before me, at the distance of a few yards, the youngest of the lads
who had been my pupils. At the request of the minister, I had
neither taken leave of them nor informed any one of my departure.
The lad whom I now saw was a fine spirited boy, who had strongly
attached himself to me, and shown great aptitude, as well as deep
desire, for knowledge. He knew very little when I came to him, but
great pains had enabled him to advance rapidly. The interest which
he manifested, called forth in me a corresponding disposition to
assist him; and the grateful boy, altogether overlooking his own
exertions, had over and over again expressed himself in the warmest
terms of thankfulness for my instruction, to which he insisted he
owed all that he had acquired. He was in his eleventh year, and his
heart was as kind and generous as his intellect was vigorous and
clear. I came up to him, and found him plucking the wild-flowers
from the grass as he wandered slowly along. I looked at him as I
passed, and found him weeping.
"Alfred!" I exclaimed, "What do you here so early?"
The boy burst into a fresh flow of tears, and threw himself
passionately into my arms. He sobbed piteously, and at length said--
"Do not go, sir--do not leave me! You have been so kind to me. Pray,
stop."
"What is the matter Alfred?"
"John has told me you are going, sir. He has just taken your box down.
Oh, Mr. Stukely, stay for my sake! I won't give you so much trouble
as I used to do. I'll learn my lessons better--but don't go, pray,
sir."
"You will have another teacher, Alfred, who will become as good a
friend as I am. I cannot stay. Return to the parsonage--there's a
dear boy."
"Oh, if you must go, let me walk with you a little, sir! Let me take
your hand. I shall be back in time for breakfast--pray, don't refuse
me that, sir?"
I complied with his request. He grasped my palm in both his hands,
and held it there, as though he would not part with it again. He
gave me the flowers which he had gathered, and begged me to keep
them for his sake. He repeated every kind thing which I had done for
him, not one of which he would forget, and all the names and dates
which he had got by heart, to please his tutor. He told me that it
would make him wretched, "to get up to-morrow, and remember that I
was gone;" and that he loved me better than any body, for no one had
been so indulgent, and had taken such pains to make him a good boy.
Before we reached the village, his volubility had changed the tears
to smiles. As we reached it, John appeared on his return homeward. I
gave the boy into his charge, and the cloud lowered again, and the
shower fell heavier than ever. I turned at the point at which the
hills became shut out, and there stood the boy fastened to the spot
at which I had left him.
At the door of the inn, I was surprised to find my luggage in the
custody of Dr. Mayhew's gardener. As soon as he perceived me, he
advanced a few steps with the box, and placed note in my hand. It
was addressed to me at the parsonage, and politely requested me to
wait upon the physician at my earliest convenience. No mention was
made of the object of my visit, or of the doctor's knowledge of my
altered state. The document was as short as it might be, and as
courteous. Having read it, I turned to the gardener, or to where he
had stood a moment before, with the view of questioning that
gentleman; but to my great astonishment, I perceived him about a
hundred yards before me, walking as fast as his load permitted him
towards his master's residence. I called loudly after him, but my
voice only acted as a spur, and increased his pace. My natural
impulse was to follow him, and I obeyed it.
Dr. Mayhew received me with a very cunning smile and a facetious
observation.
"Well, Master Stukely, this hot weather has been playing the deuce
with us all. Only think of little puss being attacked with your
complaint, the very day you were here suffering so much from it, and
my getting a touch myself."
I smiled.
"Yes, sir, it is very easy to laugh at the troubles of other men,
but I can tell you this is a very disagreeable epidemic. Severe
times these for maids and bachelors. I shall settle in life now,
sooner than I intended. I have fallen in love with puss my self."
I did not smile.
"To be sure, I am old enough to be her father, but so much the better
for her. No man should marry till fifty. Your young fellows of twenty
don't know their own mind--don't understand what love means--all
blaze and flash, blue fire and sky-rocket--out in a minute. Eh, what
do you say, Stukely?"
"Are you aware, sir, that I have left the parsonage?"
"To be sure I am; and a pretty kettle of fish you have made of it.
Instead of treating love as a quiet and respectable undertaking, as
I mean to treat it--instead of simmering your love down to a
gentlemanly respect and esteem, as I mean to simmer it--and waiting
patiently for the natural consequences of things, as I mean to
wait--you must, like a boy as you are, have it all out in a minute,
set the whole house by the ears, and throw yourself out of it
without rhyme or reason, or profit to any body. Now, sit down, and
tell me what you mean to do with yourself?"
"I intend to go to London, sir."
"Does your father live there?"
"I have no father, sir."
"Well--your mother?"
"She is dead, too. I have one friend there--I shall go to him until
I find occupation."
"You naughty boy! How I should like to whip you! What right had you
to give away so good a chance as you have had? You have committed a
sin, sir--yes, you may look--you have, and a very grievous one. I
speak as I think. You have been flying in the face of Providence, and
doing worse than hiding the talent which was bestowed upon you for
improvement. Do you think I should have behaved so at your age? Do
you think any man in the last generation out of a madhouse would have
done it? Here's your march of education!"
I bowed to Doctor Mayhew, and wished him good-morning.
"No, thank you, sir," answered the physician, "if I didn't mean to
say a little more to you, I shouldn't have spoken so much already. We
must talk these matters over quietly. You may as well stay a few
days with your friend in the country as run off directly to the
gentleman in London. Besides, now I have made my mind up so suddenly
to get married, I don't know soon I may be called upon to undergo
the operation--I beg the lady's pardon--the awful ceremony. I shall
want a bride's-man, and you wouldn't make a bad one by any means."
The physician rang the bell, and Williams the butler--a personage in
black, short and stout, and exceedingly well fed, as his sleek face
showed--entered the apartment.
"Will you see, Williams, that Mr. Stukely's portmanteau is taken to
his room--bed quite aired--sheets all right, eh?"
"Both baked, sir," replied Williams with a deferential but expressive
smile, which became his face remarkably well.
"Then let us have lunch, Williams, and a bottle of _the_ sherry?"
A look accompanied the request, which was not lost upon the butler.
He made a profound obeisance, and retired. At lunch the doctor
continued his theme, and represented my conduct as most blameable
and improper. He insisted that I ought to be severely punished, and
made to feel that a boy is not to indulge every foolish feeling that
rises, just as he thinks proper, but, like an inconsistent judge, he
concluded the whole of a very powerful and angry summing up, by
pronouncing upon me the verdict of an acquittal--inasmuch as he told
me to make myself as comfortable as I could in his house, and to
enjoy myself thoroughly in it for the next fortnight to come, at the
very least. It may have been that, in considering my faults as those
of the degenerate age in which I lived--which age, however, be it
known, lived afterwards to recover its character, and to be held up
as a model of propriety and virtue to the succeeding generation--the
merciful doctor was willing to merge my chastisement in that which
he bestowed daily upon the unfortunate object of his contempt and
pity, or possibly he desired to inflict no punishment at all, but
simply to perform a duty incumbent upon his years and station. Be
this as it may, certain it is that with the luncheon ended all
upbraiding and rebuke, and commenced an unreservedness of
intercourse--the basis of a generous friendship, which increased and
strengthened day by day, and ended only with the noble-hearted
doctor's life--nor then in its effects upon my character and fortune.
It was on the night of the day on which I had arrived, that Doctor
Mayhew and I were sitting in his _sanctum_; composedly and happily as
men sit whom care has given over for a moment to the profound and
stilly influences of the home and hearth. One topic of conversation
had given place easily to another, and there seemed at length little
to be said on any subject whatever, when the case of the idiot,
which my own troubles had temporarily dismissed from my mind,
suddenly occurred to me, and afforded us motive for the prolongation
of a discourse, which neither seemed desirous to bring to a close.
"What have you done with the poor fellow?" I enquired.
"Nothing," replied the physician. "We have fed him well, and his food
has done him good. He is a hundred per cent better than when he came;
but he is still surly and tongue-tied. He says nothing. He is not
known in the neighbourhood. I have directed hand-bills to be
circulated, and placards to be posted in the villages. If he is not
owned within a week, he must be given to the parish-officers. I
can't help thinking that he is a runaway lunatic, and a gentleman by
birth. Did you notice his delicate white hand, that diamond ring, and
the picture they found tied round his neck?"
"What picture, sir?"
"Did I not tell you of it? The portrait of a lovely female--an old
attachment, I suppose, that turned his brain, although I fancy
sometimes that it is his mother or sister, for there is certainly a
resemblance to himself in it. The picture is set in gold. When Robin
first discovered it, the agony of the stricken wretch was most
deplorable. He was afraid that the man would remove it, and he
screamed and implored like a true maniac. When he found that he
might keep it, he evinced the maddest pleasure, and beckoned his
keeper to notice and admire it. He pointed to the eyes, and then
groaned and wept himself; until Robin was frightened out of his wits,
and was on the point of throwing up his office altogether."
"Do you think the man may recover his reason?"
"I have no hope of it. It is a case of confirmed fatuity I believe.
If you like to see him again, you shall accompany me to-morrow when
I visit him. What a strange life is this, Stukely! What a strange
history may be that of this poor fellow whom Providence has cast at
our door! Well, poor wretch, we'll do the best we can for him. If we
cannot reach his mind, we may improve his body, and he will be then
perhaps quite as happy as the wisest of us."
The clock struck twelve as Doctor Mayhew spoke. It startled and
surprised us both. In a few minutes we separated and retired to our
several beds.
When I saw the idiot on the following day, I could perceive a marked
improvement in his appearance. The deadly pallor of his countenance
had departed; and although no healthy colour had taken its place,
the living blood seemed again in motion, restoring expression to
those wan and withered features. His coal-black eye had recovered
the faintest power of speculation, and the presence of a stranger
was now sufficient to call it into action. He was clean and properly
attired, and he sat--apart from his keeper--conscious of existence.
There was good ground, in the absence of all positive proof, for the
supposition of the doctor. A common observer would have pronounced
him well-born at a glance. Smitten as he was, and unhinged by his sad
affliction, there remained still sufficient of the external forms to
conduct to such an inference. Gracefulness still hovered about the
human ruin, discernible in the most aimless of imbecility's weak
movements, and the limbs were not those of one accustomed to the
drudgery of life. A melancholy creature truly did he look, as I gazed
upon him for a second time. He had carried his chair to a corner of
the room, and there he sat, his face half-hidden, resting upon his
breast, his knee drawn up and pressed tightly by his clasped
hands--those very hands, small and marble-white, forming a ghastful
contrast to the raven hair that fell thickly on his back. He had not
spoken since he rose. Indeed, since his first appearance, he had said
nothing but the unintelligible word which he had uttered four times
in my presence, and which Dr. Mayhew now believed to be the name of
the lady whose portrait he wore. That he could speak was certain,
and his silence was therefore the effect of obstinacy or of absolute
weakness of intellect, which forbade the smallest mental effort. I
approached him, and addressed him in accents of kindness. He raised
his head slowly, and looked piteously upon me, but in a moment again
he resumed his original position.
For the space of a week I visited the afflicted man dally, remaining
with him perhaps a couple of hours at each interview. No clue had
been discovered to his history, and the worthy physician had fixed
upon one day after another as that upon which he would relieve
himself of his trust; but the day arrived only to find him unwilling
to keep his word. The poor object himself had improved rapidly in
personal appearance, and, as far as could be ascertained from his
gestures and indistinct expressions, was sensible of his protector's
charity, and thankful for it. He now attempted to give to his keeper
the feeble aid he could afford him; he partook of his food with less
avidity, he seemed aware of what was taking place around him. On one
occasion I brought his dinner to him, and sat by whilst it was served
to him. He stared at me as though he had immediate perception of
something unusual. It was on the same day that, whilst trifling with
a piece of broken glass, he cut his hand. I closed the wound with an
adhesive plaster, and bound it up. It was the remembrance of this
act that gained for me the affection of the creature, in whom all
actions seemed dried up and dead. When, on the day that succeeded to
this incident, Robin, as was his custom, placed before the idiot his
substantial meal, the latter turned away from it offended, and would
not taste it. I was sent for. The eyes of the imbecile glistened
when I entered the apartment, and he beckoned me to him. I sat at
his side, as I had done on the day before, and he then, with a smile
of triumph, took his food on his knees, and soon devoured it. When
he had finished, and Robin had retired with the tray and implements,
the poor fellow made me draw my chair still nearer to his own. He
placed his hand upon my knee in great delight, patted it, and then
the wound which I had dressed. There was perfect folly in the mode
in which he fondled this, and yet a reasonableness which the heart
could not fail to detect and contemplate with emotion. First, he
gently stroked it, then placed his head upon it in utmost tenderness,
then hugged it in his arm and rocked it as a child, then kissed it
often with short quick kisses that could scarce be heard; courting
my observation with every change of action, making it apparent how
much he loved, what care he could bestow, upon the hand which had
won the notice and regard of his new friend and benefactor. This over,
he pointed to his breast, dallied for a time, and then drew from it
the picture which he so jealously carried there. He pressed it
between his hands, sighed heavily from his care-crazed heart, and
strove to tell his meaning in words which would not flow, in which
he knew not how to breathe the bubble-thought that danced about his
brain. Closer than ever he approached me, and, with an air which he
intended for one of confidence and great regard, he invited me to
look upon his treasure. I did so, and, to my astonishment and
terror--gazed upon the portrait of the unhappy EMMA HARRINGTON.
Gracious God! what thoughts came rushing into my mind! It was
impossible to err. I, who had passionately dwelt upon those
lineaments in all the fondness of a devoted love, until the form
became my heart's companion by day and night--I, who had watched the
teardrops falling from those eyes, in which the limner had not
failed to fix the natural sorrow that was a part of them--watched
and hung upon them in distress and agony--I, surely I, could not
mistake the faithful likeness. Who, then, was _he_ that wore it? Who
was this, now standing at my side, to turn to whom again became
immediately--sickness--horror! Who could it be but him, the miserable
parricide--the outcast--the unhappy brother--the desperately wicked
son! There was no other in the world to whom the departed penitent
could be dear; and he--oh, was it difficult to suppose that merciful
Heaven, merciful to the guiltiest, had placed between his conscience
and his horrible offence a cloud that made all dim--had rendered his
understanding powerless to comprehend a crime which reason must have
punished and aggravated endlessly My judgment was prostrated by what
I learned so suddenly and fearfully. The discovery had been
miraculous. What should I do? How proceed? How had the youth got here?
What had been his history since his flight? Whither was he wandering?
Did he know the fate of his poor sister? How had he lived? These
questions, and others, crowded into my mind one after another, and I
trembled with the violent rapidity of thought. The figure of the
unhappy girl presented itself--her words vibrated on my ears--her
last dying accents; and I felt that to me was consigned the wretched
object of her solicitude and love--that to me Providence had
directed the miserable man; yes, if only that he who had shared in
the family guilt, might behold and profit by the living witness of
the household wreck. Half forgetful of the presence of the brother,
and remembering nothing well but _her_ and her most pitiable tale,
oppressed by a hundred recollections, I pronounced her name.
"Poor, poor, much-tried Emma!" I ejaculated, gazing still upon her
image. The idiot leaped from my side at the word, and clapped his
hands, and laughed and shrieked. He ran to me again, and seized my
palm, and pressed it to his lips. His excitement was unbounded. He
could only point to the picture, endeavour to repeat the word which
I had spoken, and direct his finger to my lips beseechingly, as
though he _prayed_ to hear the sound again. Alarmed already at what
I had done, and dreading the consequences of a disclosure, because
ignorant of the effect it would produce upon the idiot, I checked
myself immediately, and spake no more. Robin returned. I contrived
to subdue by degrees the sudden ebullition, and having succeeded, I
restored the criminal to his keeper, and departed.
It was however, necessary that I should act in some way, possessed of
the information which had so strangely come to me. I desired to be
alone to collect myself, and to determine quietly. I retired to my
bedroom, endeavoured to think composedly, and to mark out the line
of duty. It was a fruitless undertaking. My mind would rest on
nothing but the tragedy in which this miserable creature held so sad
a part, and his unlooked-for resuscitation here--here, under the
roof which sheltered his sister's paramour. Whether to keep the
secret hidden in my bosom, or to communicate it to the physician,
was my duty, I could not settle now. It had been a parting injunction
of my friend Thompson to sleep upon all matters of difficulty, and
to avoid rashness above all things. Alas! I had not profited by his
counsel, nor, in my own case, recurred to it, even for a moment; but
it was different now. The fate, perhaps the life, of another was
involved in my decision; and not to act upon the good advice, not to
be temperate and cautious, would be sinful in the extreme. What, had
she been alive, would the sister have required--entreated at my hands?
And now, if the freed spirit of the injured one looked down upon the
world, what would it expect from him to whom had been committed the
forlorn and stricken wanderer? What if not justice, charity, and
mercy? "And he shall have it!" I exclaimed. "I will act on his behalf.
I will be cool and calm. I will do nothing until tomorrow, when the
excitement of this hour shall have passed away, and reason resumed
its proper influence and rule."
I rose, contented with my conclusion, and walked to the window, which
overlooked the pleasure-garden of the house. Robin and his patient
were there; the former sitting on a garden chair, and reposing
comfortably after his meal, heedless of the doings of his charge.
The latter stood immediately below the window, gazing upwards, with
the portrait as before pressed between his marble hands. He perceived
me, and screamed in triumph and delight. The keeper started up; I
vanished instantly. He surely could not have known the situation of
my room--could not have waited there and watched for my appearance.
It was impossible. Yes, I said so, and I attempted to console myself
with the assurance; but my blood curdled with a new conviction that
arose and clung to me, and would not be cast off--the certainty that,
by the utterance of one word, I had, for good or ill, linked to my
future destiny the reasonless and wretched being, who stood and
shrieked beneath the casement long after I was gone.
I joined my friend, the doctor, as usual in the evening, and learnt
from him the news of the day. He had visited his patient at the
parsonage, and he spoke favourably of her case. Although she had
been told of my absence, she was still not aware that I had quitted
the house for ever. Her father thought she was less unquiet, and
believed that in a few days all would be forgotten, and she would be
herself again. Doctor Mayhew assured me that nothing could be kinder
than the manner in which the incumbent spoke of me, and that it was
impossible for any man to feel a favour more deeply than he appeared
to appreciate the consideration which I had shown for him. The
doctor had been silent as to my actual presence in the vicinity,
which, he believed, to have mentioned, would have been to fill the
anxious father's heart with alarms and fears, which, groundless as
they were, might be productive of no little mischief. I acquiesced
in the propriety of his silence, and thanked him for his prudence.
Whilst my friend was speaking, I heard a quick and heavy footstep
on the stairs, which, causing me to start upon the instant, and
hurling sickness to my heart, clearly told, had doubt existed,
how strongly apprehension had fixed itself upon me, and how
certainly and inextricably I had become connected with the object
of my dark and irresistible conceptions. I had no longer an ear for
Doctor Mayhew, but the sense followed the footstep until it reached
the topmost stair--passed along the passage--and stopped--suddenly
at our door. Almost before it stopped, the door was knocked at
violently--quickly--loudly. Before an answer could be given, the
door itself was opened, and Robin rushed in--scared.
"What is the matter?" I exclaimed, jumping up, and dreading to hear
him tell what I felt must come--another tale of horror--another
crime--what less than _self-destruction_?
"He's gone, sir--he's gone!" roared the fellow, white as death, and
shaking like an aspen.
"Gone--how--who?" enquired the doctor.
"The madman, sir," answered Robin, opening his mouth, and raising
his eyebrows, to exhibit his own praiseworthy astonishment at the
fact.
"Go on, man," said the doctor. "What have you to say further? How
did it happen? Quick!"
"I don't know, sir. I eat something for dinner as disagreed. I have
been as sleepy as an owl ever since. We was together in his room,
and I just sot down for a minute to think what it could be as I
_had_ eaten, when I dozed off directly--and when I opened my eyes
again, not quite a minute arterwards, I couldn't find him
nowheres--and nobody can't neither, and we've been searching the
house for the last half hour."
"Foolish fellow--how long was this ago?"
"About an hour, sir."
The doctor said not another word, but taking a candle from the table,
quitted the room, and hurried down stairs. I followed him, and Robin,
almost frightened out of his wits, trod upon my heel and rubbed
against my coat, in his eagerness not to be left behind me. The
establishment was, as it is said, at sixes and sevens. All was
disorder and confusion, and hustling into the most remote corner of
the common room. Mr. Williams especially was very much unsettled. He
stood in the rear of every body else, and looked deathly white. It
was he who ejaculated something upon the sudden entrance of his
master, and was the cause of all the other ejaculations which
followed quickly from every member of the household. Doctor Mayhew
commanded order, and was not long in bringing it about. The house
was searched immediately Wherever it was supposed that the idiot
might hide himself, diligent enquiry was made; cupboards, holes,
corners, and cellars. It was in vain. He certainly had escaped. The
gardens and paddocks, and fields adjacent were scoured, and with like
success. There was no doubt of it--the idiot was gone--who could tell
whither? After two hours' unprofitable labour, Doctor Mayhew was
again in his library, very much disturbed in mind, and reproaching
himself bitterly for his procrastination. "Had I acted," said he,
"upon my first determination, this would never have happened, and my
part in the business would have been faithfully performed. As it is,
if any mischief should come to that man, I shall never cease to
blame myself, and to be considered the immediate cause of it." I made
no reply. I _could_ say nothing. His escape occurring so soon after
my identification of the unfortunate creature, had bewildered and
confounded me. I could not guess at the motive of his flight, nor
conceive a purpose to which it was likely the roused maniac would
aspire; but I was satisfied--yes, too satisfied, for to think of it
was to chill and freeze the heart's warm blood--that the revelation
of the day and his removal were in close connexion. Alas, I dared
not speak, although my fears distracted me whilst I continued dumb!
Arrangements were at last made for watching both within and without
the house during the night--messengers were dispatched to the
contiguous villages, and all that could be done for the recovery of
the runaway was attempted. It was already past twelve o'clock when
Dr. Mayhew insisted upon my retiring to rest. I did not oppose his
wish. He was ill at ease, and angry with himself. Maintaining the
silence which I had kept during the evening, I gave him my hand, and
took my leave.
I thought I should have dropped dead in the room when, lost in a deep
reverie, I opened my chamber-door, and discovered, sitting at the
table, the very man himself. _There the idiot sat_, portrait in hand,
encountering me with a look of unutterable sorrowfulness. He must
have hid himself amongst the folds of the curtains, for this room,
as well as the rest, was looked into, and its cupboards investigated.
I recoiled with sudden terror, and retreated, but the wretch clasped
his hands in agony, and implored me in gestures which could not be
mistaken, to remain. I recovered, gained confidence, and forbore.
"What do you desire with me?" I asked quickly. "Can you speak? Do you
understand me?" The unhappy man dropped on his knees, and took my
hand--cried like a beaten child--sobbed and groaned. He raised the
likeness of his sister to my eyes, and then I saw the fire sparkling
in his own lustrous orb, and the supplication bursting from it, that
was not to be resisted. He pointed to his mouth, compelled an
inarticulate sound, and looked at me again, to assure me that he had
spoken all his faculties permitted him. He waited for any answer.
Melted with pity for the bruised soul before me, I could no longer
deny him the gratification he besought.
"Emma!" I ejaculated; "Emma Harrington!"
He wept aloud, and kissed my hand, and put my arm upon his breast,
and caressed it with his own weak head. I permitted the affectionate
creature to display his childish gratitude, and then, taking him by
the wrist, I withdrew him from the room. An infant could not have
been more docile with its nurse. In another moment he was again in
custody.
It was in vain that I strove to fall asleep, and to forget the
circumstances of the day--in vain that I endeavored to carry out the
resolution which I had taken to my pillow. Gladly would I have
expelled all thought of the idiot from my mind, and risen on the
morrow, prepared by rest and sweet suspension of mental labour for
profitable deliberation. Sound as was the advice of my friend, and
anxious as I was to follow it, obedience rested not with me, and was
impossible. Should I make known the history of the man? Should I
discover his crime? This was the question that haunted my repose,
and knocked at my ears until my labouring brain ached in its
confusion. What might be the effect of a disclosure upon the future
existence of the desolate creature, should he ever recover his reason?
Must he not suffer the extreme penalty of the law? It was dreadful
to think that his life should be forfeited through, and only through,
my agency. There were reasons again equally weighty, why I should
not conceal the facts which were in my possession. How I should have
determined at length, I know not, if an argument--founded on
selfishness had not stepped in and turned the balance in favour of
the idiot. Alas, how easy is it to decide when self-interest
interposes with its intelligence and aid! Neither Mr. Fairman nor
Doctor Mayhew knew of my connexion with the unfortunate Emma
Harrington. To expose the brother would be to commit myself. I was
not yet prepared to acknowledge to the father of Miss Fairman, or to
his friend, the relation that I had borne to that poor girl. And why
not? If to divulge the secret were an act of justice, why should I
hesitate to do it on account of the incumbent, with whom I had
broken off all intercourse for ever? Ah, did I in truth believe that
our separation had been final? Or did I harbour, perhaps against
reason and conviction, a hope, a thought of future reconciliation, a
shadowy yet not weak belief that all might yet end happily, and that
fortune still might favour love! With such faint hope, and such
belief, I must have bribed myself to silence, for I left my couch
resolved to keep my secret close. Doctor Mayhew was deep in the
contemplation of a map when I joined him at the breakfast-table. He
did not take his eyes from it when I entered the apartment, and he
continued his investigations some time after I had taken my seat. He
raised his head at last, and looked hard at me, apparently without
perceiving me, and then he resumed his occupation without having
spoken a syllable: after a further study of five or ten minutes, he
shook his head, and pressed his lips, and frowned, and stroked his
chin, as though he was just arriving at the borders of a notable and
great discovery. "It will be strange indeed!" he muttered to himself.
"How can we find it out?"
I did not break the thread of cogitation.
"Well," continued Doctor Maybew, "he must leave this house, at
all events. I will run the risk of losing him no longer. I will
write this morning to the overseer. Yet I _should_ like to
know--really--it may be, after all, the case. Stukely, lad, look here.
What county is this?" he continued, placing his finger on the map.
Somerset was written in the corner of it, and accordingly I answered.
"Very well," replied the doctor. "Now, look here. Read this. What do
these letters spell?"
He pointed to some small characters, which formed evidently the name
of a village that stood upon the banks of a river of some magnitude.
I spelt them as he desired, and pronounced, certainly to my own
surprise, the word--"_Belton_."
"Just so. Well, what do you say to that? I think I have hit it.
That's the fellow's home. I never thought of that before, and I
shouldn't now, if I hadn't had occasion for the road-book. It was
the first thing that caught my eye. Now--how can we find it out?"
"It is difficult!" said I.
"It is likely enough, you see. What should bring him so far westward,
if he hadn't some object? He was either wandering from or to his home,
depend upon it, when the gypsies found him. If Belton be his home,
his frequent repetition of the word was natural enough. Eh, don't
you see it?"
"Certainly," said I.
"Very well; then, what's to be done?"
"I cannot tell," I answered.
The doctor rung the bell.
"Is Robin up yet?" he asked, when Williams came in to answer it.
"He is, sir."
"And the man?"
"Both, sir. They have just done breakfast."
"Very well, Williams, you may go. Now, follow me, Stukely," continued
the physician, the moment that the butler had departed. "I'll do it
now. I am a physiognomist, and I'll tell you in the twinkling of an
eye if we are right, You mark him well, and so will I." The doctor
seized his map and road book, and before I could speak was out of
the room. When I overtook him, he had already reached the idiot, and
dismissed Robin.
My friend commenced his operations by placing the map and book upon
the table, and closely scanning the countenance of his patient, in
order to detect and fix the smallest alteration of expression in the
coming examination. He might have spared himself the trouble. The
idiot had no eye for him. When I appeared he ran to me, and
manifested the most extravagant delight. He grasped my hand, and
drew me to his chair, and there detained me. He did not introduce
his treasure, but I could not fail to perceive that he intended to
repeat the scene of the previous day, as soon as we were again alone.
I did not wish to afford him opportunity, and I gladly complied with
the physician's request when he called upon me to interrogate the
idiot, in the terms he should employ. He had already himself applied
to the youth, but neither for himself nor his questions could he
obtain the slightest notice. The eye, the heart, and, such as it was,
the mind of the idiot, were upon his sister's friend.
"Ask him, Stukely," began the doctor, "if he has ever been in
Somerset?"
I did so, and, in truth, the word roused from their long slumber, or
we believed they did, recollections that argued well for the
physician's theory. The idiot raised his brow, and smiled.
The doctor referred to his map, and said, whispering as before,
"Mention the river Parret."
I could not doubt that the name had been familiar to the unhappy man.
He strove to speak, and could not, but he nodded his head
affirmatively and quickly, and the expression of his features
corroborated the strong testimony.
"Now--_Belton_?" added the doctor.
I repeated the word, and then the agony of supplication which I had
witnessed once before, was re-enacted, and the shrill and incoherent
cries burst from his afflicted breast.
"I am satisfied!" exclaimed the doctor, shutting his book. "He shall
leave my house for Belton this very afternoon."
And so he did, In an hour, arrangements were in progress for his
departure, and I was his guardian and companion. Robin, as soon as
Dr. Mayhew's intention was known, refused to have any thing more to
say, either inside the house or out of it, to the _devil incarnate_,
as he was pleased to call the miserable man. If his place depended
upon his taking charge of him, he was ready to resign it. There was
not another man whom the physician seemed disposed to trust, and in
his difficulty he glanced at me. I understood his meaning. He
proceeded to express his surprise and pleasure at finding an
attachment so strong towards me on the part of the idiot. "It was
remarkable," he said--"very! And what a pity it was that he hadn't
cultivated the same regard for somebody else. A short journey
_then_, to Somerset, would have been the easiest thing in the world.
Nothing but to pop into the coach, to go to an inn on arriving in
Belton, and to make enquiries, which, no doubt, would be
satisfactorily answered in less than no time. Yes, really, it was a
hundred pities!"
The doctor looked at me again, and then I had already determined to
meet the request he was not bold to ask. I believed, equally with the
physician, from the conduct and expressions of young Harrington, that
the riddle of his present condition waited for explanation in the
village, whose name seemed like a load upon his heart, and
constituted the whole of his discourse since he had arrived amongst
us. It was there he yearned to be. It was necessary only to mention
the word to throw him into an agitation, which it took hours entirely
to dissipate. Yes, for a reason well known to him and hidden from us
all, his object, his only object as it appeared, was to be removed,
and to be conducted thither. I had but one reason for rejecting the
otherwise well sustained hypothesis of my friend. During my whole
intercourse with Emma, I had never heard her speak of Somerset or
Belton, and in her narrative no allusion was made either to the
shire or village. In what way, then, could it be so intimately
connected with her brother--whence was the origin of the hold which
this one word had taken of his shattered brain? I could not guess.
But, on the other hand, it was true that I was ignorant of his
history subsequently to the fearful death of his most sinful father.
How could I tell what new events had arisen, what fresh relations
might have sprung up, to attach and bind him to one particular spot
of ground? Urged by curiosity to discover all that yet remained to
know of his career, and more by a natural and strong desire to serve
the youth--not to desert him in the hour of his extremity--I resolved,
with the first hint of the doctor, to become myself the fellow
traveller of his _protégé_. I told him so, and the doctor shook me by
the hand, and thanked me heartily.
That very evening we were on our road, for our preparations were not
extensive. My instructions were to carry him direct to Belton, to
ascertain, if possible, from his movements the extent of his
acquaintance with the village, and to present him at all places of
resort, in the hope of having him identified. Two days were granted
for our stay. If he should be unknown, we were then to return, and
Doctor Mayhew would at once resign him to the parish. These were his
words at parting. We had no opposition in the idiot. His happiness
was perfect whilst I remained with him. He followed me eagerly
whithersoever I went, and was willing to be led, so long as I
continued guide. I took my seat in the coach, and he placed himself
at my side, trembling with joyousness, and laughing convulsively.
Once seated, he grasped my hand as usual, and did not, through the
livelong night, relinquish it altogether. A hundred affectionate
indications escaped him, and in the hour of darkness and of quiet,
it would have been easy to suppose that an innocent child was
nestling near me, _homeward bound_, and, in the fulness of its
expectant bliss, lavish of its young heartfelt endearments. Yes, it
would have been, but for other thoughts, blacker than the night
itself--how much more fearful!--which rendered every sign of
fondness a hollow, cold, and dismal mockery. Innocence! Alas, poor
parricide!
In the morning the sun streamed into the coach, of which we were the
only inside passengers. Dancing and playing came the light, now here,
now there, skipping along the seat, and settling nowhere--cheerful
visitant, and to the idiot something more, for he gazed upon it, and
followed its fairy motion, lost in wonder and delight. He looked
from the coach-window, and beheld the far-spreading fields of beauty
with an eye awakened from long lethargy and inaction. He could not
gaze enough. And the voice of nature made giddy the sense of hearing
that drank intoxication from the notes of birds, the gurgling of a
brook, the rustling of a thousand leaves. His feeble powers, taken by
surprise, were vanquished by the summer's loveliness. Once, when our
coach stopped, a peasant girl approached us with a nosegay, which
she entreated me to buy. My fellow-traveller was impatient to obtain
it. I gave it to him, and, for an hour, all was neglected for the toy.
He touched the flowers one by one, viewed them attentively and
lovingly, as we do children whom we have known, and watched, and
loved from infancy--now caressing this, now smiling upon that. What
recollections did they summon in the mind of the destitute and
almost mindless creature? What pictures rose there?--pictures that
may never be excluded from the soul of man, however dim may burn the
intellectual light. His had been no happy boyhood, yet, in the
wilderness of his existence, there must have been vouchsafed to him
in mercy the few green spots that serve to attach to earth the most
afflicted and forlorn of her sad children. How natural for the
glimpses to revisit the broken heart, thus employed, thus roused and
animated by the light of heaven, rendering all things beautiful and
glad!
As we approached the village, my companion ceased to regard his
many-coloured friends with the same exclusive attention and unmixed
delight. His spirits sank--his joy fled. Clouds gathered across his
brow; he withdrew his hand from mine, and he sat for an hour,
brooding. He held the neglected nosegay before him, and plucked the
pretty leaves one by one--not conscious, I am sure, of what he did.
In a short time, every flower was destroyed, and lay in its
fragments before him. Then, as if stung by remorse for the cruel act,
or shaken by the heavy thoughts that pressed upon his brain, he
covered his pallid face, and groaned bitterly. What were those
thoughts? How connected with the resting-place towards which we were
hastening rapidly? My own anxiety became intense.
The village of Belton, situated near the mouth, and at the broadest
part of the river Parret, consisted of one long narrow street, and a
few houses scattered here and there on the small eminences which
sheltered it. The adjacent country was of the same character as that
which we had quitted--less luxuriant, perhaps, but still rich and
striking. We arrived at mid-day. I determined to alight at the inn
at which the coach put up, and to make my first enquiries there.
From the moment that we rattled along the stones that formed the
entrance to the village, an unfavourable alteration took place in my
companion. He grew excited and impatient; and his lips quivered, and
his eyes sparkled, as I had never seen them before. I was satisfied
that we had reached the object of his long desire, and that in a few
minutes the mysterious relation in which he stood to the place would
be ascertained. "He MUST be known," I continued to repeat to myself;
"the first eye that falls on him, will recognize him instantly." We
reached the inn; we alighted. The landlord and the ostler came to
the coach door, and received us with extreme civility, and the
former assisted the idiot in his eager endeavour to reach the
ground--I watched the action, expecting him to start, to speak, to
claim acquaintance--and having completed the polite intention, he
stood smiling and scraping. I looked at him, then at the idiot, and
saw at once that they were strangers. A dozen idlers stood about the
door. I waited for a recognition: none came.
Seated in the parlour of the inn, I asked to see the landlady. The
sight of the idiot caused as little emotion in her, as it had
produced in her husband. I ordered dinner for him. Whilst it was
preparing, I engaged the landlord in conversation at the door. I did
not wish to speak before young Harrington. I dared not leave him. I
enquired, first, if the face of the idiot were familiar to him. I
received for answer, that the man had never seen him in his life
before, nor had his wife.
"Do you know the name of Harrington?" said I.
"No--never heard on it," was the reply.
"Fitzjones, perhaps?"
"Many Joneses hereabouts, sir," said the landlord, "but none of that
there Christian name."
The excitement of the idiot did not abate. He would not touch his
food nor sit quietly, but he walked swiftly up and down the room,
breathing heavily, and trembling with increasing agitation. He urged
me in his own peculiar way to leave the house and walk abroad. He
pointed to the road and strove to speak. The attempt was fruitless,
and he paced the room again, wringing his hands and sighing
sorrowfully. At length I yielded to his request, and we were again
in the village, I following whithersoever he led me. He ran through
the street, like a madman as he was, bringing upon him the eyes of
every one, and outstripping me speedily. He stopped for a moment to
collect himself--looked round as though he had lost his way, and
knew not whither to proceed; then bounded off again, the hunted deer
not quicker in his flight, and instantly was out of sight. Without
the smallest hope of seeing him again, I pursued the fugitive, and,
as well as I could guess it, continued in his track. For half a mile
I traced his steps, and then I lost them. His last footmark was at
the closed gate of a good-sized dwelling house. The roof and highest
windows only of the habitation were to be discerned from the path,
and these denoted the residence of a wealthy man. He could have no
business here--no object. "He must have passed," thought I,
"upon the other side." I was about to cross the road, when I
perceived, at the distance of a few yards, a man labouring in a field.
I accosted him, and asked if he had seen the idiot.
No--he had not. He was sure that nobody had passed by him for hours.
He must have seen the man if he had come that way.
"Whose house is that?" I asked, not knowing _why_ I asked the
question.
"What? that?" said he, pointing to the gate. "Oh, that's Squire
_Temple's_."
The name dropped like a knife upon my heart. I could not speak. I
must have fallen to the earth, if the man, seeing me grow pale as
death, had not started to his feet, and intercepted me. I trembled
with a hundred apprehensions. My throat was dry with fright, and I
thought I should have choked. What follows was like a hideous dream.
The gate was opened suddenly. JAMES TEMPLE issued from it, and
passed me like an arrow. He was appalled and terrorstricken. Behind
him--within six feet--almost upon him, yelling fearfully, was the
brother of the girl he had betrayed and ruined--his friend and
schoolfellow, the miserable Frederick Harrington. I could perceive
that he held aloft, high over his head, the portrait of his sister.
It was all I saw and could distinguish. Both shot by me. I called to
the labourer to follow; and fast as my feet could carry me, I went on.
Temple fell. Harrington was down with him. I reached the spot. The
hand of the idiot was on the chest of the seducer, and the picture
was thrust in agony before his shuddering eyes. There was a
struggle--the idiot was cast away--and Temple was once more dashing
onward. "On, on!--after him!" shrieked the idiot. They reached the
river's edge. "What now--what now?" I exclaimed, beholding them from
afar, bewildered and amazed. The water does not restrain the scared
spirit of the pursued. He rushes on, leaps in, and trusts to the
swift current. So also the pursuer, who, with one long, loud
exclamation of triumph, still with his treasure in his grasp,
springs vehemently forward, and sinks, once and for ever. And the
betrayer beats his way onward, aimless and exhausted, but still he
nears the shore. Shall he reach it? Never!
* * * * *
IMAGINARY CONVERSATION, BETWEEN MR. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR AND THE
EDITOR OF BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.
To Christopher North, Esq.
SIR,--Mr. Walter Savage Landor has become a contributor to _Blackwood's
Magazine_! I stared at the announcement, and it will presently be
seen why. There is nothing extraordinary in the apparition of another
and another of this garrulous sexagenarian's "Imaginary Conversations."
They come like shadows, so depart.
"The thing, we know, is neither new nor rare,
But wonder how the devil it got there."
Many of your readers, ignorant or forgetful, may have asked,
"Who is Mr. Landor? We have never heard of any remarkable person of
that name, or bearing a similar one, except the two brothers Lander,
the explorers of the Niger." Mr. Walter Savage would answer,
"Not to know me argues yourself unknown." He was very angry with
Lord Byron for designating him as _a_ Mr. Landor. He thought it
should have been _the_. You ought to have forewarned such readers
that _the_ Mr. Landor, now _your_ Walter Savage, is the learned
author of an epic poem called _Gebir_, composed originally in
Egyptian hieroglyphics, then translated by him into Latin, and
thence done into English blank verse by the same hand. It is a work
of rare occurrence even in the English character, and is said to be
deeply abstruse. Some extracts from it have been buried in, or have
helped to bury, critical reviews. A copy of the Anglo-Gebir is,
however, extant in the British Museum, and is said to have so
puzzled the few philologists who have examined it, that they have
declared none but a sphinx, and that an Egyptian one, could unriddle
it. I would suggest that some Maga of the gypsies should be called
in to interpret. Our vagrant fortune-tellers are reputed to be of
Egyptian origin, and to hold converse among themselves in a very
strange and curious oriental tongue called _Gibberish_, which word,
no doubt, is a derivative from Gebir. Of the existence of the
mysterious epic, the public were made aware many years ago by the
first publication of Mr. Leigh Hunt's _Feast of the Poets_, where it
was mentioned in a note as a thing containing one good passage about
a shell, while in the text the author of _Gebir_ was called a gander,
and Mr. Southey rallied by Apollo for his simplicity in proposing
that the company should drink the gabbler's health. That pleasantry
has disappeared from Mr. Hunt's poem, though Mr. Landor has by no
means left off gabbling. Mr. Hunt is a kindly-natured man as well as
a wit, and no doubt perceived that he had been more prophetic than
he intended--Mr. Landor having, in addition to verses uncounted
unless on his own fingers, favoured the world with five thick octavo
volumes of dialogues. From the four first I have culled a few
specimens; the fifth I have not read. It is rumoured that a sixth is
in the press, with a dedication in the _issimo_ style, to Lord John
Russell, Mr. Landor's lantern having at last enabled him to detect
one honest man in the Imperial Parliament. Lord John, it seems, in
the House of Commons lately quoted something from him about a
Chinese mandarin's opinion of the English; and Mr. Landor is so
delighted that he intends to take the Russells under his protection
for ever, and not only them, but every thing within the range of
their interests. Not a cast horse, attached to a Woburn sand-cart,
shall henceforth crawl towards Bedford and Tavistock Squares, but
the grateful Walter shall swear he is a Bucephalus. You, Mr. North,
have placed the cart before the horse, in allowing Mr. Landor's
dialogue between Porson and Southey precedence of the following
between Mr. Landor and yourself.
You may object that it is a feigned colloquy, in which an
unauthorized use is made of your name. True; but all Mr. Landor's
colloquies are likewise feigned; and none is more fictitious than
one that has appeared in your pages, wherein Southey's name is used
in a manner not only unauthorized, but at which he would have
sickened.
You and I must differ more widely in our notions of fair play than I
hope and believe we do, if you refuse to one whose purpose is
neither unjust nor ungenerous, as much license in your columns as
you have accorded to Mr. Landor, when it was his whim, without the
smallest provocation, to throw obloquy on the venerated author of
the _Excursion_.
I am, Sir, your faithful servant,
EDWARD QUILLINAN.
* * * * *
_Landor_.--Good-morning, Mr. North, I hope you are well.
_North_.--I thank you, sir.--Be seated.
_Landor_.--I have called to enquire whether you have considered my
proposal, and are willing to accept my aid.
_North_.--I am almost afraid to trust you, sir. You treat the
Muses like nine-pins. Neither gods nor men find favour in your sight.
If Homer and Virgil crossed your path, you would throw stones at them.
_Landor_.--The poems attributed to Homer, were probably, in part at
least, translations. He is a better poet than Hesiod, who has, indeed,
but little merit![49] Virgil has no originality. His epic poem is a
mere echo of the Iliad, softened down in tone for the polite ears of
Augustus and his courtiers. Virgil is inferior to Tasso. Tasso's
characters are more vivid and distinct than Virgil's, and greatly
more interesting. Virgil wants genius. Mezentius is the most
heroical and pious of all the characters in the Aeneid. The Aeneid, I
affirm, is the most misshapen of epics, an epic of episodes.[50] There
are a few good passages in it. I must repeat one for the sake of
proposing an improvement.
"Quinetiam _hyberno_ moliris sidere classem,
Et mediis properas aquilonibus ire per altum ...
Crudelis! quod si non arva aliena domosque
Ignotas peteres, et Troja antiqua maneret,
Troja per _undosum_ peteretur classibus aequor?"
If _hybernum_ were substituted for _undosum_, how incomparably more
beautiful would the sentence be for this energetic repetition? [51]
_North_.--I admire your modesty, Mr. Landor, in quoting Virgil
only to improve him; but your alteration is not an improvement. Dido,
having just complained of her lover for putting out to sea under a
wintry star, would have uttered but a graceless iteration had she in
the same breath added--if Troy yet stood, must even Troy be sought
through a wintry sea? _Undosum_ is the right epithet; it paints to
the eye the danger of the voyage, and adds force to her complaint.
_Landor_. Pshaw! You Scotchmen are no scholars. Let me proceed.
Virgil has no nature. And, by the way, his translator Dryden, too,
is greatly overrated.
_North_..--Glorious John?
_Landor_.--Glorious fiddlestick! It is insufferable that a rhymer
should be called glorious, whose only claim to notice is a clever
drinking song.
_North_.--A drinking song?
_Landor_. Yes, the thing termed an Ode for St. Cecilia's Day.
_North_.--Hegh, sir, indeed! Well, let us go on with the Ancients,
and dispatch them first. To revert to the Greeks, from whom Virgil's
imitation of the Iliad drew us aside, favour me with your opinion of
Plato.
[Footnote 48: See Mr. Landor's "Imaginary Conversations."--Vol. i. p.
44, and ii. p. 322, note.]
[Footnote 50: Vol. i p. 269, 270.]
[Footnote 51: Vol. i. p. 300.]
_Landor_.--Plato is disingenuous and malicious. I fancy I have
detected him in more than one dark passage, a dagger in his hand and
a bitter sneer on his countenance.[52] He stole (from the Eyptian
priests and other sources) every idea his voluminous books convey.
[53] Plato was a thief.
_North_.--"Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief."
_Landor_.--Do you mean to insinuate that my dialogues are stolen
from Plato's?
_North_.--Certainly not, Mr. Landor; there is not the remotest
resemblance between them. Lucian and Christopher North are your
models. What do you think of Aristotle?
_Landor_.--In Plato we find only arbours and grottoes, with moss
and shell work all misplaced. Aristotle has built a solider edifice,
but has built it across the road. We must throw it down again.
[54]
_North_.--So much for philosophy. What have you to say to Xenophon
as an historian?
_Landor_.--He is not inelegant, but he is unimpassioned and
affected; [55] and he has not even preserved the coarse features of
nations and of ages in his Cyropaedia.[56]
_North_.--The dunce! But what of the Anabasis?
_Landor_.--You may set Xenophon down as a writer of graceful
mediocrity.[57]
_North_.--Herodotus?
_Landor_.--If I blame Herodotus, whom can I commend? His view of
history was nevertheless like that of the Asiatics, and there can be
little to instruct and please us in the actions and speeches of
barbarians.[58]
_North_.--Which of the Greek tragedians do you patronise?
_Landor_.--Aeschylus is not altogether unworthy of his reputation;
he is sometimes grand, but oftener flighty and obscure.[59]
_North_.--What say you of Sophocles?
_Landor_.--He is not so good as his master, though the Athenians
thought otherwise. He is, however, occasionally sublime.
_North_.--What of Euripides? [60]
_Landor_.--He came further down into common life than Sophocles,
and he further down than Aeschylus: one would have expected the
reverse. Euripides has but little dramatic power. His dialogue is
sometimes dull and heavy; the construction of his fable infirm and
inartificial, and if in the chorus he assumes another form, and
becomes a more elevated poet, he is still at a loss to make it serve
the interests of the piece. He appears to have written principally
for the purpose of inculcating political and moral axioms. The dogmas,
like _valets de place_, serve any master, and run to any quarter.
Even when new, they are nevertheless miserably flat and idle.
_North_.--Aristophanes ridiculed him.
_Landor_.--Yes, Aristophanes had, however, but little true wit. [61]
_North_.--That was lucky for Euripides.
_Landor_.-A more skilful archer would have pierced him through
bone and marrow, and saved him from the dogs of Archelaus.
_North_.--That story is probably an allegory, signifying that
Euripides was after all worried out of life by the curs of criticism
in his old age.
_Landor_.--As our Keats was in his youth, eh, Mr. North? A worse
fate than that of Aeschylus, who had his skull cracked by a tortoise
dropt by an eagle that mistook his bald head for a stone.
_North_.--Another fable of his inventive countrymen. He died of
brain-fever, followed by paralysis, the effect of drunkenness. He
was a jolly old toper: I am sorry for him. You just now said that
Aristophanes wanted wit. What foolish fellows then the Athenians
must have been, in the very meridian of their literature, to be so
delighted with what they mistook for wit as to decree him a crown
of olive! He has been styled the Prince of Old Comedy too. How do you
like Menander?
[Footnote 52: Vol. ii. p. 298.]
[Footnote 53: Vol. iii p. 514.]
[Footnote 54: Vol. iv. p 80.]
[Footnote 55: Vol. i. p. 233.]
[Footnote 56: Vol. ii. p. 331.]
[Footnote 57: Vol. iii. p. 35.]
[Footnote 58: Vol. ii. p. 332.]
[Footnote 59: Vol. i. pp. 299, 298, 297.]
[Footnote 60: Vol. i. p. 298.]
[Footnote 61: Vol. ii. p. 12.]
_Landor_.--We have not much of him, unless in Terence. [62] The
characters on which Menander raised his glory were trivial and
contemptible.
[Footnote 62: Vol. ii. p. 5. At p. 6th, Mr. Landor produces some verses
of his own "in the manner of Menander," fathers them on Andrew Marvel,
and makes Milton praise them!]
_North_.--Now that you have demolished the Greeks, let us go back
to Rome, and have another touch at the Latins. From Menander to
Terence is an easy jump. How do you esteem Terence?
_Landor_.--Every one knows that he is rather an expert translator
from the Greek than an original writer. There is more pith in Plautus.
_North_.--You like Plautus, then, and endure Terence?
_Landor_.--I tolerate both as men of some talents; but comedy is,
at the best, only a low style of literature; and the production of
such trifling stuff is work for the minor geniuses. I have never
composed a comedy.
_North_.--I see: farewell to the sock, then. Is Horace worth his
salt?
_Landor_.--There must be some salt in Horace, or he would not have
kept so well. [63] He was a shrewd observer and an easy versifier; but,
like all the pusillanimous, he was malignant.
[Footnote 63: Vol. ii. p. 249.]
_North_.--Seneca?
_Landor_.--He was, like our own Bacon, hard-hearted and
hypocritical, [64] as to his literary merits, Caligula, the excellent
emperor and critic, (who made sundry efforts to extirpate the writings
of Homer and Virgil,) [65] spoke justly and admirably when he compared the
sentences of Seneca to lime without sand.
[Footnote 64: Vol. iv. p. 31.]
[Footnote 65: Vol. i. p. 274.]
_North_.--Perhaps, after all, you prefer the moderns?
_Landor_.--I have not said that.
_North_.--You think well of Spenser?
_Landor_.--As I do of opium: he sends me to bed [66].
[Footnote 66:
Thee, gentle Spenser fondly led,
But me he mostly sent to bed.--LANDOR. ]
_North_.--You concede the greatness of Milton?
_Landor_.--Yes, when he is great; but his Satan is often a thing
to be thrown out of the way among the rods and fools' caps of the
nursery [67].
[Footnote 67: Vol. i. p. 301.]
He has sometimes written very contemptibly; his lines on Hobbes,
the carrier, for example, and his versions of Psalms. [68] Milton was
never so great a regicide as when he smote King David.
[Footnote 68: Blackwood.]
_North_.--You like, at least, his hatred of kings?
_Landor_.--That is somewhat after my own heart, I own; but he does
not go far enough in his hatred of them.
_North_.--You do?
_Landor_.--I despise and abominate them. How many of them, do you
think, could name their real fathers? [69]
[Footnote 69: Vol. i. p. 61.]
_North_.--But, surely, Charles was a martyr?
_Landor_.--If so, what were those who sold [70] him?
[Footnote 70: Vol. iv. p. 283.]
Ha, ha, ha! You a Scotchman, too! However, Charles was not a martyr.
He was justly punished. To a consistent republican, the diadem
should designate the victim: all who wear it, all who offer it, all
who bow to it, should perish. Rewards should be offered for the
heads of those monsters, as for the wolves, the kites, and the vipers.
A true republican can hold no milder doctrine of polity, than that
all nations, all cities, all communities, should enter into one
great hunt, like that of the ancient Scythians at the approach of
winter, and should follow up the kingly power unrelentingly to its
perdition. [71] True republicans can see no reason why they should
not send an executioner to release a king from the prison-house of
his crimes, [72] with his family to attend him.
[Footnote 71: Vol. iv. 507.]
[Footnote 72: Vol. i. p. 73.]
In my Dialogues, I have put such sentiments into the mouth of
Diogenes, that cynic of sterling stamp, and of Aeschines, that
incorruptible orator, as suitable to the maxims of their government. [73]
To my readers, I leave the application of them to nearer interests.
[Footnote 73: Mr. Landor, with whom the Cynic is a singular favourite,
says, p. 461, vol. iii., that Diogenes was not expelled from Sinope
for having counterfeited money; that he only marked false men.
Aeschines was accused of having been bribed by Philip of Macedon.]
_North_.--But you would not yourself, in your individual character,
and in deliberate earnestness, apply them to modern times and
monarchies?
_Landor_.--Why not? Look at my Dialogue with De Lille. [74] What
have I said of Louis the Fourteenth, the great exemplar of kingship,
and of the treatment that he ought to have received from the English?
Deprived of all he had acquired by his treachery and violence,
unless the nation that brought him upon his knees had permitted two
traitors, Harley and St. John, to second the views of a weak woman,
and to obstruct those of policy and of England, he had been carted
to condign punishment in the _Place de Grêve_ or at Tyburn. _Such
examples are much wanted, and, as they can rarely be given, should
never be omitted_.[75]
[Footnote 74: Vol. i.]
[Footnote 75: Vol. i. p. 281.--Landor.]
_North_.--The Sans-culottes and Poissardes of the last French
revolution but three, would have raised you by acclamation to the
dignity of Decollator of the royal family of France for that brave
sentiment. But you were not at Paris, I suppose, during the reign of
the guillotine, Mr. Landor?
_Landor_.--I was not, Mr. North. But as to the king whose plethory
was cured by that sharp remedy, he, Louis the Sixteenth, was only
dragged to a fate which, if he had not experienced it, he would be
acknowledged to have deserved. [76]
[Footnote 76: Vol. ii. p. 267. This truculent sentiment the Dialogist
imputes to a Spanish liberal. He cannot fairly complain that it is here
restored to its owner. It is exactly in accordance with the sentence
quoted above in italics--a judgment pronounced by Mr. Landor in person.
--Vol. i. p. 281. It also conforms to his philosophy of regicide, as
expounded in various parts of his writings. In his preface to the first
volume of his Imaginary Conversations, he claims exemption, though
somewhat sarcastically, from responsibility for the notions expressed
by his interlocutors. An author, in a style which has all the freedom of
the dramatic form, without its restraints, should especially abstain
from making his work the vehicle of crotchets, prejudices, and
passions peculiar to himself, or unworthy of the characters speaking.
"This form of composition," Mr. Landor says, "among other advantages,
is recommended by the protection it gives from the hostility all
novelty (unless it be vicious) excites." Prudent consideration, but
indiscreet parenthesis.]
_North_.--I believe one Englishman, a martyr to liberty, has said
something like that before.
_Landor_.--Who, pray?
_North_.--The butcher Ings.
_Landor_.--Ah, I was not aware of it! Ings was a fine fellow.
_North_.--Your republic will never do here, Mr. Landor.
_Landor_.--I shall believe that a king is better than a republic
when I find that a single tooth in a head is better than a set. [77]
[Footnote 77: Vol. ii. p. 31.]
_North_.--It would be as good logic in a monarchy-man to say,
"I shall believe that a republic is better than a king when I am
convinced that six noses on a face would be better than one."
_Landor_.--In this age of the march of intellect, when a pillar of
fire is guiding us out of the wilderness of error, you Tories lag
behind, and are lost in darkness, Mr. North. Only the first person
in the kingdom should be unenlightened and void, as only the first
page in a book should be a blank one. It is when it is torn out that
we come at once to the letters. [78]
[Footnote 78: Vol. iv. p. 405.]
_North_.--Well, now that you have torn out the first page of the
Court Guide, we come to the Peers, I suppose.
_Landor_.--The peerage is the park-paling of despotism, arranged
to keep in creatures tame and wild for luxury and diversion, and to
keep out the people. Kings are to peerages what poles are to
rope-dancers, enabling then to play their tricks with greater
confidence and security above the heads of the people. The wisest
and the most independent of the English Parliaments declared the
thing useless. [79] Peers are usually persons of pride without dignity,
of lofty pretensions with low propensities. They invariably bear
towards one another a constrained familiarity or frigid courtesy,
while to their huntsmen and their prickers, their chaplains and
their cooks, (or indeed any other man's,) they display unequivocal
signs of ingenuous cordiality.
[Footnote 79: Vol. iv. p. 400.]
How many do you imagine of our nobility are not bastards or sons of
bastards? [80]
[Footnote 80: Vol. iv. p. 273.]
_North_.--You have now settled the Peers. The Baronets come next in
order.
_Landor_.--Baronets are prouder than any thing we see on this side
of the Dardanelles, excepting the proctors of universities, and the
vergers of cathedrals; and their pride is kept in eternal agitation,
both from what is above them and what is below. Gentlemen of any
standing (like Walter Savage Landor, of Warwick Castle, and Lantony
Abbey in Wales,) are apt to investigate their claims a little too
minutely, and nobility has neither bench nor joint-stool for them in
the vestibule. During the whole course of your life, have you ever
seen one among this, our King James's breed of curs, that either did
not curl himself up and lie snug and warm in the lowest company, [81]
or slaver and whimper in fretful quest of the highest.
[Footnote 81: Vol. iv. p. 400.]
_North_.--But you allow the English people to be a great people.
_Landor_.--I allow them to be a nation of great fools. [82]
In England, if you write dwarf on the back of a giant, he will go
for a dwarf.
[Footnote 82: Vol. iii. p. 135.]
_North_.--I perceive; some wag has been chalking your back in that
fashion. Why don't you label your breast with the word giant?
Perhaps you would then pass for one.
_Landor_.--I have so labelled it, but in vain.
_North_.--Yet we have seen some great men, besides yourself,
Mr. Landor, in our own day. Some great military commanders, for
example; and, as a particular instance, Wellington.
_Landor_.--It cannot be dissembled that all the victories of the
English, in the last fifty years, have been gained by the high
courage and steady discipline of the soldier, [83] and the most
remarkable where the prudence and skill of the commander were
altogether wanting.
[Footnote 83: Vol. ii. p 214.]
_North_.--Ay, that was a terrible mistake at Waterloo. Yet you
will allow Wellington to have been something of a general, if not in
India, at least in Spain.
_Landor_.--Suppose him, or any distinguished general of the English,
to have been placed where Murillo was placed in America, Mina in
Spain; then inform me what would have been your hopes? [84]
The illustrious Mina, [85] of all the generals who have appeared in our
age, has displayed the greatest genius, and the greatest constancy.
That exalted personage, the admiration of Europe, accomplished the
most arduous and memorable work that any one mortal ever brought to
its termination.
[Footnote 84: Vol. ii. p. 214.]
[Footnote 85: Vol. ii. p. 3. Ded. "to Mina."--Wilson.]
_North_.--We have had some distinguished statesmen at the helm in
our time, Mr. Landor.
_Landor_.--Not one.
_North_.--Mr. Pitt.
_Landor_.--Your pilot that weathered the storm. Ha, ha! He was the
most insidious republican that England ever produced.
_North_.--You should like him if he was a Republican.
_Landor_.--But he was a debaser of the people as well as of the
peerage. By the most wasteful prodigality both in finance and war,
he was enabled to distribute more wealth among his friends and
partisans than has been squandered by the uncontrolled profusion of
French monarchs from the first Louis to the last. [86] Yet he was
more short-sighted than the meanest insect that can see an inch
before it. You should have added those equally enlightened and
prudent leaders of our Parliament, Lord Castlereagh and his
successors. Pitt, indeed! whose requisites for a successful minister
were three--to speak like an honest man, to act like a scoundrel,
and to be indifferent which he is called. But you have forgotten my
dialogue between him and that wretched fellow Canning. [87]
I have there given Pitt his quietus. As to Castlereagh and Canning,
I have crushed them to powder, spit upon them, kneaded them into
dough again; and pulverized them once more. Canning is the man who
deserted his party, supplanted his patrons, and abandoned every
principle he protested he would uphold. [88] Castlereagh is the
statesman who was found richer one day, by a million of zecchins,
than he was the day before, and this from having signed a treaty!
The only life he ever personally aimed at was the vilest in existence,
and none complains that he succeeded in his attempt. [89] I forgot:
he aimed at another so like it, (you remember his duel with Canning,)
that it is a pity it did not form a part of it.
[Footnote 86: Vol. ii. p. 240, 241, 242.]
[Footnote 87: Vol. iii. p. 66.]
[Footnote 88: Vol. iii. p. 134.]
[Footnote 89: Vol. iii. p. 172, and that there should be no mistake as
to the person indicated, Lord Castlereagh is again accused by name
at p. 187. The same charge occurs also in the dialogue between
Aristotle and Calisthenes! p 334, 335, 336; where Prince Metternich,
(Metanyctius,) the briber, is himself represented as a traitor to
his country. Aristotle is the teller of this cock-and-bull story!]
_North_.--Horrible! most horrible!
_Landor_.--Hear Epicurus and Leontion and Ternissa discuss the
merits of Castlereagh and Canning.
_North_.--Epicurus! What, the philosopher who flourished some
centuries before the Christian era?
_Landor_.--The same. He flourishes still for my purposes.
_North_.--And who are Leontion and Ternissa?
_Landor_.--Two of his female pupils.
_North_.--Oh, two of his misses! And how come they and their master,
who lived above 2000 years before the birth of Canning and
Castlereagh, to know any thing about them?
_Landor_.--I do not stand at trifles of congruity. Canning is the
very man who has taken especial care that no strong box among us
shall be without a chink at the bottom; the very man who asked and
received a gratuity (you remember the Lisbon job) [90] from the colleague
he had betrayed, belied, and thrown a stone at, for having proved
him in the great market-place a betrayer and a liar. Epicurus describes
Canning as a fugitive slave, a writer of epigrams on walls, and of songs
on the grease of platters, who attempted to cut the throat of a fellow
in the same household, [91] who was soon afterward more successful in doing
it himself.
[Footnote 90: Vol. iv. p. 194.]
[Footnote 91: Vol. iv. p. 194.]
_North_.--Horrible, most horrible mockery! But even that is not new.
It is but Byron's brutal scoff repeated--"Carotid-artery-cutting
Castlereagh."
_Landor_.--You Tories affect to be so squeamish. Epicurus goes on
to show Canning's ignorance of English.
_North_.--Epicurus! Why not William Cobbett?
_Landor_.--The Athenian philosopher introduces the trial of George
the Fourth's wife, and describes her as a drunken old woman, the
companion of soldiers and sailors, and lower and viler men. One
whose eyes, as much as can be seen of them, are streaky fat floating
in semi-liquid rheum.
_North_.--And this is the language of Epicurus to his female pupils!
He was ever such a beast.
_Landor_.--You are delicate. He goes on to allude to Canning's
having called her the _pride, the life, the ornament of society_,
(you know he did so call her in the House of Commons, according to
the newspaper reports; it is true he was speaking of what she had
been many years previously; before her departure from England.) [92]
Epicurus says triumphantly that the words, if used at all, should
have been placed thus--_the ornament, pride, and life_; for hardly a
Boeotian bullock-driver would have wedged in _life_ between _pride_
and _ornament_.
[Footnote 92: Vol. iv. p. 194, 195.--Pericles and Sophocles also
prattle about Queen Caroline! vol. 2, p. 106, 107.--In another place
the judgment and style of Johnson being under sentence, the Doctor's
judgment is "alike in all things," that is, "unsound and incorrect;"
and as to style, "a sentence of Johnson is like a pair of breeches,
an article of dress, divided into two parts, equal in length, breadth,
and substance, with a protuberance before and behind." The _contour_
of Mr. Landor's figure can hardly be so graceful as that of the
Pythian Apollo, if his dress-breeches are made in this fashion, and
"his Florentine tailor never fails to fit him."--See vol. i. p. 296,
and p. 185, note.]
_North_.--What dignified and important criticism! and how
appropriate from the lips of Epicurus! But why were you, Mr. Landor,
so rancorous against that miserable Queen Caroline? You have half
choked Sir Robert Wilson, one of her champions, and the marshal of
her coffin's royal progress through London, with a reeking panegyric
in your dedication to him [93] of a volume of your Talks.
[Footnote 93: Vol. iii.]
_Landor_.--I mistook Wilson for an uncompromising Radical. As to
his and Canning's nobled Queen, I confess I owed her a grudge for
disrespect to me at Como long before.
_North_.--How? Were you personally acquainted with her?
_Landor_.--Not at all: She was not aware that there was such a man
as Walter Savage Landor upon earth, or she would have taken care
that I should not be stopt by her porter at the lodge-gate, when I
took a fancy to pry into the beauties of her pleasure-ground.
_North_.--Then her disrespect to you was not only by deputy, but
even without her cognisance?
_Landor_.--Just so.
_North_.--And that was the offence for which you assailed her with
such a violent invective after her death?
_Landor_.--Oh no! it might possibly have sharpened it a little;
but I felt it my duty, as a censor of morals, to mark my reprobation
of her having grown fat and wrinkled in her old age. It was
necessary for me to correct the flattering picture drawn of her by
that caitiff Canning. You know the contempt of Demosthenes for
Canning.
_North_.--Demosthenes, too!
_Landor_.--Yes, in my dialogue between him and Eubulides, he
delineates Canning as a clumsy and vulgar man.
_North_.--Every one knows that he was a man of remarkably fine
person and pleasing manners.
_Landor_.--Never mind that--A vulgar and clumsy man, a
market-place demagogue, lifted on a honey-barrel by grocers and
slave-merchants, with a dense crowd around him, who listen in
rapture because his jargon is unintelligible. [94] Demosthenes, you
know, was a Liverpool electioneering agent, so he knew all about
Canning and his tricks, and his abstraction of L.14,000 sterling
from the public treasury to defray the expenses of his shameful
flight to Lesbos, that is Lisbon.[95]
[Footnote 94: Vol. i. p. 245.]
[Footnote 95: Vol. i. p. 247. This charge against Canning is
repeated at Vol. iii. p. 186, 187, and again at Vol. iv. p. 193.]
_North_.--Has England produced no honest men of eminence,
Mr. Landor?
_Landor_.--Very few; I can, however, name two--Archbishop Boulter
and Philip Savage. [96] I am not certain that I should ever have thought
of recording their merits, if their connexion with my own family had
not often reminded me of them; we do not always bear in mind very
retentively what is due to others, unless there is something at home
to stimulate the recollection. Boulter, Primate of Ireland, saved
that kingdom from pestilence and famine in 1729 by supplying the
poor with bread, medicines, attendance, and every possible comfort
and accommodation. Again, in 1740 and 1741, no fewer than 250,000
persons were fed, twice a-day, principally at his expense. Boulter
was certainly the most disinterested, the most humane, the most
beneficent, and after this it is little to say, the most enlightened
and learned man that ever guided the counsels of a kingdom.[97]
Mr. Philip Savage, Chancellor of the Exchequer, married his wife's
sister, of his own name, but very distantly related. This minister
was so irreproachable, that even Swift could find no fault with him.
[97] He kept a groom in livery, and two saddle-horses.
[Footnote 96: Also Vol. iii. p. 92.]
[Footnote 97: Vol. iii. p. 91, 92, note.]
_North_.--Is it possible? And these great men were of your family,
Mr. Landor!
_Landor_.--I have told you so, sir--Philip was one of my Savage
ancestors, [98] and he and Boulter married sisters, who were also Savages.
[Footnote 98: Vol. iii. p. 92, note.]
_North_.--You have lived a good while in Italy? You like the
Italians, I believe?
_Landor_.--I despise and abominate the Italians; and I have taken
some pains to show it in various ways. During my long residence at
Florence I was the only Englishman there, I believe, who never went
to court, leaving it to my hatter, who was a very honest man, and my
breeches-maker, who never failed to fit me. [99] The Italians were
always--far exceeding all other nations--parsimonious and avaricious,
the Tuscans beyond all other Italians, the Florentines beyond all other
Tuscans. [100]
[Footnote 99: Vol. i. p. 185.]
[Footnote 100: Vol. i. p. 219.]
_North_.--But even Saul was softened by music: surely that of
Italy must have sometimes soothed you?
_Landor_.--_Opera_ was, among the Romans, _labour_, as _operae
pretium_, &c. It now signifies the most contemptible of performances,
the vilest office of the feet and tongue. [101]
[Footnote 101: Vol. i. p. 212.]
_North_.--But the sculptors, the painters, the architects of Italy?
You smile disdainfully, Mr. Landor!
_Landor_.--I do; their sculpture and painting have been employed
on most ignoble objects--on scourgers and hangmen, on beggarly
enthusiasts and base impostors. Look at the two masterpieces of the
pencil; the Transfiguration of Raphael, and the St. Jerome of
Correggio; [102] can any thing be more incongruous, any thing more
contrary to truth and history?
[Footnote 102: Vol. i. p. 109, note.]
_North_.--There have been able Italian writers both in verse and
prose?
_Landor_.--In verse not many, in prose hardly any.
_North_.--Boccaccio?
_Landor_.--He is entertaining.
_North_.--Machiavelli?
_Landor_.--A coarse comedian. [103]
[Footnote 103: Vol. ii. p. 252.]
_North_.--You honour Ariosto?
_Landor_.--I do not. Ariosto is a plagiary, the most so of all
poets. [104] Ariosto is negligent; his plan inartificial, defective, bad.
[Footnote 104: Vol. i. p. 290.]
_North_.--You protect Tasso?
_Landor_.--I do, especially against his French detractors.
_North_.--But you esteem the French?
_Landor_.--I despise and abominate the French.
_North_.--And their literature!
_Landor_.--And their literature. As to their poets, bad as Ariosto
is, divide the Orlando into three parts, and take the worst of them,
and although it may contain a large portion of extremely vile poetry,
it will contain more of good than the whole French language. [105]
[Footnote 105: Vol. i. p. 290.]
_North_.--Is Boileau so very contemptible?
_Landor_.--Beneath contempt. He is a grub. [106]
[Footnote 106: See Mr. Landor's Polite Conversation with De Lille,
Vol. i. and Note at the end, p. 309, 310.]
_North_.--Racine?
_Landor_.--Diffuse, feeble, and, like Boileau, meanly thievish.
The most admired verse of Racine is stolen, [107] so is almost every other
that is of any value.
[Footnote 107: Vol. i. p. 293, 294.]
_North_.--But Voltaire, Mr. Landor?
_Landor_.--Voltaire, sir, was a man of abilities, and author of
many passable epigrams, besides those which are contained in his
tragedies and heroics, [108] though, like Parisian lackeys, they are
usually the smartest when out of place. I tell you I detest and
abominate every thing French. [109]
[Footnote 108: Vol. i. p. 254.]
[Footnote 109: We, however, find Mr. Landor giving the French credit
for their proceedings in one remarkable instance, and it is so
seldom that we catch him in good-humour with any thing, that we will
not miss an opportunity of exhibiting him in an amiable light. This
champion of the liberties of the world, who has cracked his lungs in
endeavouring, on the shores of Italy, to echo the lament of Byron
over Greece, and who denounced the powers of Europe for suffering
the Duke d'Angoulême to assist his cousin Ferdinand in retaking the
Trocadero, yet approves of French proceedings in Spain on a previous
occasion. Admiring reader! you shall hear Sir Oracle himself again:--
"The laws and institutions introduced by the French into Spain were
excellent, and the _king_" (Joseph Bonaparte!) "was liberal, affable,
sensible, and humane." Poor Trelawney, the friend of Byron, is made
to talk thus! Both Trelawney and Odysseus the noble Greek, to whom
he addresses himself, were more likely to participate in the
"indignation of a high-minded Spaniard," so vividly expressed by a
high-minded Englishman in the following sonnet:--
"We can endure that he should waste our lands,
Despoil our temples, and, by sword and flame,
Return us to the dust from which we came;
Such food a tyrant's appetite demands:
And we can brook the thought, that by his hands
Spain may be overpower'd, and he possess,
For his delight, a solemn wilderness,
Where all the brave lie dead. But, when of bands
That he will break for us he dares to speak,
Of benefits, and of a future day
When our enlighten'd minds shall bless his sway--
Then the strain'd heart of fortitude proves weak;
Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks declare
That he has power to inflict what we lack strength to bear."]
_North_.--Well, Mr. Landor, we have rambled over much ground; we
have journeyed from Dan to Beersheba, and found all barren. Let us
return home.
_Landor_.--Before we do so, let me observe, that among several
noted Italians whom you have not glanced at, there is one whom I
revere--Alfieri. He was the greatest man of his time in Europe,
though not acknowleged or known to be so; [110] and he well knew his
station as a writer and as a man. Had he found in the world five equal
to himself, he would have walked out of it not to be jostled. [111]
[Footnote 110: Vol. ii. p. 241.]
[Footnote 111: Vol. ii. p. 258.]
_North_.--He would have been sillier, then, than the flatulent
frog in the fable. Yet Alfieri's was, indeed, no ordinary mind, and
he would have been a greater poet than he was, had he been a better
man. I admire his Bruto Primo as much as you do, and I am glad to
hear you give your suffrage so heartily in favour of any one.
_Landor_.--Sir, I admire the man as much as I do the poet. It is
not every one who can measure his height; I can.
_North_.--Pop! there you go! you have got out of the bottle again,
and are swelling and vapouring up to the clouds. Do lower yourself
to my humble stature, (I am six feet four in my slippers.) Alfieri
reminds me of Byron. What of him?