A cup to Jove, and a cup to Love,
And a cup to the son of Maia,
And honor with three, the band zone-free,
The band of the bright Agiaia.
But since every bud in the wreath of pleasure
Ye owe to the sister Hours,
No stinted cups, in a formal measure,
The Bromian law make ours.
He honors us most who gives us most,
And boasts with a Bacchanal's honest boast
He never will _count_ the treasure.
Fastly we fleet, then seize our wings,
And plunge us deep in the sparkling springs;
And aye, as we rise with a dripping plume,
We'll scatter the spray round the garland's bloom.
We glow--we glow.
Behold, as the girls of the Eastern wave
Bore once with a shout to their crystal cave
The prize of the Mysian Hylas,
Even so--even so,
We have caught the young god in our warm embrace,
We hurry him on in our laughing race;
We hurry him on, with a whoop and song,
The cloudy rivers of Night along--
Ho, ho!--we have caught thee, Pallas!
[Footnote 7: Narcissus.]
The guests applauded loudly: when the poet is your host, his verses are
sure to charm.
"Thoroughly Greek," said Lepidus: "the wildness, force, and energy of
that tongue it is impossible to imitate in the Roman poetry."
"It is indeed a great contrast," said Clodius, ironically at heart,
though not in appearance, "to the old-fashioned and tame simplicity of
that ode of Horace which we heard before. The air is beautifully Ionic:
the word puts me in mind of a toast--Companions, I give you the
beautiful Ione."
"Ione--the name is Greek," said Glaucus, in a soft voice, "I drink the
health with delight. But who is Ione?"
"Ah! you have but just come to Pompeii, or you would deserve ostracism
for your ignorance," said Lepidus, conceitedly; "not to know Ione is
not to know the chief charm of our city."
"She is of most rare beauty," said Pansa; "and what a voice!"
"She can feed only on nightingales' tongues," said Clodius.
"Nightingales' tongues!--beautiful thought," sighed the umbra.
"Enlighten me, I beseech you," said Glaucus.
"Know then," began Lepidus--
"Let me speak," cried Clodius; "you drawl out your words as if you
spoke tortoises."
"And you speak stones," muttered the coxcomb to himself, as he fell
back disdainfully on his couch.
"Know then, my Glaucus," said Clodius, "that Ione is a stranger, who
has but lately come to Pompeii. She sings like Sappho, and her songs
are her own composing; and as for the tibia, and the cithara, and the
lyre, I know not in which she most outdoes the Muses. Her beauty is
most dazzling. Her house is perfect; such taste--such gems--such
bronzes! She is rich, and generous as she is rich."
"Her lovers, of course," said Glaucus, "take care that she does not
starve; and money lightly won is always lavishly spent."
"Her lovers--ah, there is the enigma! Ione has but one vice--she is
chaste. She has all Pompeii at her feet, and she has no lovers: she
will not even marry."
"No lovers!" echoed Glaucus.
"No; she has the soul of Vesta, with the girdle of Venus."
"What refined expressions!" said the umbra.
"A miracle!" cried Glaucus. "Can we not see her?"
"I will take you there this evening," said Clodius; "meanwhile," added
he, once more rattling the dice--
"I am yours!" said the complaisant Glaucus. "Pansa turn your face!"
Lepidus and Sallust played at odd and even, and the umbra looked on,
while Glaucus and Clodius became gradually absorbed in the chances of
the dice.
"Per Jove!" cried Glaucus, "this is the second time I have thrown the
caniculæ" (the lowest throw.)
"Now Venus befriend me!" said Clodius, rattling the box for several
moments, "O Alma Venus--it is Venus herself!" as he threw the highest
cast named from that goddess,--whom he who wins money indeed usually
propitiates!
"Venus is ungrateful to me," said Glaucus, gayly; "I have always
sacrificed on her altar."
"He who plays with Clodius," whispered Lepidus, "will soon, like
Plautus's Curculio, put his pallium for the stakes."
"Poor Glaucus--he is as blind as Fortune herself," replied Sallust, in
the same tone.
"I will play no more," said Glaucus. "I have lost thirty sestertia."
"I am sorry," began Clodius.
"Amiable man!" groaned the umbra.
"Not at all!" exclaimed Glaucus; "the pleasure of your gain compensates
the pain of my loss."
The conversation now became general and animated; the wine circulated
more freely; and Ione once more became the subject of eulogy to the
guests of Glaucus.
"Instead of outwatching the star, let us visit one at whose beauty the
stars grow pale," said Lepidus.
Clodius, who saw no chance of renewing the dice, seconded the proposal;
and Glaucus, though he civilly pressed his guests to continue the
banquet, could not but let them see that his curiosity had been excited
by the praises of Ione; they therefore resolved to adjourn (all at
least but Pansa and the umbra) to the house of the fair Greek. They
drank, therefore, to the health of Glaucus and of Titus--they performed
their last libation--they resumed their slippers--they descended the
stairs--passed the illumined atrium--and walking unbitten over the
fierce dog painted on the threshold, found themselves beneath the light
of the moon just risen, in the lively and still crowded streets of
Pompeii. They passed the jewellers' quarter, sparkling with lights,
caught and reflected by the gems displayed in the shops, and arrived at
last at the door of Ione. The vestibule blazed with rows of lamps;
curtains of embroidered purple hung on either aperture of the tablinum,
whose walls and mosaic pavement glowed with the richest colors of the
artist; and under the portico which surrounded the odorous viridarium
they found Ione already surrounded by adoring and applauding guests.
"Did you say she was Athenian?" whispered Glaucus, ere he passed into
the peristyle.
"No, she is from Neapolis."
"Neapolis!" echoed Glaucus; and at that moment, the group dividing on
either side of Ione gave to his view that bright, that nymph-like
beauty which for months had shone down upon the waters of his memory.
* * * * *
Glaucus is a noble character throughout; educated of course a heathen,
but endowed with some of those higher faculties of reason, which
enabled him in the end to surrender the charms of a poetic mythology
for a purer and brighter faith. Ione, "the beautiful Ione," is an
almost perfect model of Grecian loveliness and accomplishment; and her
brother Apæcides, furnishes an affecting illustration of great powers
and virtues rendered prostrate by an overwrought sensibility and
enthusiastic temperament. Arbaces, the dark, wily, revengeful Egyptian,
is the demon of the tale. In profound earthly wisdom and diabolical
depravity, "none but himself can be his parallel." The "Asiatic
Journal," whose editors or reviewers we take to be much wiser than we
are, asserts that the character of Nydia is not an original creation of
Mr. Bulwer's; but that the dwarf _Mignon_ in the _Wilhelm Meister_ of
Goethe, is the exact prototype not only of the blind flower girl, but
of the fantastical Fenella in Scott's Peverill of the Peak. The
"Journal" also maintains that the witch of Vesuvius, is of the true Meg
Merrillie's family. In regard to the first supposed
resemblances,--never having seen Goethe's work, we profess our entire
incompetency to judge; but we do most fervently protest against any
comparison between our old favorite Meg and that most execrable hag
whom Bulwer has placed in the caverns of Vesuvius,--the perusal of
whose accursed incantations deprived us of several hours of our
accustomed and needful rest.
Whilst Mr. Bulwer has rendered to the Egyptian and a few others the
just reward of their transgressions, we think that poor Nydia has been
hardly dealt by. What a fine opportunity it was to illustrate the power
of christian faith in soothing even the sorrows of unrequited love. We
do not say this reproachfully however, because we think that Mr. Bulwer
has endeavored at least, to do justice to the christian character and
principles, in his work. Olynthus is a fine specimen of that heroic
courage which, especially in the early ages of the church, was content
with ignominy, chains and poverty in this life, and courted even
martyrdom itself, in the bright anticipation of eternal bliss.
Having thus candidly stated our impressions of Mr. Bulwer's work,
justice requires that we should spread before our readers the well
sustained vindication of one of our own countrymen, who complains that
his literary rights have been grossly violated by this eminent
transatlantic author. Mr. Fairfield, the editor of the _North American
Magazine_, a man of unquestionable genius, and a poet of no ordinary
strength, has fearlessly thrown the gauntlet, and charged the proud
Briton to his teeth with literary piracy; an offence in the republic of
letters, which ought at least to be rebuked by stern denunciation, as
no corporal or pecuniary punishment can be inflicted. This piracy it
seems, has been committed by Mr. Bulwer upon the lawful goods and
chattels, the genuine offspring of Mr. Fairfield's own intellectual
labors. We confess that we are struck with the plausible and curious
coincidence, to speak technically, between Mr. Fairfield's _allegata_
and his undeniable _probata_. If the English novelist has decked
himself in borrowed plumage, he ought to be forthwith stripped of it,
and the stolen feather should adorn the brow of its real owner. The sin
of plagiarism however, though never so distinctly proved, ought not in
strictness to detract from the genuine and acknowledged merits of an
author. Mr. Bulwer may have done great injustice to our countryman, and
yet have some redeeming beauties to atone for his transgression. In
compliance with Mr. Fairfield's request, we insert with pleasure the
whole of his interesting article.
From the North American Magazine.