Thomas Moore - Life of Lord Byron, Vol. IV

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_Man._ Proceed,--I listen.

_Abbot._ 'Tis said thou boldest converse with the things
Which are forbidden to the search of man;
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes,
The many evil and unheavenly spirits
Which walk the valley of the shade of death,
Thou communest. I know that with mankind,
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy.

_Man._ And what are they who do avouch these things?

_Abbot._ My pious brethren--the scared peasantry--
Even thy own vassals--who do look on thee
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril.

_Man._ Take it.

_Abbot._ I come to save, and not destroy--
I would not pry into thy secret soul;
But if these things be sooth, there still is time
For penitence and pity: reconcile thee
With the true church, and through the church to heaven.

_Man._ I hear thee. This is my reply; Whate'er
I may have been, or am, doth rest between
Heaven and myself.--I shall not choose a mortal
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd
Against your ordinances? prove and punish![1]

_Abbot._ Then, hear and tremble! For the headstrong wretch
Who in the mail of innate hardihood
Would shield himself, and battle for his sins,
There is the stake on earth, and beyond earth eternal--

_Man._ Charity, most reverend father,
Becomes thy lips so much more than this menace,
That I would call thee back to it; but say,
What wouldst thou with me?

_Abbot._ It may be there are
Things that would shake thee--but I keep them back,
And give thee till to-morrow to repent.
Then if thou dost not all devote thyself
To penance, and with gift of all thy lands
To the monastery--

_Man._ I understand thee,--well!

_Abbot._ Expect no mercy; I have warned thee.

_Man._ (_opening the casket._) Stop--
There is a gift for thee within this casket.

[MANFRED _opens the casket, strikes a light, and burns some
incense._

Ho! Ashtaroth!

_The_ DEMON ASHTAROTH _appears, singing as follows:--_

The raven sits
On the raven-stone,
And his black wing flits
O'er the milk-white bone;
To and fro, as the night-winds blow,
The carcass of the assassin swings;
And there alone, on the raven-stone[2],
The raven flaps his dusky wings.

The fetters creak--and his ebon beak
Croaks to the close of the hollow sound;
And this is the tune by the light of the moon
To which the witches dance their round--
Merrily, merrily, cheerily, cheerily,
Merrily, speeds the ball:
The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in clouds,
Flock to the witches' carnival.

_Abbot._ I fear thee not--hence--hence--
Avaunt thee, evil one!--help, ho! without there!

_Man._ Convey this man to the Shreckhorn--to its peak--
To its extremest peak--watch with him there
From now till sunrise; let him gaze, and know
He ne'er again will be so near to heaven.
But harm him not; and, when the morrow breaks,
Set him down safe in his cell--away with him!

_Ash._ Had I not better bring his brethren too,
Convent and all, to bear him company?

_Man._ No, this will serve for the present. Take him up.

_Ash._ Come, friar! now an exorcism or two,
And we shall fly the lighter.

ASHTAROTH _disappears with the_ ABBOT, _singing as follows:--_

A prodigal son and a maid undone,
And a widow re-wedded within the year;
And a worldly monk and a pregnant nun,
Are things which every day appear.

MANFRED _alone._

_Man._ Why would this fool break in on me, and force
My art to pranks fantastical?--no matter,
It was not of my seeking. My heart sickens,
And weighs a fix'd foreboding on my soul;
But it is calm--calm as a sullen sea
After the hurricane; the winds are still,
But the cold waves swell high and heavily,
And there is danger in them. Such a rest
Is no repose. My life hath been a combat.
And every thought a wound, till I am scarr'd
In the immortal part of me--What now?

_Re-enter_ HERMAN.

_Her._ My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset:
He sinks behind the mountain.

_Man._ Doth he so?
I will look on him.

[MANFRED _advances to the window of the hall._

Glorious orb![3] the idol
Of early nature, and the vigorous race
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex
More beautiful than they, which did draw down
The erring spirits who can ne'er return.--
Most glorious orb! that wert a worship, ere
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd!
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,
Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd
Themselves in orisons! Thou material God!
And representative of the Unknown--
Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief star!
Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth
Endurable, and temperest the hues
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays!
Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes,
And those who dwell in them! for, near or far,
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee,
Even as our outward aspects;--thou dost rise,
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well!
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take
My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone:
I follow. [_Exit_ MANFRED.

SCENE II.

_The Mountains--The Castle of Manfred at some distance--A Terrace before
a Tower--Time, Twilight._

HERMAN, MANUEL, _and other dependants of_ MANFRED.

_Her._ 'Tis strange enough; night after night, for years,
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower,
Without a witness. I have been within it,--
So have we all been oft-times; but from it,
Or its contents, it were impossible
To draw conclusions absolute of aught
His studies tend to. To be sure, there is
One chamber where none enter; I would give
The fee of what I have to come these three years,
To pore upon its mysteries.

_Manuel._ 'Twere dangerous;
Content thyself with what thou know'st already.

_Her._ Ah! Manuel! thou art elderly and wise,
And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the castle--
How many years is't?

_Manuel._ Ere Count Manfred's birth,
I served his father, whom he nought resembles.

_Her._ There be more sons in like predicament.
But wherein do they differ?

_Manuel._ I speak not
Of features or of form, but mind and habits:
Count Sigismund was proud,--but gay and free,--
A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt not
With books and solitude, nor made the night
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time,
Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside
From men and their delights.

_Her._ Beshrew the hour,
But those were jocund times! I would that such
Would visit the old walls again; they look
As if they had forgotten them.

_Manuel._ These walls
Must change their chieftain first. Oh! I have seen
Some strange things in these few years.[4]

_Her._ Come, be friendly;
Relate me some, to while away our watch:
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event
Which happened hereabouts, by this same tower.

_Manuel._ That was a night indeed! I do remember
'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such
Another evening;--yon red cloud, which rests
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then,--
So like that it might be the same; the wind
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows
Began to glitter with the climbing moon;
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower,--
How occupied, we knew not, but with him
The sole companion of his wanderings
And watchings--her, whom of all earthly things
That lived, the only thing he seemed to love,--
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do,
The lady Astarte, his--

_Her._ Look--look--the tower--
The tower's on fire. Oh, heavens and earth! what sound,
What dreadful sound is that? [_A crash like thunder._

_Manuel._ Help, help, there!--to the rescue of the Count,--
The Count's in danger,--what ho! there! approach!

_The Servants, Vassals, and Peasantry approach, stupified with
terror._

If there be any of you who have heart
And love of human kind, and will to aid
Those in distress--pause not--but follow me--
The portal's open, follow. [MANUEL _goes in._

_Her._ Come--who follows?
What, none of ye?--ye recreants! shiver then
Without. I will not see old Manuel risk
His few remaining years unaided. [HERMAN _goes in._

_Vassal._ Hark!--
No--all is silent--not a breath--the flame
Which shot forth such a blaze is also gone;
What may this mean? Let's enter!

_Peasant._ Faith, not I,--
Not that, if one, or two, or more, will join,
I then will stay behind; but, for my part,
I do not see precisely to what end.

_Vassal._ Cease your vain prating--come.

_Manuel._ (_speaking within._) 'Tis all in vain--
He's dead.

_Her._ (_within._) Not so--even now methought he moved;
But it is dark--so bear him gently out--
Softly--how cold he is! take care of his temples
In winding down the staircase.

_Re-enter_ MANUEL _and_ HERMAN, _bearing_ MANFRED _in their arms._

_Manuel._ Hie to the castle, some of ye, and bring
What aid you can. Saddle the barb, and speed
For the leech to the city--quick! some water there!

_Her._ His cheek is black--but there is a faint beat
Still lingering about the heart. Some water.

[_They sprinkle_ MANFRED _with water; after a pause, he gives
some signs of life._

_Manuel._ He seems to strive to speak--come--cheerly, Count!
He moves his lips--canst hear him? I am old,
And cannot catch faint sounds.

[HERMAN _inclining his head and listening._

_Her._ I hear a word
Or two--but indistinctly--what is next?
What's to be done? let's bear him to the castle.

[MANFRED _motions with his hand not to remove him._

_Manuel._ He disapproves--and 'twere of no avail--
He changes rapidly.

_Her._ 'Twill soon be over.

_Manuel._ Oh! what a death is this! that I should live
To shake my gray hairs over the last chief
Of the house of Sigismund.--And such a death!
Alone--we know not how--unshrived--untended--
With strange accompaniments and fearful signs--
I shudder at the sight--but must not leave him.

_Manfred._ (_speaking faintly and slowly._) Old man! 'tis not so difficult
to die. [MANFRED _having said this expires._

_Her._ His eyes are fixed and lifeless.--He is gone.--

_Manuel._ Close them.--My old hand quivers.--He departs--
Whither? I dread to think--but he is gone!

[Footnote 1: It will be perceived that, as far as this, the original
matter of the third Act has been retained.]

[Footnote 2: "Raven-stone (Rabenstein), a translation of the German word
for the gibbet, which in Germany and Switzerland is permanent, and made
of stone."]

[Footnote 3: This fine soliloquy, and a great part of the subsequent
scene, have, it is hardly necessary to remark been retained in the
present form of the Drama.]

[Footnote 4: Altered in the present form, to "some strange things in
them, Herman."]

* * * * *

LETTER 278. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Rome, May 9. 1817.

"Address all answers to Venice; for there I shall return in fifteen
days, God willing.

"I sent you from Florence 'The Lament of Tasso,' and from Rome the
third Act of Manfred, both of which, I trust, will duly arrive. The
terms of these two I mentioned in my last, and will repeat in this,
it is three hundred for each, or _six_ hundred guineas for the
two--that is, if you like, and they are good for any thing.

"At last one of the parcels is arrived. In the notes to Childe
Harold there is a blunder of yours or mine: you talk of arrival at
_St. Gingo_, and, immediately after, add--'on the height is the
Chateau of Clarens.' This is sad work: Clarens is on the _other_
side of the Lake, and it is quite impossible that I should have so
bungled. Look at the MS.; and at any rate rectify it.

"The 'Tales of my Landlord' I have read with great pleasure, and
perfectly understand now why my sister and aunt are so very
positive in the very erroneous persuasion that they must have been
written by me. If you knew me as well as they do, you would have
fallen, perhaps, into the same mistake. Some day or other, I will
explain to you _why_--when I have time; at present, it does not
much matter; but you must have thought this blunder of theirs very
odd, and so did I, till I had read the book. Croker's letter to you
is a very great compliment; I shall return it to you in my next.

"I perceive you are publishing a Life of Raffael d'Urbino: it may
perhaps interest you to hear that a set of German artists here
allow their _hair_ to grow, and trim it into _his fashion_, thereby
drinking the cummin of the disciples of the old philosopher; if
they would cut their hair, convert it into brushes, and paint like
him, it would be more '_German_ to the matter.'

"I'll tell you a story: the other day, a man here--an
English--mistaking the statues of Charlemagne and Constantine,
which are _equestrian_, for those of Peter and Paul, asked another
_which_ was Paul of these same horsemen?--to which the reply
was,--'I thought, sir, that St. Paul had never got on _horseback_
since his _accident_?'

"I'll tell you another: Henry Fox, writing to some one from Naples
the other day, after an illness, adds--'and I am so changed, that
my _oldest creditors_ would hardly know me.'

"I am delighted with Rome--as I would be with a bandbox, that is,
it is a fine thing to see, finer than Greece; but I have not been
here long enough to affect it as a residence, and I must go back to
Lombardy, because I am wretched at being away from Marianna. I have
been riding my saddle-horses every day, and been to Albano, its
Lakes, and to the top of the Alban Mount, and to Frescati, Aricia,
&c. &c. with an &c. &c. &c. about the city, and in the city: for
all which--vide Guide-book. As a whole, ancient and modern, it
beats Greece, Constantinople, every thing--at least that I have
ever seen. But I can't describe, because my first impressions are
always strong and confused, and my memory _selects_ and reduces
them to order, like distance in the landscape, and blends them
better, although they may be less distinct. There must be a sense
or two more than we have, us mortals; for * * * * * where there is
much to be grasped we are always at a loss, and yet feel that we
ought to have a higher and more extended comprehension.

"I have had a letter from Moore, who is in some alarm about his
poem. I don't see why.

"I have had another from my poor dear Augusta, who is in a sad fuss
about my late illness; do, pray, tell her (the truth) that I am
better than ever, and in importunate health, growing (if not grown)
large and ruddy, and congratulated by impertinent persons on my
robustious appearance, when I ought to be pale and interesting.

"You tell me that George Byron has got a son, and Augusta says, a
daughter; which is it?--it is no great matter: the father is a good
man, an excellent officer, and has married a very nice little
woman, who will bring him more babes than income; howbeit she had a
handsome dowry, and is a very charming girl;--but he may as well
get a ship.

"I have no thoughts of coming amongst you yet awhile, so that I can
fight off business. If I could but make a tolerable sale of
Newstead, there would be no occasion for my return; and I can
assure you very sincerely, that I am much happier (or, at least,
have been so) out of your island than in it.

"Yours ever.

"P.S. There are few English here, but several of my acquaintance;
amongst others, the Marquis of Lansdowne, with whom I dine
to-morrow. I met the Jerseys on the road at Foligno--all well.

"Oh--I forgot--the Italians have printed Chillon, &c. a
_piracy_,--a pretty little edition, prettier than yours--and
published, as I found to my great astonishment on arriving here;
and what is odd, is, that the English is quite correctly printed.
Why they did it, or who did it, I know not; but so it is;--I
suppose, for the English people. I will send you a copy."

* * * * *

LETTER 279. TO MR. MOORE.

"Rome, May 12. 1817.

"I have received your letter here, where I have taken a cruise
lately; but I shall return back to Venice in a few days, so that if
you write again, address there, as usual. I am not for returning
to England so soon as you imagine; and by no means at all as a
residence. If you cross the Alps in your projected expedition, you
will find me somewhere in Lombardy, and very glad to see you. Only
give me a word or two beforehand, for I would readily diverge some
leagues to meet you.

"Of Rome I say nothing; it is quite indescribable, and the
Guide-book is as good as any other. I dined yesterday with Lord
Lansdowne, who is on his return. But there are few English here at
present; the winter is _their_ time. I have been on horseback most
of the day, all days since my arrival, and have taken it as I did
Constantinople. But Rome is the elder sister, and the finer. I went
some days ago to the top of the Alban Mount, which is superb. As
for the Coliseum, Pantheon, St. Peter's, the Vatican, Palatine, &c.
&c.--as I said, vide Guide-book. They are quite inconceivable, and
must _be seen_. The Apollo Belvidere is the image of Lady Adelaide
Forbes--I think I never saw such a likeness.

"I have seen the Pope alive, and a cardinal dead,--both of whom
looked very well indeed. The latter was in state in the Chiesa
Nuova, previous to his interment.

"Your poetical alarms are groundless; go on and prosper. Here is
Hobhouse just come in, and my horses at the door, so that I must
mount and take the field in the Campus Martius, which, by the way,
is all built over by modern Rome.

"Yours very and ever, &c.

"P.S. Hobhouse presents his remembrances, and is eager, with all
the world, for your new poem."

* * * * *

LETTER 280. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Venice, May 30. 1817.

"I returned from Rome two days ago, and have received your letter;
but no sign nor tidings of the parcel sent through Sir C. Stuart,
which you mention. After an interval of months, a packet of
'Tales,' &c. found me at Rome; but this is all, and may be all that
ever will find me. The post seems to be the only sure conveyance;
and _that only for letters_. From Florence I sent you a poem on
Tasso, and from Rome the new third Act of 'Manfred,' and by Dr.
Polidori two portraits for my sister. I left Rome and made a rapid
journey home. You will continue to direct here as usual. Mr.
Hobhouse is gone to Naples: I should have run down there too for a
week, but for the quantity of English whom I heard of there. I
prefer hating them at a distance; unless an earthquake, or a good
real irruption of Vesuvius, were ensured to reconcile me to their
vicinity.

"The day before I left Rome I saw three robbers guillotined. The
ceremony--including the _masqued_ priests; the half-naked
executioners; the bandaged criminals; the black Christ and his
banner; the scaffold; the soldiery; the slow procession, and the
quick rattle and heavy fall of the axe; the splash of the blood,
and the ghastliness of the exposed heads--is altogether more
impressive than the vulgar and ungentlemanly dirty 'new drop,' and
dog-like agony of infliction upon the sufferers of the English
sentence. Two of these men behaved calmly enough, but the first of
the three died with great terror and reluctance. What was very
horrible, he would not lie down; then his neck was too large for
the aperture, and the priest was obliged to drown his exclamations
by still louder exhortations. The head was off before the eye could
trace the blow; but from an attempt to draw back the head,
notwithstanding it was held forward by the hair, the first head was
cut off close to the ears: the other two were taken off more
cleanly. It is better than the oriental way, and (I should think)
than the axe of our ancestors. The pain seems little, and yet the
effect to the spectator, and the preparation to the criminal, is
very striking and chilling. The first turned me quite hot and
thirsty, and made me shake so that I could hardly hold the
opera-glass (I was close, but was determined to see, as one should
see every thing, once, with attention); the second and third (which
shows how dreadfully soon things grow indifferent), I am ashamed to
say, had no effect on me as a horror, though I would have saved
them if I could. Yours," &c.

* * * * *

LETTER 281. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Venice, June 4. 1817.

"I have received the proofs of the 'Lament of Tasso,' which makes
me hope that you have also received the reformed third Act of
Manfred, from Rome, which I sent soon after my arrival there. My
date will apprise you of my return home within these few days. For
me, I have received _none_ of your packets, except, after long
delay, the 'Tales of my Landlord,' which I before acknowledged. I
do not at all understand the _why nots_, but so it is; no Manuel,
no letters, no tooth-powder, no _extract_ from Moore's Italy
concerning Marino Faliero, no NOTHING--as a man hallooed out at one
of Burdett's elections, after a long ululatus of 'No Bastille! No
governor-ities! No--'God knows who or what;--but his _ne plus
ultra_ was, 'No nothing!'--and my receipts of your packages amount
to about his meaning. I want the extract from _Moore's_ Italy very
much, and the tooth-powder, and the magnesia; I don't care so much
about the poetry, or the letters, or Mr. Maturin's by-Jasus
tragedy. Most of the things sent by the post have come--I mean
proofs and letters; therefore send me Marino Faliero by the post,
in a letter.

"I was delighted with Rome, and was on horseback all round it many
hours daily, besides in it the rest of my time, bothering over its
marvels. I excursed and skirred the country round to Alba, Tivoli,
Frescati, Licenza, &c. &c.; besides, I visited twice the Fall of
Terni, which beats every thing. On my way back, close to the temple
by its banks, I got some famous trout out of the river
Clitumnus--the prettiest little stream in all poesy, near the first
post from Foligno and Spoletto.--I did not stay at Florence, being
anxious to get home to Venice, and having already seen the
galleries and other sights. I left my commendatory letters the
evening before I went, so I saw nobody.

"To-day, Pindemonte, the celebrated poet of Verona, called on me;
he is a little thin man, with acute and pleasing features; his
address good and gentle; his appearance altogether very
philosophical; his age about sixty, or more. He is one of their
best going. I gave him _Forsyth_, as he speaks, or reads rather, a
little English, and will find there a favourable account of
himself. He enquired after his old Cruscan friends, Parsons,
Greathead, Mrs. Piozzi, and Merry, all of whom he had known in his
youth. I gave him as bad an account of them as I could, answering,
as the false 'Solomon Lob' does to 'Totterton' in the farce, 'all
gone dead,' and damned by a satire more than twenty years ago; that
the name of their extinguisher was Gifford; that they were but a
sad set of scribes after all, and no great things in any other way.
He seemed, as was natural, very much pleased with this account of
his old acquaintances, and went away greatly gratified with that
and Mr. Forsyth's sententious paragraph of applause in his own
(Pindemonte's) favour. After having been a little libertine in his
youth, he is grown devout, and takes prayers, and talks to himself,
to keep off the devil; but for all that, he is a very nice little
old gentleman.

"I forgot to tell you that at Bologna (which is celebrated for
producing popes, painters, and sausages) I saw an anatomical
gallery, where there is a deal of waxwork, in which * *.

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