such Materials as were cast up round the bay, — Some broken planks, and oars, that to the touch Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch ; But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty. That there was fuel to have furnished twenty. [ 277 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY CXXXIII He had a bed of furs^ and a pelisse, For Haidee stripped her sables off to make His couch ; and, that he might be more at ease, And warm, in case bj chance he should awake, They also gave a petticoat apiece, She and her maid — and promised by daybreak To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish Por breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. CXXXIV And thus they left him to his lone repose : Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, Who sleep at last, perhaps (God only knows). Just for the present ; and in his lulFd head Not even a vision of his former woes Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes spread Unwelcome visions of our former years. Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. cxxxv Young Juan slept all dreamless : — but the maid. Who smooth''d his pillow, as she left the den LooVd back upon him, and a moment stay'd, And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. He slumber'd ; yet she thought, at least she said (The heart will slip, even as the tongue and pen), He had pronounced her name — but she forgot That at this moment Juan knew it not. [ S78 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 FEOM ^^DON JUAN/' CANTO III The Poet LXXVIII And now they were diverted by their suite, Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet. Which made their new establishment complete ; The last was of great fame, and liked to show it : His verses rarely wanted their due feet ; And for his theme — he seldom sung below it, He being paid to satirize or flatter. As the psalm says, " inditing a good matter/' LXXIX He praised the present, and abused the past, Eeversing the good custom of old days, An Eastern anti-jacobin at last He turned, preferring pudding to no praise — For some few years his lot had been o'ercast By his seeming independent in his lays, But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha With truth like Southey, and with verse like Crashaw. LXXX He was a man who had seen many changes. And always clianged as true as any needle ; His polar star being one which rather ranges, And not the fix'd — he knew the way to wheedle : [ 279 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges ; And being fluent (save indeed when feeM ill), He lied with such a fervour of intention — There was no doubt he earned his laureate pension. LXXXI But he had genius, — when a turncoat has it. The " Yates irritabilis '' takes care That without notice few full moons shall pass it ; Even good men like to make the public stare : — But to my subject — let me see — what was it ? — Oh ! — the third canto — and the pretty pair — Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode Of living in their insular abode. LXXXII Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less • In company a very pleasant fellow. Had been the favourite of full many a mess Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow ; And though his meaning they could rarely guess, Yet still they deignM to hiccup or to bellow The glorious meed of popular applause. Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause. LXXXIII But now being lifted into high society. And having pickM up several odds and ends Of free thoughts in his travels for variety. He deemed, being in a lone isle, among friends, [ 280 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 That, without any danger of a riot, he Might for long lying make himself amends ; And, singing as he sung in his warm youth. Agree to a short armistice with truth. LXXXIV He had travelFd ^mongst the Arabs, Turks, and Franks, And knew the self-loves of the different nations ; And having Kved with people of all ranks. Had something ready upon most occasions — Which got him a few presents and some thanks. He varied with some skill his adulations ; To " do at Eome as Romans do," a piece Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. LXXXV Thus, usually, when he was asFd to sing, He gave the different nations something national ; ^Twas all the same to him — " God save the kins;," Or " Qa ira,'' according to the fashion all : His muse made increment of any thing, From the high lyric down to the low rational : If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder Himself from being as pliable as Pindar ? LXXXVI In Prance, for instance, he would write a chanson ; In England a six canto quarto tale ; In Spain, he M make a ballad or romance on The last war — much the same in Portugal ; [ 281 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY In Germany, the Pegasus he ''d prance on Would be old Goethe's (see what says De Stael) ; In Italy he 'd ape the " Trecentisti " ; In Greece, he 'd sing some sort of liymn like this t' ye 1 The isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet. But aU, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse ; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds vrhich echo further west Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 3 The mountains look on Marathon — And Marathon looks on the sea ; And musing there an hour alone, I dream'd that Greece might still be free ; Tor standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations ; — all were his ! He counted them at break of day — And when the sun set where were they .'' [ 282 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 5 And where are they ? and where art tliou, My country ? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now — The heroic bosom beats no more ! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine ? 6 'T is something, in the dearth of fame, Though Hnk'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; For what is left the poet here ? For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 7 Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead ! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae ! 8 What, silent still? and silent all ? Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, " Let one living head. But one arise, — we come, we come ! '* 'T is but the living who are dumb. In vain — in vain : strike other chords , Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! [ 283 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 10 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one ? You have the letters Cadmus gave — Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 11 Pill high the bowl with Samian wine ! We will not think of themes like these ! It made Anacreon's song divine : He served — but served Polycrates — A tyrant ; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. 12 The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; That tyrant was Miltiades I Oh ! that the present hour would leud Another despot of the kind ! Such chains as his were sure to bind. 13 Pill high the bowl with Samian wine ! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore ; Aud there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own. 14 Trust not for freedom to the Pranks — They have a king who buys and sells : In native swords, and native ranks. The only hope of courage dwells ; [ 284 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad. 15 Eill high the bowl with Samian wine ! Our virgins dance beneath the shade — I see their glorious black eyes shine ; But gazing on each glowing maid. My own the burning tear-drop laves To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 16 Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! LXXXVII Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, The modern Greek, in tolerable verse ; If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young, Yet in these times he might have done much worse : Ilis strain displayed some feeling — right or wrong ; And feeling, in a poet, is the source Of others' feeling ; but they are such liars, And take all colours — like the hands of dyers. LXXXVIII But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think ; 'T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses [ 285 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Instead of speech, may form a lasting link Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that ^s his. XCVI But let me to my story : I must own. If I have any fault, it is digression — Leaving my people to proceed alone. While I soliloquize beyond expression; But these are my addresses from the throne. Which put off business to the ensuing session : Forgetting each omission is a loss to The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. XCYII I know that what our neighbors call " longueurs'^' (We \e not so good a word, but have the thing In that complete perfection which ensures An epic from Bob Southey every spring). Form not the true temptation which allures The reader ; but "t would not be hard to bring Some fine examples of the epopee^ To prove its grand ingredient is ennui, XCVIII We learn from Horace, " Homer sometimes sleeps " ; We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes,- To show with what complacency he creeps, With his dear " Waggoners,'"* around his lakes. [ S86 ] ^7'ILLA Borghese, Rome. "^ land Which was the mir/htiest in its old command. And is the loveliest, and must ever he The master-mould of Nature''s heavenly hand. Wherein wei'e cast the heroic and the free. The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and sea. " — Childe Harold, Canto IV, stanza xxv. p. G5. THE YExVRS 1822 AND 1823 He wishes for " a boat '^ to sail the deeps — Of ocean ? — No, of air ; and then he makes Another outcry for ^' a little boat/^ And drivels seas to set it well afloat. XCIX If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain. And Pegasus runs restive in liis " Waggon/' Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain ? Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain. He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon ? C " Pedlars/' and " Boats/' and '' Waggons 1 " Oh ! ye shades Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this ? That trash of such sort not alone evades Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades Of sense and song above your graves may hiss - The " little boatman " and his '' Peter Bell " Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel " 1 CI T' our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves gone. The dwarfs and dancing girls had aU retired ; The Arab lore and poet's song Avere done, And every sound of revelry expired ; [ 287 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY The lady and her lover, left alone, The rosy flood of twilight's sky admired ; — Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea, That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee ! The Twilight Hour CH Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft. While swung the deep bell in the distant tower Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air. And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer. cm Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer ! Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love ! Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove What though 't is but a pictured image ? — strike - That painting is no idol, — 't is too like. CIV Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, In nameless print — that I have no devotion; But set those persons down with me to pray, And you shall see who has the properest notion [ 288 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; My altars are the mountains and the ocean. Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the great Whole, Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. CV Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds E^venua's immemorial wood, Eooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er. To where the last Csesarean fortress stood. Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me. How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! CVI The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song. Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine. And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along ; The spectre huntsman of Onesti's Hue, His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng Which learn'd from this example not to fly From a true lover, — shadow'd my mind's eye. CVII Oh, Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things — Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer. To the young bird the parent's brooding wings. The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer ; 19 [ 289 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Whatever of peace about our hearthstone clings. Whatever our household gods protect of dear. Are gathered round us by thy look of rest ; Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. CYIII Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way As the far bell of vesper makes him start, Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns ! CIX "When Nero perish'd by the justest doom Which ever the destroyer yet destroyed. Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, Of nations freed, and the world overjoyed, Some hands unseen strewed flowers upon his tomb : Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void Of feeling for some kindness done, when power Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. [ 290 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 FROM ''DON JUAN/^ CANTO IV Haidee and Juan I Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end ; For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend. Like Lucifer when hurFd from heaven for sinning ; Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend. Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far. Till our own weakness shows us what we are. II But Time, which brings all beings to their level. And sharp Adversity, will teach at last Man, — • and, as we would hope, — perhaps the devil, Tliat neither of their intellects are vast : While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel. We know not this — the blood flows on too fast ; But as the torrent widens towards the ocean, We ponder deeply on each past emotion. Ill As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow. And wish'd that others held the same opinion ; They took it up when ray days grew more mellow. And other minds acknowledged my dominion : Now my sere fancy " falls into tlie yellow Leaf,'' and Imagination droops her pinion, [ 291 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY And the sad truth which hovers o^cr my desk Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. IV And if I laugh at any mortal thing, ■'T is that I may not weep ; and if I weep, ^T is that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy, for we must steep Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring, Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep : Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx ; A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. V Some have accused me of a strange design Against the creed and morals of the land. And trace it in this poem every line : I don't pretend that I quite understand My own meaning when I would be very fine ; But the fact is that I have nothing planned. Unless it were to be a moment merry, A novel word in my vocabulary. VI To the kind reader of our sober clime This way of writing will appear exotic ; Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme. Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic, And revelPd in the fancies of the time, True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings des- potic ; [ 292 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 But all these, save the last, being obsolete, I cliose a modern subject as more meet. VII How I have treated it, I do not know ; Perhaps no better than thej have treated me Who have imputed such designs as show Not what tliey saw, but what they wished to see :' But if it gives them pleasure, be it so ; This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free : Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear. And tells me to resume my story here. VIII Young Juan and his lady-love were left To their own hearts' most sweet society ; Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms ; he Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft. Though foe to love ; and yet they could not be Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring, Before one charm or hope had taken wing. IX Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail ; The blank grey was not made to blast their hair, But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail They were all summer ; lightning might assail And shiver them to ashes, but to trail A long and snake-like life of dull decay Was not for them — they had too little clay. [ 293 ] WITH BYROxV IN ITALY They were alone once more ; for them to be Thus was another Eden ; they were never Weary^ unless when separate : the tree Cut from its forest root of years — the river DammM from its fountain — the child from the knee And breast maternal weaned at once for ever, — Would wither less than these two torn apart ; Alas ! there is no instinct like the heart — XI The heart — which may be broken : happy they Thrice fortunate ! who of that fragile mould, The precious porcelain of human clay, Break with the first fall : they can ne^T behold The long year linked with heavy day on day, And all which must be borne, and never told ; While lifers strange principle will often lie Deepest in those who long tlie most to die. XII " Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore, And many deaths do they escape by this : The death of friends, and that which slays even more The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is. Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore Awaits at last even those who longest miss The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave Which men v^-eep over may be meant to save. [ 294 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 XIII Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead — The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for them : The J found no fault with Time, save that he fled ; They saw not in themselves aught to condemn : Each was the other^s mirror, and but read Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, And knew such brightness was but the reflection Of their exchanging glances of affection. XIY The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch. The least glance better understood than words. Which still said all, and ne''er could say too much ; A language, too, but like to that of birds. Known but to them, at least appearing such As but to lovers a true sense affords ; Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne^er heard, — XV All these were theirs, for they were children still, x\nd children still they should have ever been ; They were not made in the real world to fill A busy character in the dull scene. But like two beings born from out a rill, A nymph and her beloved, all unseen To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, And never know the weight of human hours. [ 295 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY XVI Moons changing had rolPd on, and changeless found Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys As rarely they beheld throughout their round ; And these were not of the vain kind which cloys, Por theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound By the mere senses ; and that which destroys Most love, possession, unto them appeared A thing which each endearment more endeared. • ••••• XIX This is in others a factitious state. An opium dream of too much youth and reading. But was in them their nature or their fate : No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding, Por Haidee's knowledge was by no means great. And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding ; So that there was no reason for their loves. More than those of nightingales or doves. PEOM "DON JUAN,'' CANTO XI Byron and His Contemporaries LY In twice five years the " greatest living poet," Like to the champion in the fisty ring, Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it. Although 't is an imaginary thing. [ 296 ] - o 2= o THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 Even I — albeit I ^m sure I did not know it_, Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king — Was reckonM a considerable time. The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. LVI But Juan was my Moscow,, and Faliero My Leipsic, and my Mount Saint Jean seems Cain " La Belle Alliance " of dunces down at zero, Now that the Lion ^s falFn, may rise again : But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign ; Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go, With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. LVII Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore and Campbell Before and after ; but now grown more holy, The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble With poets almost clergymen, or wholly; And Pegasus hath a psalmodic amble Beneath the very Eeverend Eowley Powley, Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, A modern Ancient Pistol — by the hilts 1 LVril Then there ^s my gentle Euphues, who, they say, Sets up for being a sort of moral me ; He '11 find it rather difficult some day To turn out both, or either, it may be. [ 297 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway; And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three ; And that deep-mouth\l Boeotian " Savage Landor '* Has taken for a swan rogue Southey^s gander. LIX John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique. Just as he really promised something great. If not intelligible, without Greek Contrived to talk about the gods of late. Much as they might have been supposed to speak. Poor fellow ! His was an untoward fate ; ^T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle. Should let itself be snufFM out by an article. LX The list grows long of live and dead pretenders To that which none will gain — or none will know The conqueror at least ; who, ere Time renders His last award, will have the long grass grow Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders. If I might augur, I should rate but low Their chances ; they ''re too numerous, like the thirty Mock tyrants, when Eome^s annals wax'd but dirty. LXI This is the literary lower empire, Where the prsetorian bands take up the matter ; — A ^' dreadful trade,^' like his who " gathers samphire/ The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter, [ ^98 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 With tlie same feelings as you 'd coax a vampire. Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, I 'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, And show them w/iat an intellectual war is. LXII I think I know a trick or two, would turn Their flanks ; — bnt it is hardly worth my while With such small gear to give myself concern : Indeed I ^^e not the necessary bile ; My natural temper ^s really aught but stern, And even my Muse^s worst reproof ^s a smile ; And then she drops a brief and modern curtsy. And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. FEOM "DON JUAN,^' CANTO XIV Don Juan Described • ••••• XXIX We left our heroes and our heroines In that fair clime which don't depend on climate. Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs. Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at. Because the sun, and stars, and aught that shines. Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at. Are there oft dull and dreary as a d?.m — Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one. [ 299 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY XXX An in-door life is less poetical ; And out of door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, With which I could not brew a pastoral. But be it as it may, a bard must meet All difficulties, whether great or small, To spoil his undertaking or complete. And work away like spirit upon matter. Embarrassed somewhat both with fire and water. XXXI Juan — in this respect, at least, like saints — Was all things unto people of all sorts, And lived contentedly, without complaints, In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts — Born with that happy soul which seldom faints. And mingling modestly in toils or sports. He likewise could be most things to all women. Without the coxcombry of certain she men. XXXII A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange ; 'T is also subject to the double danger Of tumbling first, and having in exchange Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger : But Juan had been early taught to range The wilds, as doth an Arab turnM avenger. So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack. Knew that he had a rider on his back. [ 300 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 XXXIII And now in tliis new field, with some applause, He cleared hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, And never craned^ and made but few ^^ faux pas,'* And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. lie broke, 'i is true, some statutes of the laws Of hunting — for the sagest youth is frail ; Bode o^er the hounds, it may be, now and then, And once o''er several countrv gentlemen. XXXIV But on the whole, to general admiration He acquitted both himself and horse : the squires MarvelFd at merit of another nation ; The boors cried *^ Dang it ! who M have thought it ? '* Sires, The Nestors of the sporting generation. Swore praises, and recali'd their former fires ; The huntsman^s self relented to a grin. And rated him almost a whipper-in. XXXV Such were his trophies — not of spear and shield. But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes^ brushes ; Yet I must own, — although in this I yield To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes, — He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, W^ho, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price, Ask'd next day, ^' If men ever hunted twice ? '' [ 301 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY XXXVI He also had a quality uncommon To early risers after a long cliase, Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon December's drowsy day to his dull race, — A quality agreeable to woman, When her soft, liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner, — He did not fall asleep just after dinner ; XXXVII But, light and airy, stood on the alert. And shone in the best part of dialogue, By humouring always what they might assert, And listening to the topics most in vogue ; Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert ; And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue ! He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer ; — In short, there never was a better hearer. XXXVIII And then he danced ; — all foreigners excel The serious Angles in the eloquence Of pantomime ; — he danced, I say, right well, With emphasis, and also with good sense — A tiling in footing indispensable ; He danced without theatrical pretence, Not like a ballet-master in the van Of his driird nymphs, but like a gentleman. [ 302 f THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 XXXIX Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound. And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure ; Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground. And rather held in than put forth his vigour ; And then he had an ear for music's sound, Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigour. Such classic pas — sans flaws — set off our hero. He glanced like a personified Bolero ; XL Or, like a flying Hour before Aurora, In Guido's famous fresco which alone Is worth a tour to Eome, although no more a Eemnant were there of the old world's sole throne. The " tout ensemble " of his movements wore a Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown. And ne'er to be described ; for to the dolour Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour. XLI No marvel then he was a favourite ; A full-grown Cupid, very much admired ; A little spoilt, but by no means so quite ; At least he kept his vanity retired. [ 303 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY PEOM "DON JUAN/' CANTO XVI Conventional Society XCVI . . , Juan, when lie cast a glance On Adeline while playing her grand role. Which she went through as though it were a dance. Betraying only now and then her soul By a look scarce perceptibly askance (Of weariness or scorn), began to feel Some doubt how much of Adeline was real; XCVII So well she acted all and every part By turns — with that vivacious versatility. Which many people take for want of heart. They err — 't is merely what is call'd mobility, A thing of temperament and not of art, Though seeming so, from its supposed facility ; And false — though true ; for surely they 're sincerest Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest. XCVIII This makes your actors, artists, and romancers. Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages never ; But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, Little that 's great, but much of what is clever ; Most orators, but very few financiers. Though all Exchequer chancellors endeavour, [ 304 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigours, And grow quite figurative with their figures. XCIX The poets of arithmetic are they Who, though they prove not two and two to be Five, as they might do in a modest way, Have plainly made it out that four are three. Judging by what they take, and what they pay. The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea, That most unliquidating liquid, leaves The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. C While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease ; Though too well bred to quiz men to their faces. Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize The ridicules of people in all places — That honey of your fashionable bees — And store it up for mischievous enjoyment ; And this at present was her kind employment. CI However, the day closed, as days must close ; The evening also waned — and coffee came. Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose. And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame, Eetired : with most unfashionable bows Their docile esquires also did the same, 20 [ 305 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY Delighted with their dinner and their host. But with the Lady Adeline the most. CII Some praised her beauty ; others her great grace ; The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity Was obvious in each feature of her face, Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity. Yes ; she was truly worthy her high place ! No one could ^wn^ her deserved prosperity. And then her dress — what beautiful simplicity Draperied her form with curious felicity ! cm Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises. By an impartial indemnification For all her past exertion and soft phrases. In a most edifying conversation. Which turnM upon their late guests^ miens and faces. And families, even to the last relation ; Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses. And truculent distortion of their tresses. CIV True, she said little — ^t was the rest that broke Torth into universal epigram ; But then "'t was to the purpose what she spoke : Like Addison^s " faint praise,'"* so wont to damn. Her own but served to set off every joke. As music chimes in with a melodrame. How sweet the task to shield an absent friend ! I ask but this of mine, to — not defend. [ 306 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 TO JOHN MURRAY^ Genoa, 10bj<= 25 , 1822. I HAD sent you back the Quarterli/, without perusal, having resolved to read iio more reviews, good, bad, or indifferent ; but " who can control his fate ? " Galignani, to whom my English studies are confined, has forwarded a copy of at least one-half of it, in his indefatigable Catch- penny weekly compilation ; and as, " like Honour, it came unlooked for," I have looked through it. I must say that, upon the wholey that is, the whole of the half which I have read (for the other half is to be the Segment of Gal/s next week's Circular), it is extremely handsome, and anything but unkind or unfair.^ As I take the good in good part, I must not, nor will not, quarrel with the bad : what tlie Writer says of Don Juan is harsh, but it is inevitable. He must follow, or at least not directly oppose, tlie opinion of a prevailing, and yet not very firmly 1 Murray being no longer Byron's publisher, tbis is the last letter written to him during Byron's residence in Italy. His correspondence from Greece also was mainly with other friends or with business agents. 2 The review of Byron's Dramas was written by Bishop Hcber — " Even the Mystery of Cain, wicked as it may be, is the work of a nobler and more daring wickedness than that which delights in insulting the miseries, and stimulating the evil passions, and casting a cold-blooded ridicule over all the lofty and generous feelings of our nature ; and it is better that Lord Byron should be a manichee, or a deist, — nay, we would almost say, if the thing were possible, it is better that he should be a moral and argumentative atheist, than the professed and systematic poet of seduction, adultery, and incest : the contemner of patriotism, the insulter of piety, the raker into every sink of vice and wretchedness to disgust and degrade and harden the hearts of his fellow-creatures." — (Quarterly Review, vol. xxvii. p. 477. [ 307 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY seated, party : a review may and will direct and " turn awry '' the Currents of opinion, but it must not directly oppose them. JDoii Juan will be known by and bye, for what it is intended, — a Satire on abuses of the present ^states of Society, and not an eulogy of vice : it may be now and then voluptuous : I can't help that. Ariosto is worse ; Smollett (see Lord Strutwell in vol. 2^ of R\oderick'] B[a?idom']) ten times worse ; and Fielding no better. No Girl will ever be seduced by reading D. /. : — no, no; she will go to Little's poems and Eousseau's romans for that, or even to the immaculate De Stael : they will encourage her, and not the Don, who laughs at that, and — and — most other things. But never mind — Ca ira! And now to a less agreeable topic, of w\\\c\\ pars magna es — you Murray of Albemarle S^ and the other Murray of Bridge Street — " Arcades Ambo '' (" Murray s both ") "et cant-2iYe pares '^ : ye, I say, between you, are the Causes of the prosecution of John Hunt, Esq'f on account of the Vision} You, by sending him an incorrect copy, and the other, by his function. Egad, but H/s Counsel will lay it on you with a trowel for your tergiversifying as to the MSS., etc., whereby poor H. (and, for anything I know, myself — I am willing enough) is likely to be impounded. Now, do you see what you and your friends do by your injudicious rudeness? — actually cement a sort of 1 JoliQ Hu-nt, prosecuted and convicted for publishing The Vision of Judgment, was ordered to pay a fine of £100 and to find sureties, and, in default, to be imprisoned in the custody of the Marshal of the Marshalsea. The fine was paid, and the sureties provided. [ 308 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 connection whicli you strove to prevent, and wliich, had the ll.^s p?'osj)ered, would not in all probability have con- tinued. As it is, I will not quit them in their adversity, though it should cost me character, fame, money, and the usual et cetera. My original motives I already explained (in the letter Avhich you thought proper to show) : they are the true ones, and I abide by them, as I tell you, and I told \a. H' when he questioned me on the subject of that letter. He was violently hurt, and never will forgive me at bottom ; but I can^t help that. I never meant to make a parade of it ; but if he chose to question me, I could only answer the plain truth : and I confess I did not see anything hi the letter to hurt him, unless I said he was a " hove'' which I don't remember. Had their Journal ^ gone on well, and I could have aided to make it better for them, I should then have left them, after my safe pilotage off a lee shore, to make a prosperous voyage by themselves. As it is, I can't, and would not, if I could, leave them amidst the breakers. As to any community of feeling, thought, or opinion, between L. H. and me, there is little or none : we meet rarely, hardly ever ; but I think him a good -principled and able man, and must do as I would be done by. I do not know what world he has lived in, but I have lived in three or four ; and none of thein like his Keats and Kangaroo terra incognita. Alas ! poor Shelley ! how 1 The Liberal, fostered by Byron aud Shelley, edited by Leigh Hunt, and published by John Hunt, was abandoned after the publication of four numbers. [ 309 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY we would have laughed liad he lived,, and how we used to laugh now and then, at various things which are grave in the Suburbs ! You are all mistaken about Shelley. You do not know how mild, how tolerant, how good he was in Society; and as perfect a Gentleman as ever crossed a drawing-room, when he liked, and where he liked. I have some thoughts of taking a run down to Naples {solus, or, at most, cum sola) this spring, and writing, when I have studied the Country, a fifth and sixth Canto of Cht Harolde : but this is merely an idea for the present, and I have other excursions and voyages in my mind. The busts are finished : are you worthy of them ? Yours, etc., N. B. P. S. — Mrs. Shelley is residing with the Hunts at some distance from me : I see them very seldom, and generally on account of their business. Mrs. S., I believe, will go to England in the Spring.^ Count Gamba's family, the father and Son and daughter, are residing with me by Mr. Hiirs^ (the minister's) recommendation, as a safer asylum from the political persecutions than they could have in another residence ; but they occupy one part of a large house, and I the other, and our establishments are quite separate. Since I have read the Q\_iiarterl7/\ I shall erase two or three passages in the latter 6 or 7 Cantos, in which I had 1 Mrs. Shelley left Genoa for London, July 25, 1823. 2 William Noel-HiU (1773-1842), British Envoy to the Court of Sardinia (1807-24). [ 310 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 lightly stroked over two or three of your authors ; but I will not return evil for good. I liked what I read of the article much. Mr. J. Hunt is most likely the publisher of the new Cantos; with what prospects of success I know not, nor does it very much matter, as far as I am concerned ; but I hope that it may be of use to him, for he is a stiff sturdy, conscientious man, and I like him : he is such a one as Prynne or Pym might be. I bear you no ill will for declining the B. J's,y but I cannot commend your conduct to the H.'s. . . . TO JOHN HUNT Genoa, Mch. 10th, 1823. Sir, — I do not know what Mr. Kinnaird intended by desiring the stoppage of The Liberal, which is no more in his power than in mine. The utmost that Mr. K. (who must have misunderstood me) should have done, was to state, what I mentioned to your brother, that, my assistance neither appearing essential to the publication nor advantageous to you or your brother, and at the same time exciting great disapprobation amongst my friends and connections in England, I craved permission to with- draw. What is stranger is that Mr. Kd. could not have received my letter to this effect till long after the date of your letter to your brother this day received. The Pulci is at your service for the third number, if you think it worth the insertion. With regard to other publications, I know not what to think or to say ; for the work^ even [ 311 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY by your own account, is unsuccessful, and I am not at all sure that this failure does not spring much more from me than any other connection of the work. I am at this moment the most unpopular man in England, and if a whistle would call me to the pinnacle of English fame, I would not utter it. All this, however, is no reason why I should involve others in similar odium, and I have some reason to believe that The Liberal would have more success without my intervention. However this may be, I am willing to do anything I can for your brother or any member of his family, and have the honour to be Your very obed'. humble st. N. B. P. S. — I have to add that no secession will take place on my part from The Liberal without serious consid- eration with your brother. The poems which I have desired to be published separately, required this for obvious reasons of the subject, etc., and also that their publication should be immediate. TO JOHN HUNT Genoa, Mch. 17*'? 1823. Sir, — Your brother will have forwarded by the post a corrected proof of The Blues for some ensuing number of the Journal ; but I should think that yf Pulci translation had better be preferred for the immediate number, as The Blues will only tend further to indispose a portion of your readers. I still retain my opinion that my connection with the [ 312 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 work will tend to anything but its success. Such I thought from the first, when I suggested that it would have been better to have made a kind of literary appen- dix to the Examiner ; the other expedient was hazardous, and has failed hitherto accordingly; and it appears that the two pieces of my contribution have precipitated that failure more than any other. It was a pity to print such a quantity, especially as you might have been aware of my general unpopularity, and the universal run of .the period against my productions, since the publication of Mr. Murray's last volume. My talent (if I have any) does not lie in the kinds of composition which is {sic) most acceptable to periodical readers. By this time you are probably convinced of this fact. The Journal, if contin- ued (as I see no reason why it should not be), will find much more efficacious assistance in the present and other contributors than in myself. Perhaps also, you should, for the present, reduce the number printed to two thou- sand, and raise it gradually if necessary. It is not so much against you as against me that the hatred is directed ; and, I confess, I would rather withstand it alone, and grapple with it as I may. Mr. Murray, partly from pique, for he is a Mortal — mortal as his publications, though a bookseller — has done more harm than you are fully aware of, or I either; and you will perceive this probably on my first separate publication, no less than in those connected with The Liberal. He has the Clergy, and the Government, and the public with him ; I do not much embarrass myself about them when alone; but I do not wish to drag others down also. I take this to be the [ 313 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY fact, for I do not recollect that so much odium was directed against your family and friends, till your brother, unfortunately for himself, came in literary contact with myself. I will not, however, quit The Liberal without mature consideration, though I feel persuaded that it would be for your advantage that I should do so. Time and Truth may probably do away this hostility, or, at least, its effect; but, in the interim, you are the sufferer. Every publication of mine has latterly failed ; 1 am not discouraged by this, because writing and composition are habits of my mind, with which Success and Publication are objects of remoter reference — not causes but effects j like those of any other pursuit. I have had enough both of praise and abuse to deprive them of their novelty, but I continue to compose for the same reason that I ride, or read, or bathe, or travel — it is a habit. I want sadly Peveril of the Peak, which has not yet arrived here, and I will thank you much for a copy ; I shall direct Mr. Kinnaird to reimburse you for the price. It will be useless to forward The Liberal, the insertion of which will only prevent the arrival of any other books in the same parcel. That work is strictly prohibited, and the packet which came by sea was extracted with the greatest difficulty. Never send by sea, it is a loss of four months ; by land, a fortnight is sufficient. Yours ever, N.B. [ 314 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 TO MRS. [ ? SHELLEY] [Undated.] I presume that you, at least, know enough of me to be sure that I could have no intention to insult Hunt's poverty. On the contrary, I honour hiin for it; for I know what it is, having been as much embarrassed as ever he was, without perceiving aught in it to diminish an honourable man^s self-respect. If you mean to say that, had he been a wealthy man, I would have joined in this Journal, I answer in the negative. ... I engaged in the Journal from good-will towards him, added to respect for his character, literary and personal; and no less for his political courage, as well as regret for his present circumstances : I did this in the hope that he might, with the same aid from literary friends of literary contributions (which is requisite for all journals of a mixed nature), render himself independent. I have always treated him, in our personal intercourse, with such scrupulous delicacy, that I have forborne intruding advice which I thought might be disagreeable, lest he should impute it to what is called " taking advantage of a man''s situation." As to friendship, it is a propensity in which my genius is very limited. I do not know the male human being, except Lord Clare, the friend of my infancy, for whom I feel any thing that deserves the name. All my others are men-of-the-world friendships. I did not even feel it [ 315 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY for Shelley, however much I admired and esteemed him; so that JO a see not even vanity could bribe me into it, for, of all men, Shelley thought highest of my talents, — and, perhaps, of my disposition. I will do my duty by my intimates, upon the principle of doing as you would be done by. I have done so, I trust, in most instances. I may be pleased with their conversation — rejoice in their success — be glad to do them service, or to receive their counsel and assistance in return. But as for friends and friendship, I have (as I already said) named the only remaining male for whom I feel any thing of the kind, excepting, perhaps, Thomas Moore. I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world — not much remem- bered when the ball is over, though very pleasant for the time. Habit, business, and companionship in pleasure or in pain, are links of a similar kind, and the same faith in politics is another. . . . TO J.J. COULMANNi Genoa, July 12 (?), 1823. My deau Sir, — Your letter, and what accompanied it, have given me the greatest pleasure. The glory and the works of the wTiters who have deigned to give me these volumes, bearing their names, were not unknown to me, but still it is more flattering to receive them from the ^ A French writer who had sought and received an interview with Byrou a few months earlier. [ 316 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 authors themselves. I beg you to present my thanks to each of them in particukr; and to add, how proud I am of their good opinion, and how charmed I shall be to cultivate their acquaintance, if ever the occasion should occur. The productions of M. Jouy have long been familiar to me. Who has not read and applauded The Hermit and Scylla? But I cannot accept what it has pleased your friends to call tlieir homage, because there is no sovereign in the republic of letters ; and even if there were, I have never had the pretension or the power to become a usurper. I have also to return you thanks for having honoured me with your own compositions ; I thought you too young, and probably too amiable, to be an author. As to the Essay, etc., I am obliged to you for the present, al- though I had already seen it joined to the last edition of the translation.^ I have nothing to object to it, with regard to what concerns myself personally, though natu- rally there are some of the facts in it discoloured, and several errors into wdiich the author has been led by the accounts of others. I allude to facts, and not criticisms. But the same author has cruelly calumniated my father and my grand-uncle, but more especially tlie former. So far from being " brutal,"*^ he was, according to the testi- mony of all those who knew him, of an extremely amiable and {enjouc) jojoiis character, but careless {insouciant) and dissipated. He had, consequently, the reputation of a good officer, and showed himself such in the Guards, in ^ The " Essai " speaking of Captain Byron and Lady CarmavtLen, saj^s, " Lcs vices du capitaiue et sa brutalite la lireut mourir de douleur." [ 317 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY America. The facts themselves refute the assertion. It is not bj '' brutality " that a young Officer in the Guards seduces and carries off a Marchioness, and marries two heiresses. It is true that he was a very handsome man, which goes a great way. His first wife (Lady Conyers and Marchioness of Carmarthen) did not die of grief, but of a malady which she caught by having imjjrudently in- sisted upon accompanying my father to a hunt, before she was completely recovered from the accouchement which gave birth to my sister Augusta. His second wife, my respected mother, had, I assure you, too proud a spirit to bear the ill-usage of any man, no matter who he might be ; and this she would have soon proved. I should add, that he lived a long time in Paris, and was in habits of intimacy with the old Marshal Biron, Commandant of the French Guards ; who, from the similitude of names, and Norman origin of our family, supposed tliat there was some distant relationship between us. He died some years before the age of forty, and whatever may have been his faults, they were certainly not those of harshness and grossness (durete et grossieretf). If the notice should reach England, I am certain that the passage relative to my father will give much more pain to my sister (the wife of Colonel Leigh, attached to the Court of the late Queen, 7wt Caroline, but Charlotte, wife of George III.), even than to me ; and this she does not deserve, for there is not a more angelic being upon earth. Augusta and I have always loved the memory of our father as much as we loved eacli other, and this at least forms a presumption that the stain of harshness was not [ 318 ] THE YEARS 1822 AND 1823 applicable to it. If he dissipated his fortune, that con- cerns us alonC;, for we are his heirs ; and till we reproach him with it, I know no one else who has a right to do so. As to Lord Byron, who killed Mr. Chaworth in a duel, so far from retiring from the world, he made the tour of Europe, and was appointed Master of the Staghounds after that event, and did not give up society until his son had offended him by marrying in a manner contrary to his duty. So far from feeling any remorse for having killed Mr. Chaworth, who was a fire-eater (spadassui) , and celebrated for his quarrelsome disposition, he always kept the sword Avhich he used upon that occasion in his bed- chamber, where it still was lohen he died. It is singular enough, that when very young, I formed a strong attach- ment for the grand-niece and Iieiress of Mr. Chaworth, who stood in the same degree of relationship as myself to Lord Byron ; and at one time it was thought that the two families would have been united in us. She was two years older than me, and we were very much together in our youth. She married a man of an ancient and respect- able family; but her marriage was not a happier one than my own. Her conduct, however, was irreproachable, but there was no sympathy between their characters, and a separation took place. I had not seen her for many years. When an occasion offered, I was upon the point, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who has always had more influence over me than anyone else, persuaded me not to do it. " For," said she, " if you go, you will fall in love again, and tlien there will be a scene j one step will lead to another, et celafera tm eclat/' [ 319 ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY etc. I was guided by these reasons, and shortly after I married ; with what success it is useless to say. Mrs. C. some time after, being separated from her husband, be- came insane ; but she has since recovered her reason, and is, I believe, reconciled to her husband. This is a long letter, and principally about my family, but it is the fault of M. Pichot, my benevolent biographer. He may say of me wliatever of good or evil pleases him, but I desire that he should speak of my relations only as they deserve. If you could find an occasion of making him, as well as M. Nodier, rectify the facts relative to my father, and publish them, you would do me a great service, for I cannot bear to have him unjustly spoken of. I must con- clude abruptly, for I have occupied you too long. Believe me to be very much honoured by your esteem, and always your obliged and obedient servant, Noel Byron. P. S. — The tenth or twelfth of this month I shall em- bark for Greece. Should I return, I shall pass through Paris, and shall be much flattered in meeting you and your friends. Should I not return, give me as afiectionate a place in your memory as possible. [ SW ] INDEX INDEX Adrian's Villa near TivoH, see illus- tration facing 218 Alban Mount, 47, 106; see ilhistra- tions facing 48, 84 Albaiio, Town and Lake, 47, lOG; see illustration facing 110 Albavo, Byron's home at, 239; see illustration facing 312 Altieri's Tomb (Santa Croce Church, Florence), 32, 71; see illustration facing 120 Alps and Switzerland, 15, 78, 79; the scene of " Manfred," 12,15; traces of in the drama, 34-47 American liberty, Byron's sympathy in, 4, 84, 134 American ships and visitors, 251, 254 Apennines, The, 78 Apollo Belvedere, 104, 105; see illus- tration facing 106 Arch of fitiip, Rome, 90 " Ariosto," by Titian, in the Manfrini Palace, Venice, 28 Armenian language, Byron's study of the, 5 Arqua, Petrarch's house and tomb at, 67, 68, 73 ; see illustration facing 66 "Aurora" by Guido Keni (Palazzo Kospigliosi, Rome), 303; see illus- tration facing 304 B.EDEKER, Herr Fritz, quoted, xvii Baillie, Joanna, 193 Bancroft, George, 252 " Beppo," Concerning, 111 Beyle, Henri, concerning Byron, 5, 6 Blaquiere, Captain, and the expedi- tion to Greece, 239 Boccaccio's grave at Certaldo, 73 Bologna, 50; letters from, 126, 136; cemetery of, 127 Borghese Villa, Rome, see illustration facing 286 ' Bowles, W. L., 193 Brenta River, 51, 66 Bridge of Sighs, Venice, 7, 60 ; see iilustration facing 60 Bronze Wolf, Rome, 83; see illustra- tion facing 82 Burial-place of Byron, 239, 240 Busts done of Byron, by various sculptors, 51,259 Byron's Grotto, see illustration fac- 'ing 296 "Cain," Concerning, 192, 195, 196, 235; dedication, 242 ; criticisms of, 244-248, 250, 253, 297, 307 Campanile, Venice, see illustration facing 2 Campbell, Thomas, 193, 297 Camuccini, Vincenzo ; his portrait of Byron, xx, xxi ; see illustration facing 234 Canova's bust of Helen, 9, 10 ; Bj'ron's estimate of his place as an artist, 58, 72, 118 Capitoline Hill, Rome, 90; see illus- tration facing 90 Caracalla, Baths of, Rome, see illus- tration facing 264 Carbonari league, 184, 191, 194 Chapel of New Sacristy of San Lor- enzo, Florence, 32, 74; see illustra- tion facing 32 "Childe Harold," Concerning, xvii, 4, 5, 54, 125, 158, 252, 310 Clitumnus, The river, 49, 76 Cohen, Byron's reph' to criticism of, 136 [ 323 ] INDEX Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 193, 298 Coliseum of Rome, 40, 97, 99, 100; See illustrct lion facing 40 Column of Phocas, Rome, 89; see il- lustration facing 88 Columns of The Lion and St. Theo- dore, Venice, 7, 62; see frontis- piece Copyrights, Byron's, 6 Cornwall, Barry, 194 Coulmann, J. J., Letter to, 316 Crabbe, George, 136 Dante's tomb at Ravenna, 72, 73, 157, 161, 102, 175; see illustration facintj 156 Death of Byron, 239 Diary, Byron's, 182 Disraeli, Isaae, Letter to, 254 Doges' Palace, Venice, 7, 00, 63; see frontispiece Domenichino, B^Ton's appreciation of, 127 "Don Juan," Concerning, xviii, xix, 5, 122-125, 127, 135-139, 179-181, 188, 190, 236, 239, 247,252, 258, 297, 308, 310 Dupuy, Villa, near Leghorn, 253, 254, 250' "Dying Gladiator, The" ("The Dying Gaul "), 98; see illustration facing 98 Edinburgh Review, 11, 13. Egeria, Grotto of, 91-93; see illus- tration facing 92 " English Bards and Scotch Review- ers," Byron's desire concerning, 111; promise that he will write another such, 193 English travellers, 9, 14-17, 121, 195 Eridanus River (The Po), 169 Fki;rara, Byron's visit to, 4, 18, 19, 127, 128 Florence, 4, 18, 31, 70, 160, 174, 175; see illustrations facing 32, 68 Foligno, 4; letter from, 31 Forum, the Roman, 90; see illustra- tions facing 88, 270 Foscolo, Ugo (Niccolo), 124, 125, 189 "Francesca of Rimini," Concerning, 176 Frascati (Old Amphitheatre of Tus- culum), 48 ; see illustration facing 48 Frere, John Hookham, 111, 123 Friuli, District of, 66 Galignani, the critic of " Cain," 253, 259, 307 Galileo Galilei, Tomb of (Santa Croce Church, Florence), 32, 71 ; see- il- lustration facing 54 Gamba family, 146, 152, 195, 238, 310 Gandolfo, Castle, on Lake Albano, see illustration facing 110 Genoa, Letters from, 307, 311, 312, 316 Gifford, Editor Quarterly Review, 10-12, 16, 17, 30, 33, 50, 51, 55, 136, 192, 246, 247 Giorgione's pictures (Manfrini Pal- ace, Venice), 29, 113, 114 Gondolas, Venetian, 115, 116 Greece, Byron's expedition to, 239, 320 Guido Reni, 127 Guiccioli, Count, 135, 138, 139, 145, 151 Guiccioli, Countess Teresa, 134, 145, 146, 149-152, 155-157, 188, 194, 258, 259 Guiccioli, Palazzo, Ravenna, see il- lustration facing 150 Hebek, Bishop, critic of *' Cain," 307 Hill, William Noel-, 310 Hobhouse, John, 5, 10, 11, 51, 54; dedication of " Childe Harold," Canto IV, to, 56-60; 123, 126, 153, 189, 191, 246 Hoppner, Richard, Consul at Venice, 16; letter to, 152 Horace, Comments on, 18, 79, 80, 261 [ 324* ] INDEX Horses of St. Mark's, 7, 62; see illus- tration facing 62 Hunt, John, 50, 51, 2;]6, 237, 308, 311; letters to, 311, 312 Hunt, Leigh, 18, 148, 237, 256, 258, 309, 314, 315 Ikvixg's works, Byron's admiration for, 186 Jekfkky, Editor Edinburgh Review, 11, 14, 235, 253, 256 Journal, Byron's, 15 Keats, John, 298 Kinnaird, Mr., 33, 123, 135, 136, 311 Lady Byron, Separation from, 14, 16 Lago di Garda, 8 "Lalla Rookh," Thomas Moore, 13, 17, 48, 51, 52, 55 "Lament of Tasso," Concerning, 4, 33 Landor, "Walter Savage, xv, 298 Lanfranchi Palace, Byron's home in Pisa, 241, 242 Laocoon Group, 104 ; see illustration facing 96 Leigh, Lady Augusta, Byron's sister, 11, 15, 31, 48, 318, 319' *' Letters written by an Englishman resident at Paris during the last reign of Napoleon," by John Hobhouse, 10 Liberal, The, 148, 185, 186, 188, 236, 237, 257, 258, 309, 311-314 Lido, Venice, 121, 199 Life of Lord Byron, written by him- self, 140, 255 Lion of St. Mark's, 7, 62, 129; see frontisjjiece and illustration facing 62 " Love laughs at Locksmiths," George Colman the Younger, quoted, 50 "Manfred," Concerning, 4, 11, 12, 15, 17, 30-33, 112, 253 Manfrini Palace, Venice, Paintings in the, 28, 29, 113 "Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice," Concerning, 3, 4, 12, 13, 179, 297 "Mazeppa," Concerning, 5, 176 Medici Chapel, Florence, 32, 74; see illustration facing 32 Medici Gallery (UfBzi) paintings, 32 Med win, Thomas, 238 Michael Angelo's Tomb (Santa Croce Church, Florence), 32, 71; his paintnig of " The La'^t Judgment " and statue of Moses, 172; his treat- ment by the popes, 173; see illus- trations facing Z2, 124, 128,172, 180 Milman, Ilenry H., 194 Mocenigo, Palazzo, Venice, Byron's residence, 121 Montenero, near Leghorn, Letters from, 251, 253, 254, 256 Moore, Thomas, 5, 16, 55, 119, 123, 141, 181, 193, 194, 297, 316; letters to, 13, 14, 17, 52, 151, 182, 185, 186, 194, 248, 253, 256, 258 "Morgante ^laggiore," Concerning Byron's translation of, xviii, 153, 180, 193 Moses, Statue of, designed by Michael Angeio, 172; see ihust ration facing 180 Murray, John, 52, 195, 235, 236, 255, 313; letters to, 8, 10, 12, 15, 28, 30, 31, 32, 47, 49, 54, 111, 122, 124, 126, 134, 136, 139, 153, 176, 178, 179, 188, 189, 190, 192, 241, 244, 250, 251, 257, 307 Machiavelli's Tomb (Santa Croce Church, Florence), 32, 71; see illus- tration facing 116 [ ^-5 ] Nemi, Lake, facing 108 105; illustration see illus- Palatine Hill, Rome, tration facing 128 Pantheon, Rome, 100, 101, 172; see illustration f icing 100 Passignano Castle, on Lake Trasi- meno, 74; see illustration facing 72 INDEX Pay received by Byron for his writ- ings, 6, 7, 17*, 33 Tetrarch's house and tomb at Arqua, 67, 68, 72; see illustration facing 66 Pindemonte, Ippolito, 49, 50 Pineta, near Ravenna, 135,289; see illustration facing 1 42 Pisa, Byron's residence at, 238, 240, 241; 'letters from, 241, 244, 248, 250,256-258; see illustration fac- ing 242 Pitti Palace paintings, 32; see illustra- tion facing 128 Po, The river, 149, 169 Porto Venere in Gulf of Spezia, see illustration facing 296 Portraits of Byron, xx,25l, 252, 254, 259; see illustrations facing 234, 252 Prison across " The Bridge of Sighs " 7, 60; see illustration facing GO '•Prophecy of Dante," Concerning, 140, 156*, 176, 238 Pulci, and Byron's translation of "Morgante Maggiore," xviii, 153, 180, 193, 312 Quarterly Review, 307, 310 Ravenna, 18, 73, 145, 175; letters from, 134, 152, 153, 157, 176, 178, 179, 182, 185, 186, 188, 190, 192, 194; see illustrations facing 142, 150, 156 Religious belief of Byron, 248 *' Kemarks on Antiquities, Arts, and Letters during an Excursion in Italy iti 1802 and 1803," by Joseph Forsyth, 49 Reni, Guido, "Aurora," 303; see illustration facing 304 Rhffitian Alps, 66 Rialto, The> 202; see illustration facing 64 Rimini, 18 Rogers, Samuel, 119 Rome, Byron's visits to, 4, 18, 33, 47-49 ; " letters from, 32, 47 ; in "Childe Harold," 80; iu "Proph- ecy of Dante," 167, 168; see illus- trations facing 18, 24, 40, 80, 82, 88, 90, 94, 96, 98, 100, 102, 104, 106, 128, 136, 172, 180, 264, 276, 286, 304 St, John and St. Paul, Church of, Venice, 197, 198; set illustration facing 198 St. Mark's, Venice, 7, 8, 62; see illustrations facing 2, 62 St. Peter's, Rome, 101-103; see illus- trations facing 102, 104 San Giovanni e San Paolo, Church of, and space before, Venice, 197 Santa Croce church, Florence, 32, 71, 73; see illustrations facing 54, 68, 116, 120, 124 " Sardanapalus," Concerning, 189 Scipios, Tomb of the, Rome, 81 Scott, Sir Walter, 16, 119, 151, 180, 181, 193; letters to, 242, 297 ,^ Shelley, j^-X', 5, 147, 1^8, 236-238, 248,' 257-259, 309, 3£0; letter to , Mrs- Shelley, 315 Society, Italian, 154-156 Soracte, Mount, 79; see illustration facing 86 Southey, Robert, 180, 193, 242, 247, 279, 286, 297 Spezia, Gulf of, see illustration facing 298 Stage, Byron's contempt for the, 12 Taafe, 238 Tarpeian Rock, Rome, 90; see illus- tration facing 94 Tasso's cell, Hospital of St. Anna, Ferrara, 4, 18, 19 Tasso's oak, see illustration facing 24 Temple of Clitumnus, 76; see illus- tration facing 76 Terni, Tlie Fall of, 18, 49, 77, 78; see illustration facing 78 "The Age of Bronze," Concerning, 239 "The Blues," C(mcerning, 312 "The Island," Concerning, 239 "The Last Judgment," Michael [ 328 ] INDEX Angelo, 172 ; see illustration facing 172 " The Story of Rimini," Leigh Hunt, 18 " The Two Foscari," Concerniag, 4, 187, 189, 2-t2, 217 Thorwaldsen's bust of Byron, 51 Titian's *' Venus," Florence, 32, 113 Tomb of Cecilia Metella, on the Ap- pian Way, 85 ; see illustration fac- ing 81 Toscanelli, Palazzo, Pisa, 241, 242 ; see illustration facing 242 Trajan's Column, Rome, 90; see il- lustration facing 136 Trasimeno, Lake, 74, 75; see illus- trations facing 72, 74 Trelawuey, Edward J., 238 Vatican Gallery, Rome, 104; see illustrations facing 96, 106 Venetian dialect, 9, 117 Venice. 3, 9, 15, 28, 121 ; letters from, 8, lo', 12, 13, 14, 15, 17, 28, 30, 49, 52, 56,111, 121, 122, 124, 139; in " Childe Harold," 60 ; in " Beppo," 112 ; in " Ode on Venice," 129 ; in "Marino Faliero," 197; in **The Two Foscari," 203; see frontispiece and illustrations facing 2, 60, 62, 64, iy8 " Venice " — a Fragment, Concerning the publication of, 3, 8 "Venus," Titian, 32, 113 Venus de' Medici (Ulfizi Gallery), 18, 31, 70 ; see illustration facing 70 Verona, 8; see illustration facing 8 "Vicar of Wakefield," Byron's ad- miration for, 183 "View of Italy " (Dr. Moore), 3, 12 "Vision of Dante" see "Prophecy of Dante " "Vision of Judgment," 236, 257, 308 Webster, James Wedderburn, 121 West, William Edward, 238, 259; see illustration facing 252 Whistlecraft, Mr. (John Hookham Frere), 111, 153 Williams, Edward, 238, 257, 258 Williams, Jane, 238 Wordsworth, William, 180, 193, 235, 286. 298 [ 327 ] PRINTED FOR A. C. McCLURG & CO. BY THE UNIVERSITY PRESS CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. MCMVI UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME WITH SHELLEY IN ITALY Edited by Anna Benneson McMahan A Selection of the Poems and Letters of PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY which have to do with his life in Italy from 18 IS to 1822 IT is impossible to think of Shelley without associating him with Italy. It was during the Italian period of his life that his genius matured, and it was the atmos- phere and surroundings of that country which inspired him to produce such masterpieces as " Prometheus Unbound/' " Ode to the West Wind/' and "The Cenci." W^e find the whole spirit of Italian atmosphere in Shelley's poetry. The beauty and charm of Italy, her buildings, her country, and her associations, pervade some of his most exquisite verse. And it is not only in his verse that Shelley has celebrated Italy, but also in his descriptions which have been handed down to us in the shape of letters. It has been the editor's aim in this volume to present the poems in their original environment, and to conduct the reader into that very atmosphere where they were created. " The book contains more than sixty beautifully printed full-page views of scenery and art remains from Leghorn to Pompeii, and from Home to Ravenna. To the traveller who plans visiting Italy the book will prove very helpful in furnishing in advance an interest of a literary character in objects and places that, otherwise, might be only historical. To those who have already been over the ground it will no doubt prove even more interesting and valuable."— Boston Evening Transcript. With over sixty full-page illustrations from photographs. 12rao. $1.40 net. Large-paper edition on special Italian hand-made paper ; illustra- tions in photogravure brown on Japan vellum. Bound in half vellum, boxed, $3.75 net. The same, full vellum, $5.00 net. The .tame, half calf or half morocco, $7.50 net. The same, bound in Florence, full vellum, Florentine embellishments, $10.00 net. A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers, Chicago UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME FLORENCE IN THE POETRY OF THE BROWNINGS Edited by Anna Benneson McMahan A Selection of the Poems of ROBERT and ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, which have to do ivith the History, the Scenery, and the Art of Florence THIS beautiful example of bookmaking offers its appeal to lovers of Florence, to lovers of art, and to lovers of Browning. The first will be ready to admit that never has the wonderful city been so glorified as in the more famous Browning poems; the second will be glad to have such a representative collection of fine reproductions of both painting and sculpture ; and the Browning lovers will appreciate so appropriately illus- trated a selection which includes "Casa Guidi Windows,"" "The Dance," "The Statue and the Bust," Book I. of " The Ring and the Book," and several others. "To let the eye and imagination stray through these pictured pages is tanta- mount to a veritable revisitatiou. It is indeed a treasure trove." — The Critic, With sixty-five full-page illustrations from photographs. 12mo. $1.40 ?ieL Large-paper edition on special Italian hand-made paper ; illustrations in photogravure brown on Japan vellum. Bound in half vellum, boxed, $3.75 net. The same, full vellum, $5.00 net. The same, half calf or half morocco, $7.50 net. The same, hound in Florence, full vellum, Florentine emhelUshments, $10.00 net. A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers, Chicago BOOKS ON ITALIAN SUBJECTS HISTORY OF VENICE By POMPEO MOLMENTI Translated from the Italian hy HORATIO F. BROWN, British Archivist in Venice and author of '■^ In and Around Venice,'''' etc. THIS imposing work will be in every respect a monumental piece of bookmaking. The " His- tory" is now appearing in Italy, under the imprint of the Istituto Italiano (TArti Grajichi. The author is a gentleman of high social standing and tlie leading historical writer in Italy at the present time. The translator is himself an authority on Venice, whose books on that city, and the distinguished position he has held there for nearly twenty years as British Archivist, have won for him the reputation of knowing more about Venice than any other living Englishman. The volumes will be distinguished typograpliically by being printed in the beautiful Italian type cut by Bodoni, which was so famous a century ago, and has recently been revived by The University Press. Part I. Venice in the Middle Ages, two volumes, ready Fall of 1906. Part II. Venice in the Golden Age, two volumes, ready Spring of 1907. Part III. The Decadence of Venice, two volumes, ready Fall of 1907. ^rx volumes, 8vo, with about 250 illustrations, each volume with frontispiece in colors and gold. A. C. McCLURG k CO., Publishers, Chicago BOOKS ON ITALIAN SUBJECTS A New Historically Illustrated Edition of R O M O L A By George Eliot Edited with Introduction and Notes by Dr. Guido Biagi, Librarian of the Laurentian Library^ Florence. THIS edition of the great classic will undoubtedly sur- pass in interest all others now available. Dr. Biagi, one of the most distinguished scholars in Ital}?^, has devoted the past two years to the selection of the illustrations^ which present the historical background in a manner never before attempted. With 160 illustrations, 2 volumes, 12mo, in slip case, $3.00 net. Large-paper edition on Italian hand-made paper; illustra- tions on Japan paper. Bound with vellum back, $7.50 net; same in full vellum, $10.00 net. THE GUILDS OF FLORENCE Historical, Industrial, and Political By Edgcumbe St ale y THE cumulative energies of the Florentines had their focus in the corporate life of the trade associations, and in no other community was the guikl system so thoroughly developed as it was in Florence. A complete and connected history of the guilds has never been compiled, and the intention of the present work is to supply the omission. The author has exhausted the various sources of information, and it is believed that he has left nothing unsaid. The illustrative feature is worthy of comment, as the eiforts made to have the pictures as mnnerous and useful as possible have resulted in a wonderful collection. In every way this is a most impi-essivc volume. With many illustrations. Tall royal Sro, $5.00 net. A. C. McCLURG c^ CO., Publishers, Chicago ^4-