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89
CANTO IV.
LYONS—THE NOTRE DAME—ST. JANUARIUS—ALE—COUNT ISIDORE.
LYONS.
Lyons ! I gave five minutes to thy “sights.”How calm the showy termagant has grown!
'Tis true, she has some “espions” on her heights,
Giving the haughty Lady of the Rhône
Strong hints of duty to the “Three-days' throne.”
Stout fortresses, though yet not quite Fifteen,
Yet quite enough, to make a bridal zone,
Stiff as her bouncing sister's by the Seine:
Gay France must always have the gun—or guillotine!
90
II
Lyons is Paris, Parised; doubly French!Bold, bustling, busy,—dingy, dismal, dear,—
Buried in hills, the city's self a trench;
So much the worse for nostril, eye, and ear.
I climbed that mountain ladder the Fouvrière ,
Taking its bird's-eye view of streets and ports,—
Furious Croix-Rousse , and gory Guillotière,—
Besides those pretty playthings, the New Forts,
Teaching the weaver-tribes the due respect for Courts.
III
Yet, care not I for “memorable spots,”Where massacre has heaped its human mound;
Nor care much more for Roman mustard-pots,
Or lying epitaphs to rogues renowned;
Still, one old spot, well worth them all, I found,
Where once Poetic Justice reared its altar;
The Athenæum, Gallia's “rhymers' pound,”
Where fools, who with the Muses dared to palter,
Were bastinadoed, pumped, or settled with the halter!
91
IV
Caligula ! the brilliant thought was thine;Tyrant, or madman, this redeemed thy fame;
Attorney-general of the injured Nine;
Supreme preserver of Apollo's game!
Laying in chains the twaddling and the tame;
The heathen Herod of all nursery-bards!
We have them still, and “Legion” is their name!
But, hush! I have no wish to get their “cards;”
I want Van Amburgh's art, to play with wolves and pards!
V
Yet, Lyons has her glory.—Turn aside,And take three steps within her “Notre Dame;”
If some in Lyons now and then have died,
At least “Our Lady” should not bear the blame;
She cures by contract, heals deaf, dumb, and lame;
Gives life to corpses; if there's faith in walls
Covered with miracles of flood and flame,
Ex voto legs, eyes, arms, and cannon-balls:
No charity bazaar can boast of fuller stalls!
92
VI
If Germany may boast her Hohenlohes;Happy the sinner, here who cracks his crown;
Happy the man, who breaks his shins or nose;
He only has to pay his tariff down:
(So much per gentleman, so much per clown!)
The old are young again; the stiffest wrinkles
Are smooth as wax; grey locks are turned to brown;
The purblind eye with new-born lustre twinkles;
The moment in the box the pious present tinkles!
ST. JANUARIUS
An annual exhibition of the melting of the saint's blood preserved
in a bottle. As nothing can be too absurd for popular belief, this
trick is persevered in, as affording a source of national pride, and
giving a Neapolitan holiday. The saint is sometimes tardy in being
melted, especially when “heretics are by,” but he is always prevailed
on at last.
.
Let Humboldt write his wonder-hunting rambles,
An annual exhibition of the melting of the saint's blood preserved in a bottle. As nothing can be too absurd for popular belief, this trick is persevered in, as affording a source of national pride, and giving a Neapolitan holiday. The saint is sometimes tardy in being melted, especially when “heretics are by,” but he is always prevailed on at last.
I've seen Rome's doings, comical, and serious;
Nay, been half stifled in the holy scrambles,
To see thy “melting day,” St. Januarius!
(Call as your sceptics may the trick nefarious)
Unluckily, just then, the French were there,
(Whose presence to all saints is deleterious,)
Lining with horse and foot the stately square,
Where lay the bottled saint upon his gilded chair!
93
VIII
The French dragoons had lately plucked the Pope,Nay, sent the Conclave to the right-about;
Cooling some rabble-Catos by the rope;
Strong facts, which made the Saint of Naples pout.
The General marched two brass six-pounders out,
The Saint still sulked against his liquefaction;
The priests began to growl, the mob to shout;
Both palpably inclined to peace-infraction;
The General gave the word, to “prime and load” for action.
IX
The priest rubbed on,—the blood remained unmelted,—The Lazzaroni rallied round their Saint;
Some brandished knives, some gathered stones, some pelted;
Just then, the holy rubber seemed to faint.
The Frenchman's anger now knew no restraint,
He spurred his charger through the living tide,
(The rabble's pious horror who can paint?)
Sabre in hand, he stood the priest beside;
The trembler rubbed once more—the Saint was liquified!
94
X
If I must worship things, give me the mountains,Vesuvius with its boilers—old Mont Blanc,
Or Etna, with its forests and its fountains;
Give me but something worth a sight or song.
I loathe the dulness of Rome's saintly throng:
Old beggars, limping idiots, hairy brutes,
Fat dames, with backs much fitter for the thong,
Sainted in swarms, (when past their old pursuits,)
The legendary tribe of Limbo's raw recruits.
XI
If I must bow, it shall not be to bones!But, let me, like the Indian, worship rivers:
The Ganges, bathing half a hundred thrones;
The Indus—all the golden harvest-givers,
(Worth all your doctors, too, for yellow livers,)
Bounding in beauty from the cloud-crowned ridge,
Where the furred Turcoman in summer shivers;
Spanning the world of Asia like a bridge,
On which stands lordly man, a something like a midge!
95
XII
I once sailed up the mighty Amazon ;All day the waters round us seemed to boil.
Drenched from the eve in dew, till rose the sun;
For months, our morning, noon, and night were toil.
But, all was lovely Nature's virgin soil—
The ground, a tissue of ten thousand flowers,
The forests, curtained with their splendid coil,
The valleys, depth on depth of glorious bowers:
I still delight to dream of those soul-stirring hours.
XIII
True, we kept eager watch upon the creek,Where the thick plantains clustered o'er the river;
Old haunt of serpents, or the panther sleek,
Or the swart Indian, with his poisoned quiver,
Waiting, his deadly missive to deliver.
And, once, we saw a war-axe bore a leak
Below our water-mark, (I shot the diver!)
Still, on we worked, and laughed, from week to week;
Winding by forest green, and mountain's sun-dyed peak.
96
XIV
But, all was life: the stately jaguārStalked to the beach, to bathe his shining side;
The swift flamingo, like a shooting star,
Shed crimson lustre through the forest wide;
Fearless the antelope the strangers eyed;
Upsprang in snowy clouds the white toucan;
Tribes, thick as motes, in gold and scarlet dyed,
Soared to the sun; the pheasant spread his fan:
All, as in earth's first days, without the dread of man.
THE JOURNEY.
But what are these bright, moveless clouds?—the Alps!Lyons, farewell!—post-horses for the hills,
Where Hannibal's black squadrons left their scalps,
And Roman slaughter reddened all the rills,
And haughty Austria paid the Switzers' bills.
(All “honoured” on the bodies of her knights,)
With many a massacre of fools, that fills
The sanguine page of royal wrongs and rights:
Man is a fighting brute—the only brute that fights!
97
XVI
A day's hot driving brought me to “mine inn.”Earth has, perhaps, few hours of perfect bliss;
But still, howe'er the twenty-four begin,
The dinner-hour is one—which none should miss,
(Especially, with wife and babes to kiss;)
Or (if his bark in loneliness makes sail)
'Tis when, upon a burning day like this,
Tired out with dragging at his horse's tail,
He finds an honest steak, and cup of English Ale!
THE GLORY OF ALE.
Ale, “pleasant, warming, kind, heroic liquor!”(I give its honours, in thy words, Orosius ;)
Dear to all ranks,—prince, ploughman, clerk, and vicar!—
His Whiskey makes the Irishman ferocious;
His Aqua-vitæ makes the Gaul atrocious:
But thou,—calm, rich, and heart-enwrapping Ale!
Parent of fireside jests, and puns precocious;
Art the true Briton's beverage,—mild or stale,
Whether in England, brown; or India, pure and pale.
98
XVIII
Thy pedigree, too, merits a description:—Thy birth was due to Egypt,—land of Sages!
The gallant Greek next followed the prescription;
Then, coming Westerly by easy stages,
Rome's iron legions drank thee for their wages,
Binding (of course) all nations in their chain.
Then, Ale taught man to break his Roman cages.
Ev'n England bowed to Norman and to Dane,
Till Ale first wet her lips, and then—she “Ruled the Main.”
XIX
The eve was glorious! and a clustering vineShading the casement, cooled the sultry air.
I, calm and comfortably, sipped my wine,
Reposing in an old, superb bergère:
My landlord was a demi-solde, whose hair
Gave proof sufficient, that his wars were over.
I shared my bottle with the militaire,
And, while I loitered o'er his cook's chef d'œuvre,
He told his Captain's tale—a genius, rake, and lover.
99
COUNT ISIDORE.
Murat had once a page; a splendid fellow,As ever flirted, fought, or wore moustache:
All went on swimmingly, (durante bello)—
But bold Murat soon gave his final flash;
Count Isidore grew vastly out of cash;
Tried billiards, hazard; still his ducats flew;
At last he foundered, with a final crash!
Was cut by his “best friends;” the world looked blue:
The gallant Count resolved to bid the world adieu.
XXXI
England had run her scissors through the map;Fortune at all the braves had “made a set,”—
(As very a jade as ever wore a cap;)
A ditch paid gallant Poniatowski's debt;
The “Duke” had finished “Victory's spoiled pet;”
A coroner's inquest sat upon Berthier;
Duroc's and Caulaincourt's last drum had beat;
Nap was himself no more the world's cashier:
'Twas plain the game was up, with Marshal, Prince, and Peer.
100
XXII
The night was black as ink (I'm no describer).Having, to take his plunge, made up his mind,
The Count strolled quietly along the Tiber;
'Twas Winter, (Rome can boast hail, rain, and wind)
Still, on he walked, half freezing, and half blind.
A showy Café caught his passing eye,—
The thought then struck him, that he had not dined,—
—“'Twas all the same; his business was, to die;
He had no appetite”—so, in he went—to try.
XXIII
All glittered round him; he perused the Carte,Tasted his becafico and Tokay;
Half got the last Court Calendar by heart;
Glanced at the play-bill—'twas his favourite play!
Peste-ed the hour that stripped him of half-pay;
Pored o'er the winnings of Lord Scamper's stud;
Got up; sat down;—was loth to go, or stay;
Peeped out; the bitter blast congealed his blood:
Never was uglier night, to sleep in Tiber's mud.
101
XXIV
Now, if the night had been a night in June,With stars, and so forth, on the waves reposing,—
Or, if he could have seen a scrap of moon,—
Or, if a lute had set the breezes dozing;
He had not thought so long about “foreclosing.”
(Remember, he's Italian) but, to plunge
In that black surge, was past all human glozing,—
Sucking up that ice-water, like a sponge!
He had much rather met some German sabre's lunge.
XXV
So, back he stepped, to give a parting gaze,Where a huge mirror shone above the stove;
(John Bull well knows the comfort of a blaze)
He thought of his guitar, cigar,—and love.
The guests already had begun to move;
The or-molu argands began to quiver;
Count Isidore drew on, and off, his glove;
Looked in the glass again; began to shiver:
Ciel! were such ringlets made, for lodgings in a river?
102
XXVI
Few on their own sweet smiles can gaze enough.He heard a voice within a neighbouring box;
He turned: there, peeping through his meerschaum's puff,
He saw the visage of his “man of stocks,”
(A compound of the vulture and the fox.)
Count Isidore knew something of the Jews,—
His title-deeds were under sundry locks.
(A case not new among the Royal Blues:)
The Rabbi hobbled up, and asked “the last court news.”
XXVII
The Guardsman had no leisure for “narrations.”—“Isaac,” said he, “I'm now without a paul.”
Says Isaac—“Tish bad times for shpeculations;
“This peace will ruin us, Counts and Jews, and all
“My railway shares have made a desperate fall;
“My ‘grand exploshion's’ past all advertizing,
“(The fools will stick to gunpowder and ball;)
“My ‘full moon’ stock is anything but rising;
“My negro-bleaching soap, I grieve to say, capsizing!”
103
XXVIII
—“Cash me a bill!”—“My dear, don't talk of cashing;“There never was worsh times for fortune-making!
“Bubbles von't do: my ‘anti-water-washing,’
“Though puffed all round the world, is more than shaking;
“My ‘planks from shavings;’ ‘paper-stoves for baking;’
“My ‘glasses to keep donkeys' eyes from winking;’
“My ‘patent flying steamer for moon-raking,’
“The beautifullest thing on earth,—all sinking!
“Such dreadful losses, Count, must set a man a thinking.”
XXIX
—“Cash me a bill, old trickster! or I swear,”—“Shwear not!—unless 'twill raise us the doubloon!
“I have a thought—'tis Sinigaglia's Fair;
“Suppose we try a travelling baboon:
“You for the brute, and I for the buffoon!
“You will but have to dance, while I harangue.
“You vont—the gas quite out of the balloon!”—
—“Isaac, I've come to die—'tis but a pang;
“One plunge will finish both!”—The Rabbi from him sprang.
104
XXX
Then, taking courage, (fenced behind a chair,)And fixing on him his two twinkling eyes;
“Count,” said the Jew, “I think, that head of hair,
“And whiskers, would require but small disguise,
“To play a bear, and raise us the supplies!
“If that von't do, suppose you try the stage?”
—“Wretch!” with his sword half drawn, the Guardsman cries;
“This arm shall punish!—But I spare your age!
“A player!—I'd rather be a parrot in a cage!”
XXXI
“Well,” said the Jew, “what think you of a friar!“You're sure of feeding, while the world has fools;
“All round the land you'll have meat, clothes, and fire;
“The pious are your dupes, the knaves your tools!
“Eat, drink, and fatten, are the friar's rules.
“He pays no taxes, and he knows no care;
“He always lays his pack on others' mules;
“He always makes his meal of others' fare;
“He only has to cant, and make the rabble stare!
105
XXXII
“Von't do?—I have it now! a husband-raffle!—“Ten francs a ticket, and yourself the prize!”
—“Isaac! No chance on earth my fate can baffle!”
—“I'll have your lordship lithographed full size!
“Man never knows his luck, until he tries.
“I ask but nine-tenths profits, for my fee;
“Taking upon my conscience all the lies!”
—“'Tis madness!”—“You shall see what you shall see!
“The Café's shutting up: come home and sup with me.”
XXXIII
They went their way—through many a gloomy lane,Where men might tremble for their throats and pockets.
(Rome's rogues have no great reason to complain
Of the Madonna's little holy sockets ).
But Isaac having lately struck his dockets,
And cash not troubling much Count Isidore,
They slipped along, as smoothly as sky-rockets;
Traversed the Ghetto , climbed a sixième floor,
And entered, mute as mice, the Hebrew's ancient Store.
106
XXXIV
The room was piled with all strange kinds of lumber;The Count was puzzled, “where they could be found!”
Huge folios, by the world long sent to slumber;
Arms on the walls, and pictures on the ground;
Cracked china; lutes, long guiltless of a sound;
Furred mantles, missals, tarnished antique plate;
Helmets, on old crusaders' brows embrowned;
Torn tapestry, and rust-stain'd swords of state:
A sepulchre of things—dim reliques of the great.
XXXV
Yet, Time! if thou could'st give them but a tongue;How many a curious tale they might have told!—
Pomps of the proud, and pleasures of the young;
Loves of the lovely, perils of the bold!
Now, all alike in earth's deep bosom cold!
The poet's passion-song, the beauty's bloom,
Year upon year, down Time's dim current rolled;
Their sole memorials now, a lute or plume,
And those, too, buried in this old and lonely room.
107
XXXVI
What visions of the lovely and the vainMight echo from the portrait's lip of rose!
What laughter, from the old gold-headed cane,
So oft beneath its Charlatan's hooked nose!
What gay court-revels, from the spangled hose,
Glittering in Saraband and Roundelaye!
What days of kingly pomp, and paynim blows,
On Spanish plains, or Israel's mountains gray;
Might that chain-armour tell!—now vanished all away!
XXXVII
The single taper scarcely showed the room;The Count enjoyed his supper not the less.
A fire soon threw its blaze across the gloom.
Old Isaac, too, was clever at a mess;
Then, diving in an ancient rich-carved press,
He brought a flask of exquisite Bourgogne,
(Earth's happiest secret of forgetfulness!)
The Count's cold scruples overboard were thrown;
The Hebrew winding up the treaty with a loan!
108
XXXVIII
The count was lithographed;—his full-length figureOn every wall in Italy was pasted:
Tiger-moustached, eyes fierce as a hair-trigger!
The sex, to buy the shares, by hundreds hasted;
Not half a paul on dress thenceforth was wasted!
“A husband for ten francs!—the cheapest thing!”
To make the francs, some worked, some begged, some fasted!
The coin poured in, like water from the spring:
Old Isaac much enjoyed this “running at the ring.”
XXXIX
Shares rose to par—were at a premium—roseTo double, triple—fifty francs a piece!
The Hebrew cried—“Tish better than old closhes!”
Both thought, that they had found the Golden fleece!
Fresh “calls” came in from Russia, Spain, and Greece;
Emptying the ancient hoards of woman-kind.
The pair of life had taken a new lease!
Isaac's blue gaberdine with coin was lined;
The Count resolved to take Dame Fortune in the mind.
109
XL
Rome is still talking of his equipage,The prettiest gilded thing on Tiber's shore.
His liveries, dinners, diamonds, were the rage;
Fashion had but one star—Count Isidore;
His prancing Spanish jennets (he drove four)
Left all the Cardinals' coursers in the shade.
His suppers beat the Pope's—(I say no more!)
His ball-night stripped the Archduke's masquerade:
(Féte the world showily,—'twill never ask your trade.)
XLI
The Count was handsome.—All the “Arts” found out,That he was “just of the Antinoüs' size.”
(His ducats put the question out of doubt.)
The Sex all thought him “Cupid in disguise,”—
(His jewels proved the fact to all their eyes.)
Rome's thousand poets swelled his trump of fame;
“Wisest of wits, and wittiest of the wise”
Danté to him was dull, and Tasso tame.
The Monks proposed their price, to canonize his name.
110
XLII
But, “Moths are singed, that fly too near the light;”—“The reckoning comes, and laughers laugh no more,”
With other ancient saws—(as useless quite.)
The day arrived, to “draw” for Isidore!
Never had Rome seen such a sight before;
In rushed the sex, all certain of the prize!
From wild Fifteen, to Fifty, and Five-score!
The Vatican was startled with their cries,—
So, hired an Austrian guard, to save its lobster-pies.
XLIII
In poured the Sex, in troops, white, black, mulatto.The grinning negress, to the monkey kin;
The Spaniard, yellow as her own tomato;
The fish-faced Hollander; the dog-faced Fin;
(Fine studies for the connoiseurs in skin;)
The snub-nosed Swiss; brown Tartar; frost-nipt Pole!—
There sat the Count, in horror at the din!
The Jew, expecting to be swallowed whole,
Slipped off, beneath the crowd, as silent as a mole.
111
XLIV
At once the “general victim” gave a start:A Calabrese, (not born to die a Nun,)
Who shot, long since, an eyebeam through his heart,
(A habit with those daughters of the sun,)
Now entered,—drew her ticket,—He was won!—
The losers roared like fifty thunder-peals;
The pair, to save their lives, were forced to run.
(Earth has few lighter than Italian heels.)
The crowd tore down the hall, doors, windows, walls, and wheels!
XLV
Last year, I saw the Captain at his villa,The loveliest spot along the lovely shore,
Where sweeps the surge around the feet of Scylla.
The world was sunshine with Count Isidore;
Loving and loved, he tempted Fate no more;
Had dropt his anchor, and had furled his sail:
Fortune had nobly paid off her old score,—
And now, the monarch of his vineyard vale,
He often laughs, and tells his “Husband Raffle” Tale!
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