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in the year 1811, by a band of pirates, under the command of one
Monsieur La Fitte A large majority of these outlaws are of
that class of the population of the state of Louisiana who fled
from the island of St. Domingo during the troubles there, and
took refuge in the island of Cuba; and, when the last war between
France and Spain commenced, they were compelled to leave that
island with the short notice of a few days. Without ceremony
they entered the United States, the most of them the state of
Louisiana, with all the negroes they had possessed in Cuba.
They were notified by the Governor of that State of the clause
in the Constitution which forbad the importation of slaves; but,
at the same time, received the assurance of the Governor that
he would obtain, if possible, the approbation of the General Go
vernment for their retaining this property. The island of Barra-
taria is situated about latitude 29 deg. 15 min., long. 92. 30.; and
is as remarkable for its health as for the superior scale and shell
fish with which its waters abound. The chief of this horde, like
Charles de Moor, had mixed with his many vices some virtues.
In the year 1815, this party had, from its turpitude and boldness,
claimed the attention of the Governor of Louisiana ; and to break
up the establishment he thought proper to strike at the head. He
therefore offered a reward of 500 dollars for the head of Mon-
sieur La Fitte, who was well known to the inhabitants of the city
of New Orleans, from his immediate connection, and his once
having been a fencing-master in that city of great reputation,
which art he learnt in Buonaparte's army, where he was a captain.
The reward which was offered by the Governor for the head of
La Fitte was answered by the offer of a reward from the latter
of 15,000 for the head of the Governor. The Governor ordered
out a company to march from the city to La Fitte's island, and to
burn and destroy all the property, and to bring to the city of New
Orleans all his banditti. This company, under the command of
a man who had been the intimate associate of this bold Captain,
approached very near to the fortified island, before he saw a man,
or heard a sound, until he heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain's
call. Then it was he found himself surrounded by armed men,
who had emerged from the secret avenues which led into Bayou.
Here it was that the modern Charles de Moor developed his few
noble traits; for to this man, who had come to destroy his life
and all that was dear to him, he not only spared his life, but
offered him that which would have made the honest soldier easy
for the remainder of his days; which was indignantly refused.
He then, with the approbation of his captor, returned to the city.
This circumstance, and some concomitant events, proved that
this band of pirates was not to be taken by land. Our naval force
having always been small in that quarter, exertions for the de-
struction of this illicit establishment could not be expected from
them until augmented; for an officer of the navy, with most of
the gun-boats on that station, had to retreat from an overwhelm-
ing force of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation of the navy
authorised an attack, one was made; the overthrow of this banditti
has been the result; and, now this almost invulnerable point and
key to New Orleans is clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped the
Government will hold it by a strong military force."—American ¦
Newspaper.

In Noble's continuation of Grainger's Biographical Dictionary there is a singular passage in his account of Archbishop Blackbourne, and, as in some measure connected with the profession of the hero of the foregoing poem, I cannot resist the temptation of extracting it :-"There is something mysterious

in the history and character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is but imperfectly known; and report has even asserted that he was a buccaneer; and that one of his brethren in that profession having asked, on his arrival in England, what had become of his old chum, Blackbourne, was answered, he is Archbishop of York. We are informed that Blackbourne was installed sub-dean of Exeter in 1094, which office he resigned in 1702; but after his successor Lewis Barnet's death, in 1704, he regained it. In the following year he became dean; and in 1714 held with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was consecrated bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716; and translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, according to court scandal, for uniting George 1. to the Duchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop he behaved with great prudence, and was equally respectable as the guardian of the revenues of the see. Rumour whispered he retained the vices of his youth, and that a passion for the fair sex formed an item in the list of his weaknesses; but so far from being convicted by seventy witnesses, he does not appear to have been directly criminated by one. In short, I look upon these aspersions as the effects of mere malice. How is it possible a buccaneer should have been so good a scholar as Blackbourne certainly was? He who had so perfect a knowledge of the classics (particularly of the Greek tragedians), as to be able to read them with the same ease as he could Shakspeare, must have taken great pains to acquire the learned languages, and have had both leisure and good masters. But he was undoubtedly educated at Christ-church College, Oxford. He is allowed to have been a pleasant man; this however was turned against him, by its being said, he gained more hearts than souls.""

"The only voice that could soothe the passions of the savage (Alphonso III.) was that of an amiable and virtuous wife, the sole object of his love; the voice of Donna Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, and the grand-daughter of Philip II. King of Spain. Her dying words sunk deep into his memory; his fierce spirit melted into tears; and after the last embrace, Alphonso retired into his chamber to bewail his irreparable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human life."-Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 473.

"The Corsair is written in the regular heroic couplet, with a spirit, freedom, and variety of tone, of which, notwithstanding the example of Dryden, we scarcely believed that measure susceptible. It was yet to be proved that this, the most ponderous and stately verse in our language, could be accommodated to the variations of a tale of passion and of pity, and to all the breaks, starts, and transitions of an adventurous and dramatic narration. This experiment Lord Byron has made, with equal bolduess and success; and has satisfied us, that the oldest and most respectable measure that is known amongst us is at least as flexible as any other, and capable, in the hands of a master, of vibrations as strong and rapid as those of a lighter structure.”—Jeffrey.

"To the safe and shop-resorting inhabitants of Christendom, The Corsair seems to present many improbabilities; nevertheless it is true to nature, and in every part of the Levant the traveller meets with individuals whose air and physiognomy remind him of Conrad. The incidents of the story also, so wild and extravagant to the snug and legal notions of England, are not more in keeping with the character than they are in accordance with fact and reality."— Gall,

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Lara;

A TALE. (1)

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(1) Between the publication of The Corsair and Lara Lord Byron adopted the most extraordinary resolution that, perhaps, ever entered into the mind of an author of any celebrity. Annoyed at the tone of disparagement in which his assailants-not content with blackening his moral and social character-now affected to speak of his genius, and somewhat mortified, there is reason to believe, by finding that his own friends dreaded the effects of constant publications on his ultimate fame, he came to the determination, not only to print no more in future, but to purchase back the whole of his past copyrights, and suppress every line he had ever written. With this view, on the 29th of April, he actually enclosed his publisher a draft for the money. "For all this," he said, "it might be as well to assign some reason: I have none to give, except my own caprice, and I do not consider the circumstance of consequence enough to require explanation." An appeal, however, from Mr. Murray, to his good-nature and considerateness, brought, in eight-and-forty hours, the following reply: -"If your present note is serious, and it really would be inconvenient, there is an end of the matter: tear my draft, and go on as usual: that I was perfectly serious, in wishing to suppress all future publication, is true; but certainly not to interfere with the convenience of others, and more particularly your own."

The following passages in his Diary depict the state of Lord Byron's mind at this period:-"Murray has had a letter from his brother bibliopole of Edinburgh, who says, 'he is lucky in having such a poet-something as if one was a pack horse, or 'ass, or any thing that is his;' or like Mrs. Packwood, who replied to some inquiry after the Odes on Razors, 'Laws, sir, we keeps a poet.' The same illustrious Edinburgh bookseller once sent an order for books, poesy, and cookery, with this agreeable postscript-'The Harold and Cookery are much wanted.' Such is fame! and, after all, quite as good as any other life in others breath.' 'Tis much the same to divide purchasers with Hannah Glasse or Hannah More."-" March 17th, Redde the Quarrels of Authors, a new work, by that most entertaining and researching writer, D'Israeli. They seem to be an irritable set, and I wish myself well out of it. I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's

With none to check, and few to point in time
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime;
Then when he most required commandment, then
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men.
It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace
His youth through all the mazes of its race;
Short was the course his restlessness had run,
But long enough to leave him half undone. (3)
III.

And Lara left in youth his father-land;
But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall.
'T was all they knew, that Lara was not there;
Nor sent nor came he, till conjecture grew
Cold in the many, anxious in the few.
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,
His portrait darkens in its fading frame,
Another chief consoled his destined bride,
The young forgot him, and the old had died;

flat.' What the devil had I to do with scribbling? It is too late to inquire, and all regret is useless. But an' it were to do againI should write again, I suppose. Such is human nature, at least my share of it;-though I shall think better of myself if I have sense to stop now. If I have a wife, and that wife has a son, I will bring up mine heir in the most anti-poetical way-make him a lawyer, or a pirate, or anything. But if he writes too, I shall be sure he is none of mine, and will cut him off with a bank token." " April 19. I will keep no further journal; and, to prevent me from returning, like a dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the remaining leaves of this volume. O fool! I shall go mad.'"

These extracts are from the Diary of March and April. Before the end of May he had begun the composition of Lara, which has been almost universally considered as the continuation of The Corsair. This poem was published anonymously in the following August, in the same volume with Mr. Rogers's elegant tale of Jacqueline; an unnatural and unintelligible conjunction, which, however, gave rise to some pretty good jokes. "I believe," says Lord Byron, in one of his letters, "I told you of Larry and Jacquy. A friend of mine—at least a friend of his-was reading said Larry and Jacquy in a Brighton coach. A passenger took up the book, and queried as to the author. The proprietor said, 'there were two;'-to which the answer of the unknown was, ‘Ay, ay, -a joint concern, I suppose, summot like Sternhold and Hopkins. Is not this excellent? I would not have missed the 'vile comparison' to have escaped being the 'Arcades ambo et cantare pares.'"

-E.

(2) The reader is apprised, that the name of Lara being Spanish, and no circumstance of local and natural description fixing the scene or hero of the poem to any country or age, the word serf,' which could not be correctly applied to the lower classes in Spain, who were never vassals of the soil, has nevertheless been employed to designate the followers of our fictitious chieftain. [Lord Byron elsewhere intimates, that he meant Lara for a chief of the Morea.-E.]

(3) Lord Byron's own tale is partly told in this section." Sir Walter Scott.-E.

"Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient heir,
And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place;
But one is absent from the mouldering file,
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile.

IV.

He comes at last in sudden loneliness,
And whence they know not, why they need not guess,
They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er;
Not that he came, but came not long before:
No train is his beyond a single page,
Of foreign aspect, and of tender age.

Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away
To those that wander as to those that stay;
But lack of tidings from another clime
Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time.
They see, they recognise, yet almost deem
The present dubious, or the past a dream.
He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime,
Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by time;
His faults, whale'er they were, if scarce forgot,
Might be untaught him by his varied lot;
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame :
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins;
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course,
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse.

V.

And they indeed were changed-'t is quickly seen,
Whate'er he be, 't was not what he had been.
That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last,
And spake of passions, but of passion past:
The pride, but not the fire, of early days,
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise ;
A high demeanour, and a glance that took
Their thoughts from others by a single look;

And that sarcastic levity of tongue,

The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, (1)
That darts in seeming playfulness around,
And makes those feel that will not own the wound:
All these seem'd his, and something more beneath
Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe.
Ambition, glory, love, the common aim,
That some can conquer, and that all would claim,
Within his breast appear'd no more to strive,
Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive;
And some deep feeling it were vain to trace
At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face.

VI.

Not much he loved long question of the past,
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast,
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone
And as himself would have it seem-unknown:
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan,
Nor glean experience from his fellow man;
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show,
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know:
If still more prying such inquiry grew,
His brow fell darker, and his words more few.
VII.

Not unrejoiced to see him once again,
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men ;
Born of high lineage, link'd in high command,
He mingled with the magnates of his land;
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay,
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away;(2)
But still he only saw, and did not share,
The common pleasure or the general care ;
He did not follow what they all pursued,
With hope still baffled, still to be renew'd,
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain,
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain:
Around him some mysterious circle thrown,
Repell❜d approach, and show'd him still alone.

sent the same character on the public stage again and again, varied only by the exertions of that powerful genius which, searching the springs of passion and of feeling in their innermost recesses, knew how to combine their operations, so that the interest was eternally varying, and never abated, although the most important personage of the drama retained the same lineaments. It will one day be considered as not the least remarkable literary phenomenon of this age, that during a period of four years, notwithstanding the quantity of distinguished poetical talent of which we may be permitted to boast, a single au

(1) "It is a remarkable property of the poetry of Lord Byron, that although his manner is frequently varied,-although he appears to have assumed for an occasion the characteristic stanza and style of several contemporaries,—yet not only is his poetry marked in every instance by the strongest cast of originality, but in some leading particulars, and especially in the character of his heroes, each story so closely resembled the other, that, managed by a writer of less power, the effect would have been an unpleasant monotony. All, or almost all, his heroes have somewhat the attributes of Childe Harold :-all, or almost all, have minds which seem at variance with their fortunes, and exhibit high and poig-thor-and he managing his pen with the careless and negligent nant feelings of pain and pleasure; a keen sense of what is noble and honourable; and an equally keen susceptibility of injustice or injury, under the garb of stoicism or contempt of mankind. The strength of early passion, and the glow of youthful feeling, are uniformly painted as chilled or subdued by a train of early imprudences or of darker guilt, and the sense of enjoyment tarnished by too intimate an acquaintance with the vanity of human wishes. These genera! attributes mark the stern features of all Lord Byron's heroes, from those which are shaded by the scalloped hat of the illustrious Pilgrim, to those which lurk under the turban of Alp the Renegade. It was reserved to him to pre

ease of a man of quality, and choosing for his theme subjects so very similar, and personages bearing so close a resemblance to each other,—did, in despite of these circumstances, of the unamiable attributes with which he usually invested his heroes, and of the proverbial fickleness of the public, maintain the ascendancy in their favour which he had acquired by his first matured production. So, however, it indisputably has been.”—Sir Walter Scott.

(2) "This description of Lara, suddenly and unexpectedly returned from distant travels, and re-assuming his station in the society of his own country, has strong points of resemblance to

Upon his eye sat something of reproof,
That kept at least frivolity aloof;

And things more timid that beheld him near
la silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear;
And they, the wiser, friendlier few, confess'd
They deem'd him better than his air express'd.
VIII.

Twas strange-in youth all action and all life,
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife;
Woman-the field-the ocean-all that gave
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave,
la turn he tried-he ransack'd all below,
And found bis recompense in joy or woe,
No tame trite medium; for his feelings sought
In that intenseness an escape from thought:
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed
On that the feebler elements had raised;

The rapture of his heart had look'd on high,
And asked if greater dwelt beyond the sky:
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme,
How woke he from the wildness of that dream?
Alas! he told not-but he did awake

To curse the wither'd heart that would not break.

IX.

Books, for his volume heretofore was Man,
With eye more curious he appear'd to scan,
And oft, in sullen mood, for many a day,
From all communion he would start away:
And then, his rarely-call'd attendants said, [tread
Thro' night's long hours would sound his hurried
der the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd
In rude but antique portraiture around :

They heard, but whisper'd—“" that must not be

known

The sound of words less earthly than his own.
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen
They scarce knew what, but more than should have
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head been.

Which hands profane had gather'd from the dead,
That still beside his open'd volume lay,
As if to startle all save him away?
Why slept he not when others were at rest?
Why heard no music, and received no guest ?
All was not well, they deem'd-but where the
wrong?

Some knew perchance-but 't were a tale too long;
And such besides were too discreetly wise,
To more than hint their knowledge in surmise;
But if they would they could"——Around the
Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. [board,

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So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray,
And yet they glide like happiness away;
Reflecting far and fairy-like from high
The immortal lights that live along the sky:
Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree,
And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee;
Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove,
And Innocence would offer to her love.

These deck the shore; the waves their channel make
In windings bright and mazy like the snake.
All was so still, so soft in earth and air,
You scarce would start to meet a spirit there;
Secure that nought of evil could delight
To walk in such a scene, on such a night!
It was a moment only for the good:

So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood,
But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate;
Such scene his soul no more could contemplate:
Such scene reminded him of other days,
Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze,
Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now-
No-no-the storm may beat upon his brow,
Unfelt-unsparing-but a night like this,

A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his.

XI.

He turn'd within his solitary hall,

And his high shadow shot along the wall:
There were the painted forms of other times,
'Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes,
Save vague tradition; and the gloomy vaults
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults;
And half a column of the pompous page,
That speeds the specious tale from age to age;
Where History's pen its praise or blame supplies,
And lies like Truth, and still most truly lies.
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone,
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer,
Reflected in fantastic figures grew,

Like life, but not like mortal life, to view;
His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom,
And the wide waving of his shaken plume,
Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave
His aspect all that terror gives the grave.

XII.

'T was midnight-all was slumber; the lone light Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall—

A sound-a voice-a shriek-a fearful call!
A long loud shriek—and silence-did they hear
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear?
They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave,
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save;
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands,
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands.

XIII.

Cold as the marble where his length was laid,
Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd,
Was Lara stretch'd; his half-drawn sabre near,
Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear:
Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now,
And still defiance knit his gather'd brow;
Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay,
There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ;

The long dim shadows of surrounding trees,
The flapping bat, the night-song of the breeze;
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals,
As evening saddens o'er the dark grey walls.

XVI.

Vain thought! that hour of ne'er-unravell'd gloom
Came not again, or Lara could assume

A seeming of forgetfulness, that made
His vassals more amazed nor less afraid-

Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had died, Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored?

Some imprecation of despairing pride:
His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook
Even in its trance the gladiator's look,
That oft awake his aspect could disclose,
And now was fix'd in horrible repose. [speaks,
They raise him-bear him ;-hush! he breathes, he
The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks,
His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim,
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly-quivering limb
Recalls its function, but his words are strung
In terms that seem not of his native tongue;
Distinct but strange, enough they understand
To deem them accents of another land;

And such they were, and meant to meet an ear
That hears him not-alas! that cannot hear!

XIV.

His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd
To know the import of the words they heard;
And, by the changes of his cheek and brow,
They were not such as Lara should avow,
Nor he interpret,-yet with less surprise
Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes;
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside,
And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied;
And Lara heeds those tones, that gently seem
To soothe away the horrors of his dream,
If dream it were, that thus could overthrow
A breast that needed not ideal woe.

XV.

Whate'er his frenzy dream'd or eye beheld,
If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal'd,

:

Rests at his heart the custom'd morning came,
And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame;
And solace sought he none from priest nor leech,
And soon the same in movement and in speech
As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours,-

Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lowers,
Than these were wont; and if the coming night
Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight,
He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not,
Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot.
In trembling pairs oalone they dare not) crawl
The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall;
The waving banner, and the clapping door,
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor;

Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord
Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these
That fever'd moment of his mind's disease.
Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke
Those strange wild accents; his the cry that broke
Their slumber? his the oppress'd, o'erlabour'd heart

That ceased to beat, the look that made them start?
Could he who thus had suffer'd so forget,
When such as saw that suffering shudder yet?
Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd
Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd
In that corroding secrecy which gnaws
The heart to show the effect, but not the cause?
Not so in him; his breast had buried both,
Nor common gazers could discern the growth
Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told;
They choke the feeble words that would unfold.
XVII.

In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd
Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd;
Opinion, varying o'er his hidden lot,

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot :
His silence form'd a theme for others' prate—
They guess'd-they gazed-they fain would know
his fate.

What had he been? what was he, thus unknown,
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known,
A hater of his kind? yet some would say,
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay;
But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near,
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer;
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by,
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye :
Yet there was softness too in his regard,
At times, a heart as not by nature hard,
But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride,
And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem
One doubt from others' half-withheld esteem;
In self-inflicted penance of a breast,
Which tenderness might once have wrung from
In vigilance of grief, that would compel [rest;
The soul to hate for having loved too well.

XVIII.

There was in him a vital scorn of all,
As if the worst had fall'n which could befall:

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