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59
CANTO III.
THE FOREST OF FONTAINEBLEAU—THE GRAND VENEUR—THE PALACE—TALLEYRAND—THE WIDOW—NAPOLEON'S CHAMBER—PORT VENASQUE—MONT D'OR—CLERMONT.
I
Mine is no Clio, stalking from the study!My Muse must be a sister of the Graces;
A little wild perhaps,—rose-cheeked (not ruddy)—
A summer-bird,—a fawn in all her paces,
Darting her brilliant eyes in all odd places;
Yet, capable of tears,—just one, or two,
(Such drops as eve on closing blossoms traces)
That tell you of the tender and the true,
But, mark, no floods for me; mine must be bright—and few!
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II
Tourists! observe—if you would fill my shelves,I care not sixpence for Madonna's eyes:
Feed me with facts, give pictures of ourselves.
I tire of “Raphael's grace,” and “Titian's dyes!”
Annihilate, for once, your “orange skies;”
Give me, however rough, the stamp of life,
The hearts strong throbs, the soul, without disguise.
(N. B.)—No history of your child, or wife;
With such I am at war—aye, “even to the knife.”
III
Give me live men and women, thoughts and things;No sentiment—(to turtles leave their cooing)—
No politics; I honour all Earth's Kings,
(Nor care this ink-drop, what they all are brewing;)
No scraps from your blue books, I hate all blueing.
But, give me wit, opinion, character,
The only game that I think worth pursuing;
Show me the leading spirits of our sphere—
Those are the sights to see—those are the sounds to hear.
61
THE FOREST.
'Tis pleasant, bowling o'er those old French roads,When summer lets you gallop “off the stones;”
It much the spirit of its cares unloads,
To travel without fear of broken bones!
And, hark! how sweet those distant city-tones!
Those chiming bells upon the wavering breeze,
As up the hill our straining axle groans:
And now, the landscape, opening by degrees,
Shows royal roofs, amidst a wilderness of trees.
V
I always liked thee, France, and loved thy belles,Them for their dress, and thee for thy undress:
I liked thee for thy open hills and dells,
(Not for thy Habeas Corpus' and Free Press,—
With those thou 'rt always sure to make a mess.)
'Tis true, thou hast not England's woodbine cots,
Nor her sweet girls' blue eye and auburn tress;—
But then—thou hast not England's landscape-blots,—
Her sullen factory smokes, and “Land in building lots.”
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VI
England, ere half a century has flown,Thou 'lt be all brickwork! chimneys all thy shade!
Thine only breezes, from their funnels blown:
Grass in Museums, twenty pounds a blade!
The Island one Bazaar,—one black Arcade:—
No river but Fleet-ditch,—no evening air,—
No plough, no lark, no tree, no nut-brown maid,—
No vale, no hill,—all brick, no room to spare,—
One London-suburb all,—all grim as Grosvenor Square.
VII
Thine is indeed a Forest, FontainebleauAlmost the only royal forest in France, which has not been spoiled by royal taste. A large portion of it has been stript of its trees, but enough remains, to make it one of the noblest of European hunting-grounds. In France, forest-trees are seldom allowed to grow to their natural size; but here are some noble specimens. The cruelty of hunting is beginning to be felt even in France; and since the foolish days of the last Bourbon, public hunting has been scarcely resumed. The idea of making sport of the agonies of the inferior creation is fortunately beginning to be regarded by the educated classes of all countries, as not merely a frivolous and vulgar waste of time—a coarse and brutish pursuit of a clownish enjoyment—but an actual crime.
Where lovely Nature has her “own sweet will:”
('Twas now in all the summer's golden glow.)—
How nobly soars in light yon oak-crowned hill!
How richly larch and ash these valleys fill,
Empurpled with the tinging of the year:
All stillness, save the rushing of the rill,
That from its fissured rock bursts cool and clear,—
Or watch-dog's distant bark,—or bray of browsing deer.
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VIII
As on we roll, 'tis one delicious Wild,With soft, green glades, between the tall, old trees;
Gleaming in sunny tufts, like velvet piled
With knots of primrose and anemones,
And many a blossomed plant, beloved of bees:
And, with broad gaze upon the setting sun,
Huge, quiet cattle, couching at their ease;
Or stag, lone stalking through the copses dun;
But, hush! what means this Stone, which all the peasants shun
“La Croix du Grand Veneur,” is an obelisk marking the spot where the Demon of the Forest—the Black Huntsman—was said to have met Henry IV., and predicted his assassination. The king's change of religion; after the sacrifices undergone by the French Protestants to place him at the head of Protestantism in France, was a lasting source of discord; and it was remarked by them, that his fall by the hand of a monk, was in some degree a just punishment for his desertion to the religion of Rome. His apostacy was never forgiven.
THE GRAND VENEUR.
'Twas in this very spot, that Henri QuatreHad his day's hunting with the “Grand Veneur.”
Whence came that huntsman, now is no great matter;
Henri himself was not a “Simon pure.”
He just had flung his falcon from the lure,
When burst a furious din of horns and hounds;
Off flew his grooms, the culprits to secure,
And fine them royally for breaking bounds.
Nothing annoys the great, like poaching on their grounds!
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X
Within five seconds, galloped up the hunt—Five hundred riders grim, on steeds of fire!
The Grand Veneur, jackbooted, in their front,
Some ten feet high! his horse, too, a highflyer,
Champing hot coals—his tail a lightning-spire!
“Henri!” he cried, “come, hunt in forest style.”
Upsprang a stag—they dashed o'er brake and briar!
Beginning slow—a minute to a mile!
Calmly the Grand Veneur conversing all the while.
XI
“No secrets, Monsieur Henri, among friends:The world's a jest, and you have had your sport;
Your carnival on this day twelvemonth ends;
La Gabrielle must take her leave of court!”—
The Grand Veneur's black charger gave a snort;
A general laugh ran round the grisly ring,
That sounded like a culverin's report.
—“We leave the honest fools to drown, or swing,
The renegade we push, and make him pope—or king.”
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XII
The pace grew faster—talk of breeze or wing!Hill, vale, and river vanished at a stride!
France had few bolder riders than the king;
Yet never king less liked his morning's ride.
Noon came, the sun his velvet doublet fried;
Eve came, he felt its chillness tenfold chill:
The Grand Veneur still galloped by his side!
(Kings, now and then, must bolt a bitter pill:
That huntsman had been hanged, had Henri but his will!)
XIII
Still, rang the horn; still, whip and spur were plied;Still, the pale monarch held his wild career;
Still, rode the fearful Huntsman by his side!
And now the stars began to glisten clear;
Still, through the forest bounded the fiend deer!
At length, some torches faint and distant shone;
A funeral anthem thrill'd on Henri's ear!
“'Tis Coligni's ! he perished for your throne,”
Whispered the Grand Veneur,—the answer was a groan!
66
XIV
'Twas midnight!—still, that wild-hunt's whirlwind rushBurst o'er the mountain-brow and down the dell!
At once the tumult died!—the breeze's gush,
The only sound upon his ear that fell.
But hark! the tolling of a tocsin-bell!—
Henri was brave, and yet his blood ran cold;
Then rose a clash of arms; a sudden yell!
And loud and louder still, along the wold,
The sounds of terror, fight, and massacre, were rolled!
XV
Above the forest swept a sheet of flame!And by its glare they saw a city's wall,
Whence the deep uproar of that struggle came;
Shrieks, mingled with the drum, and trumpet-call!
And now, they rode by mansions old and tall;
While round their fearful march poured spectre crowds;
Some battling in an ancient Palace hall;
Some from its casements flung, in gory shrouds;
Till pealed the bell once more, and all were lost in clouds!
67
XVI
Away, away! again, in storm they flew!“Know'st thou that bell?” the sneering huntsman cried.
“I heard it—on the St. Bartholomew,”
Murmured the king.—“Now, Henri, thank thy guide!”—
“Thank him!” was echoed through the forest wide.
The demon in his pallid visage grinned:
“'Twas I that launched thy galley on the tide;
'Twas I that bade thee sin,—and thou hast sinn'd.
A throne was in the scales! and what are oaths but wind?”
XVII
For aught I know, they might be hunting yet,Had not a puff of sulphur filled the gale;
The Grand Veneur pulled off his plumed berette,
And bowed to one, the palest of the pale,
A monk, in shirt of hair, (Rome's ancient mail.)
Jumping for joy, around him bounced the pack,
(All fiends!) all barking, wagging head and tail,
In spite of many a warning kick and crack.
The grisly riders roared: “Bien venu
“Welcome.” Ravaillac, a monk, who had adopted a variety of professions, at last determined to signalize himself by stabbing the king. An impression had been prevalent amongst the populace, that Henry was again about to change his religion, and make war on the Pope. On the 14th of May, 1610, Ravaillac struck him to the heart.
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XVIII
The rest I offer merely as conjecture;His grooms found Henri by an old oak's trunk,
Like one recovering from a curtain-lecture.
(No pleasant thing, from either wife or monk;)
The grooms (respectfully) supposed him drunk!—
He ordered, for a twelvemonth and a day,
That from all France his hunting should be sunk.
The day arrived, and all, but he, were gay:
He saw that monk again!—one blow—the king was clay!
FONTAINEBLEAU.
The town—but, who on earth can bear French towns?All dust in sunshine, and in showers all slime.—
The Palace!—famous for upsetting crowns—
The “Cabinet de Travail” of Napoleon exhibits the table at which he signed his abdication, in 1814. The Galerie des Cerfs was the scene of the murder of Monaldeschi, by order of Christina, Queen of Sweden, in 1657. He was her high-chamberlain; and the alleged cause was the betrayal of some domestic secrets.
Fontainebleau was remarkable for the residence of historic personages. Philippe de Bel, the first who raised Loans, lived here; the Emperor Charles V. was entertained here by Francis I.; Anne of Austria, when Regent, made it her temporary residence, &c. &c.
A mass of lumber, even in its prime,
Now (like the world) not much improved by time;
Loaded with noseless Greek and Roman things,
(By much too heavy for my light-heeled rhyme,)
I leave them to the “Patent muse,” which sings,
(For sack and sixpences) of Levees, stars, and strings!
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XX
Keep my raptures for its knaves “Illustrious!”Its hearts of steel, and consciences of stone.
(Not quite a pupil of the “school” industrious,
Which heroizes James, and saints Pope Joan)
Philip, (the genius) Father of the Loan.
(How lucky that the “set” are not alive all!
Each thundering over Europe from his throne.)
Francis the lewd; grim Charles, his bigot-rival:—
Ye sepulchres, hold fast—Heaven spare us the revival!
XXI
Here winds the “Galerie” where fierce ChristinaMinced Monsieur Monaldeschi for his treason—
(Id est, for telling stories of Regina,—)
Queen-gossip being always out of season,)
So, three assassins brought him to his reason!
Here, monks and mummers settled State affairs;
Here Mazarin pilfered all that he could seize on;
Here priests said many a thing, besides their prayers;
And princes, dukes, and counts, all ran up the back-stairs!
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XXII
Not that I much abhor those picture galleries,With all their mob, of monarchs, counts, and knights;
Statesmen, whose broidered mantles cost their salaries;
Grand Goths, beneath whose feet we move like mites;
Grim maids of honour, (Nature's stateliest frights,)
Frowning from casement, or portcullis arched,
Crowned with toupets of “regulation” heights,
Stiff, to the life, as when at court they marched;
Awfully furbelowed, magnificently starched!
XXIII
One asks by instinct—Ye terrific maids!Could those vast stomachers hide human hearts?
Were ever bulwarks like those shoulder-blades?
Were not those breast-bones proof to Cupid's arts?
Those ruffs alone might blunt ten thousand darts!
With iron for your nerves, and stones for eyes,
What were ye?—mummies, galvanized by starts!
Chevaux-de-frised against all heart-surprise!
Incapable of smiles—insensible to sighs!
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XXIV
There frowns thy speaking picture; MachiavelliThe famous author of the “Del Principe,” or the Maxims of Cæsar Borgia, the most barefaced villain since Nero; and the maxims are worthy of the man. The attempts made to represent this atrocious work as a satire are trifling. It is obviously the genuine code of an Italian public man of his day; and it has not been without exemplars in every day since. Yet Machiavelli had once been sent to the rack; a recollection, which might have fairly cured him of his taste for tyranny; but the demon was within. Poet, politician, and historian, he was evidently a man of versatile and vigorous faculties. But the writer of the “Del Principe” ought to have died on the scaffold.
Thou true Italian Mephistophiles!
(Like arsenic in a plate of vermicelli,)
Teaching the world to poison at its ease!—
If monarchs pant their people's purse to squeeze,
If Satan urge his slaves, to thrones to climb;
Or monks, to filch tiaras on their knees;
Thy volume is the villain's “true sublime,”
Thy cup the tempter's cup, its wine essential crime!
XXV
Whose is that visage, sportive, yet severeMolière, beyond all comparison the greatest comic writer of France; rendered himself the burlesque of France by his matrimonial absurdities. Always in love with somebody or other, his successive wives ran away from him; and he at last dropped dead, while performing in one of his own comedies, his heart broken by the misconduct of a coquettish spouse.
That lip of laughter, yet those piercing eyes;
That brow so bright, yet care-worn?—Ah, Molière!
I see the hand, that stripped the soul's disguise,
Forced monks to feel, and monarchs to be wise;
Dared the court-whisper, and the Jesuit's knife;
Yet (all we honour, all that we despise,)
Leading, poor fool, an ultra-henpecked life,
And dying on the stage! Verdict—“A dashing wife!”
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XXVI
One place is vacant, which but one can fill.Prince of imperial craftsmen, Talleyrand
The most astute man of his time. The true wonder of his career is, not that, though a noble and a bishop, he rose to the highest employments in an infidel revolution; but that he kept his head on his shoulders at a period when the guillotine was the “natural death” of Frenchmen. His early wealth, and his political frigidity, probably alike saved him. The one procured protectors, the other precluded partisanship. The factions were too busy in tearing down enemies to trample on neutrals. His memorable maxim, that “zeal and devotion are the two most dangerous qualities for public men,” was exemplified in the success of his career. But if false, what a libel on statesmanship; if true, what a scandal to human nature!
Where is thy cold grey eye, thy visage chill,
Thy sneering lip, thy smile supremely bland?
Thou first and last of that Imperial band,
Who swindled monarchs, mobs, and all mankind!
Thy craft, so sweeping, that 't was almost grand!
Thy galley making way with every wind,
Shunning all rocks and shoals, yet never left behind!
XXVII
Yes! 't was delightful, from thy features placid,To see such firefly sparks of satire dart!
Thy wit a drop of death—pure prussic acid—
A flash of lightning, killing without smart!
Tell me, thou man of brain without a heart—
Prince Scapin! in what courtly escritoire
Hast thou locked up thy never-failing chart,
That steered thee safe through council, and boudoir;
Till France's blazing torch was buried in the Loire?
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XXVIII
France has for thee no rival—Rome but Sylla;Yet, strip the classic gilding from the name,
What was his lazy life, his Baian villa,
His Senate, craving for the bread of shame,
To thy keen course, through France's tide of flame;
Thy path, beset with faction's serpent-stings?
Thine was the longer and the harder game,—
When Europe's thrones were made the tombs of kings.
But politics, avaunt!—I turn to wedding-rings!
THE WIDOW.
Legendre was a General of Division;Had stoutly won his aiguillettes and crosses;
Performed the “grand manœuvres” with precision;
Left his right leg in Dantzic's frozen fosses;
At Borodino dropped his bold proboscis;
At Moscow was half roasted, like a hero;
But, as few generals can live on mosses,
When “l'Empereur” performed the modern Pharoah,
He died in the retreat (thermometer at zero).
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XXX
His widow—a young, bright-eyed Paris thing;Pined, in the prettiest mourning, for her mate;
For a whole week, would neither dance nor sing;
Looked on the sunny world with special hate;
Nay, talked of flying to a convent-grate!
At last she wrote—she “owned, 't was with a qualm”—
To Talleyrand, then Minister of State,
To ask a pension—“death must be her balm.”
The billet was returned, endorsed—“Hélas! madame!”
XXXI
The General's aide-de-camp arrived in France,Monsieur Auguste-Achille de Battleaxe!
A showy fellow, with a laughing glance.
He brought the Will—the widow broke the wax;
It left her rich!—his heart took fire, like flax!
The pretty veuve soon asked—without “a qualm”—
A pension for her slayer of Cossacks,—
Her, “brave Achille,”—“Le mari de son âme.”
The billet was returned, endorsed—“Ho, ho, madame!”
75
THE CHAMBER.
One glance at thy bronze bust, Napoleon!Ere all are hurried from the little room,
Where Europe's lord was tumbled from his throne.
There stands his couch;—the table, hid in gloom,
Where his own pallid fingers signed his doom;
The chair, in agony of spirit scored :
King-maker! I ask not, where stands thy tomb?
Though thousands round it wept, or cannon roared.
Here was Napoleon's tomb; here vanished crown and sword!
XXXIII
I am not “playing moralist;” and yet,Where has the world a teacher—like that bust?
Why, shall the heart through half a century fret,
Stake life, and love, and peace—to turn to dust?
Like thee, if mighty, from a throne be thrust,
The scoff and victim of its ransomed slaves!
If lowly, take posterity on trust,
Dream dreams, build castles upon winds and waves,
And, after all—lie down among earth's wormy graves.
76
AUVERGNE.
With four post-horses, one can go at speedThrough Surrey, or Siberia, vale or hill.
I spare the world the tidings—where I feed,
At night am fed upon, or tax my bill:
“To all men be it known,”—I don't stand still.
At length I reach a land of fog and fern,
The plain's hot gusts are growing cold and shrill;
The beggars thicken;—signs from which I learn,
That round me frown the hills
Auvergne, the “Campi Phlegræi” of France, sterile from the poverty of its people, and the sufferings of the province, in the Revocation of the Edict; but a noble subject for the man of science, and a still nobler one for the historian. There are instances in the war of the Cevennes, which might be remembered, beside Marathon and Thermopylæ.
PORT VENASQUE .
I wonder at the taste for scaling mountains,(A question once I never stopped to ask,)
To watch where glaciers trickle into fountains,
Sunburning all your visage like a mask.
I still remember clambering Port Venasque,
The toughest trip among the Pyrenees.
When I had hoped in Spanish suns to bask,
My only gain—to starve, and thirst, and freeze—
To, nearly break my neck, and break my donkey's knees!
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XXXVI
The morning fixed (of course) began with fog,('Tis always thus upon your pic-nic days,)
But, up we moved; first, floundered through a bog.
Then, at the “Hospice de Bagnères,” missed stays!
There, 'tis the etiquette to stand and gaze,
Though blight and barrenness make all the show!
Our mules were wiser, for they tried to graze.
All, to the top, thenceforth was rock and snow,—
Still on we dragged our steps, wet, weary, sad, and slow.
XXXVII
We had six ladies! carried up in chairs,(The charming sex are fond of “seeing sights;”)
Our road resembled much those corkscrew stairs
Where one false step may send you twenty flights;
But then—the picturesque! “What shades! what lights!
What blues and yellows down the mountain's side!”
Our heroines six, however, looked like sprites!
My restiff mule soon made an awful slide—
Two thousand feet of gulf were just within a stride!
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XXXVIII
Still, up we toiled, each moment growing colder,Tugging and flogging at our recreant cattle;
Each heroine with a rawboned clown for “holder.”
At last, with roarings like a distant battle,
A tempest through the rocks began to rattle;
And on the spot where all should be delighted—
“Spain at our feet,” so runs the tourist's prattle,
A haze rushed up, in which we were benighted,
All shivering, weeping some, some furious, all affrighted.
XXXIX
True, we had comfort;—for our guides all swore,The fog “above a fortnight seldom lasted!”
“Great news” for those, who, roused at half-past four,
To “see the sun-rise!” since that hour had fasted.—
The tempest, more and more, yelled, blazed, and blasted;
Freezing the very brandy in our flask:
Off went our little tent, down-hill, dismasted;
Down rolled my hapless donkey, like a cask—
Thanks to the moon, at last, we 'scaped from Port Venasque.
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MONT DOR.
Philosophers pronounce Auvergne volcanic,—I only know, its roads like goat-tracks twist,
Keeping one's limbs in everlasting panic;
And being no “profound geologist,”
And caring not a straw for chalk, or schist,
I only wish, these hills would make a blaze,
Or anything, to make them look less triste,—
Or, that some earthquake would but “mend their ways,”
For, here I broke the pole of my new English chaise.
XLI
And so, some thousand years ago, those mounts,Gigantic bald-heads, patriarchal sires,
Were all alive and roaring,—furnace-founts!
Those tall gray pinnacles were flaming spires!—
Here was the scene for those that “fast in fires,”
For pagan-spell, and Druid incantation;
Blazing through night and storm, like funeral pyres,
A hundred miles of mountain conflagration
Were just the “case in point”—for earth's most firework nation!
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XLII
I often long for some Artesian borer;To pierce ten thousand miles beneath the ocean,
And fathom out the secrets of each roarer,—
To know, what puts old Ætna in commotion,—
Where grim Vesuvius drinks her lava-potion,—
What moves pale Hecla's entrails, at the Pole,
Melting the icebergs with her “tepid lotion,”—
What depths of liquid iron, beds of coal,
Beneath man's foolish feet their blazing billows roll.
XLIII
I'm all “Utilitarian!” Think, how grand!To hold a central “Hall of Inquisition,”
And turn my fire-spout on each culprit land,—
Filling its cellarage with “pure ignition!”
France, what a lesson to thy spruce ambition!
To grill and roast thee, spite of all thy smiles:
Broiling thy viscera into contrition,—
Turning to smoke and dust thy palace-piles,
For thy late slippery tricks in poor Pomarē's Isles.
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CLERMONT.
I galloped on through Clermont. Who would stopAmong its grass-grown streets and dismal inns?
Yet here was raised, of old, Rome's richest crop;
The field is shown ('tis now a field of whins)
Once thick with princes, priests, and paladins.
When Urban sat on Europe's proudest throne,
Giving the world remission for all sins,—
And Hermit Peter raised the Gonfalon:
Madman and Saint!—I grieve, those showy days are done.
XLV
One truth is plain,—our Nature loves a bustle;—Once, it was battle, murder, and crusades,—
Next, plumes and petticoats began to rustle,
And Tournaments employed Toledo blades,—
The world then yawned to death those grim parades,
And turned to loving, and the Troubadours;
Then, all was Petrarch and his myrtle-shades—
France, next, gave law in chansons and amours,
'Till came, John Bull, thy “Age,” of tunnels, and of tours.
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XLVI
Those were gay days! the world has since grown stupid:Taxes and time have banished all romance;
The Chancellor now plays the part of Cupid,—
Parchment performs the business of a lance,—
No chargers now in broidered housings prance,—
No gallant knights bow down to “gentle dames;”
Hearts now have but one homage—the Main-chance,—
Gold, gas, and coal, now furnish all our flames:—
The case is much the same on Danube, Seine, and Thames.
XLVII
All men hate idleness, yet love to idle.(I 'll try the “Market” with a New Crusade,—
The Scrip would rise!)—Those days of spur and bridle,
Of chief and clan, of banner and of blade,
Furnished much gossip, feasting, verse, and trade,—
Fashion itself had something then to do.
'Tis pity, that the spirit has been laid,—
At least, our “noble lords” the change may rue
That ties them down for life to Clubs and the Battue.
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THE CLUB.
I own, (in confidence), I like the Clubs,—“Only for bachelors,” exclaim the fair,—
I say, “for matrimony and its rubs.”
You take your cab, and reach St. James's Square;
Find all your old Allies assembled there;
French mirrors, Grecian lamps around you shine;
You hear the gossip, chuse a fireside chair,—
Order your cutlet, friend, and favourite wine:
(Acknowledged; that all Clubs are not bon ton, like mine.)
XLIX
In London, we have men, who live like moles ;(Thinking themselves earth's sages, all the while;)
Knowing as much of life, as of the poles.
With the West-end all round them, mile on mile;
Their very years are reckoned by “Old Style;”
To them, the world has slumbered, since Queen Anne;
Walpole is still, the “Saviour of the Isle;”
Women are hideous, without hoop and fan;
Powder, stiff-skirts, rappee, and bagwigs “make the man!”
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L
A set of those, (no matter where) one nightWere seated, prosing, at their monthly dinner;
A stranger took his seat; (unknown by sight.
The owls all stared, and wished their club were thinner:)
He broke the ice; talked out, of saint and sinner;
Chatted all sorts of pleasant, passing things,—
The Levee, Opera, the Newmarket winner;
Told tales, as light as flies, (and some with stings),
Gay Windsor silhouettes of beauties, Peers and Kings!
LI
All were delighted—all was a new world,As followed mot on mot, and hit on hit!
No grumbler, for that night, his nostrils curled;
None quoted “Garrick's pun,” or “Wilkes's wit.”
None bored, on Mister Fox, or Mister Pitt;
None “brought up” Eton tricks, or Porson's “scanning.”
At last, they saw the brilliant stranger flit:
All asked—“Who thus their sculls had been trepanning?”
The Waiter was called in—the Stranger was George Canning!
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