A tax on Humbug, an excise A stamp on every man that canted! Might soon forgive us all the rest."* North. Well, I think the reporter must be dry enough by this time. Come forth, thou rat i' the arras! You shall have your share of one bowl at the least;—and thou, heir of Cym Owen, rouse thee! rouse thee for the field! [Curtain falls. Epilogue. Spoken by CHRISTOPHER NORTH, Esquire, and SIR A. WYLIE, Baronet. Mr. North. Something too much of this!" I hear you cry Sir A. Wylie. Sir A. Wylie. Sir A. Wylie. Mr. North. Sir A. Wylie. Ye canting creeping vermin! What care I? If Whigs there be (methinks there must be some) or be dumb. Candor be calm beneath a forehead knit- Once upon a time -What, Jeffrey? Not one word for poor dear Satire? To you we turn, with you we take our stand! Not you, ye❝ PLUCKLESS," who, when things look blue, Abandon those who bear the blazing brunt, And fight, ye fools, your battle in your front- Nor fawn for shelter where your crestless eagles droop, * See Letters to Julia, second edition, p. 104. By-the-by, these elegant letters are much improved in the second edition. The book is now quite a bijou.-C. N. [Luttrell, one of the most sparkling wits of his time, who may be reproached with not having written enough.-M.] 1822.] Sir A. Wylie. EPILOGUE. To shun the conflict but hold fast the spoil- And gloat, while others sweat, on your snug roast and boil! Sir A. Wylie, (loosening a fifth button.) -Or less Mr. North. While YOU our trumpet hear, and round our banner press. Rise as if glare should dim or weight should break us, 197 No. IV.-JULY, 1822. SCENE-Transferred (by poetic license) to Pisa.* Odoherty, (solus.) Jupiter strike me! but that cabbage soup and roasted raisins is an infernal mixture-Blow all Italian cookery, say I. Every thing is over-done here-how inferior to the Carlingford !f The dishes done to rags. Enter WAITER. Waiter. Milordo, here is questo grand Lord is come, for to have the onore of kissing the manos for sua eccellenza. Odoherty. Kissing my what? Show in the shaver-hand him in upon a clean plate. [Exit Waiter. Enter LORD BYRON. Byron. Mr. Doherty,-I trust I Odoherty. Odoherty, if you please, sir. Byron. Mr. Odoherty, I have to beg pardon for this intrusion-but really, hearing you were to remain but this evening in Pisa, I could not deny myself the pleasure of at least seeing a gentleman of whom I have heard and read so much I need scarcely add, that I believe myself to be in the presence of THE Odoherty. Odoherty. You may say that; but, may I take the liberty of asking, who you are yourself? * A large portion of the preceding Noctes were written by Maginn, but that which followeth (to wit, No. IV.) is entirely from his pen. It has so many actual points of vraisemblance, that even Byron himself is said to have exclaimed, after reading it, "By Jupiter! the fellow has me down regularly, in black and white." The scene was laid in Pisa, whither Byron had removed in the autumn of 1821, and remained until September, 1822, when he went to Genoa, and thence, in 1823, to Greece.-The mention of this reminds me, by the way, of what the Guiccioli said, in her visit to London; when she was so lionized as having been the lady-love of Byron. She was rather fond of speaking on the subject, designating herself by some Venetian pet phrase which certainly was not to be found in any dictionary, but which she interpreted as meaning "Love-wife." At Pisa, he had been sounded on the subject of going to Greece, where it was believed he had immense wealth, where it was known that he loved the country, and had written warmly in its favor. He was undecided. Again and again he was solicited, each time more strongly. At last, he sportively said to the Guiccioli, "Let fourteen captains come and ask me to go, and go I will." "Ah," said the dama, "there are not fourteen Greek captains in Italy; now I know that you will remain." She mentioned, to show how slight the chance was of his leaving Italy, what he said. As it was known that he strictly adhered to his word, on all occasions, a letter was written to Greece, and fourteen captains actually were sent out. They waited on him, pressed him to go, backing their request with letters from Prince Mavrocardato, (who offered to resign his leadership in favor of Byron,) and the result was that, what he had playfully said, being taken for earnest, he believed he could not honorably get out of it. The result was-his departure for Greece in August, 1823.-M. † A hotel in Dublin.-M. 1822.] LACRYMA CHRISTI. Byron. My name's Byron. 199 Odoherty. Byron! Lord Byron! God bless you, my dear fellow. Sure I was a blockhead not to know you at first sight. Waiter! waiter waiter! I say. They don't understand even plain English Odoherty. Instantaneously a clean glass-if you have any thing clean in this filthy country-and, my lord, what will you drink? drink every thing bating water. Byron. Why, Mr. Odoherty, to be plain with you-you will find but poor accommodation in these Italian inns-and I should, therefore, recommend you to come with me to my villa.* You will meet fellows there-asses of the first water-native, and stranger, whom you can cut-up, quiz, and humbug without end. Odoherty. With deference, my lord, I shall stay where I am—I never knew any place where a man was so much at home as in a tavern, no matter how shy. Ho! waiter. Waiter. Milordo! Odoherty. What-a have-a you-a to drink-a, in this damned house-a of yours? (Aside.)-I suppose to make the fellow understand, I must speak broken English. [Lord Byron whispers waiter, who exit; and after a moment returns with two flasks of Montifiascone.† Byron. Fill, Mr. Odoherty. Your health, sir; and welcome to Italy. Odoherty. Your health, my lord; and I wish we both were out of it. But this stuff is by no means so bad as I expected. What do you call it? Byron. Lacryma Christi.‡ Odoherty. Lacryma Christi! A pretty name to go to church with! Very passable stingo-though Inishowen is, after all, rather stiffer drinking. Byron. Inishowen! What's that? Odoherty. Whisky, made in the hills about Inishowen, in the north. * In July, 1822, Byron and Shelley had their town-residences at Pisa. Byron had a villeggiatara (or country house) at Mont Nero, near Leghorn-Shelley's was at Lerici. Byron's Pisan dwelling was the Casa Lanfranchi, (on the river Arno, which runs through the city,) and is said to have been built by Michael Angelo. It was in this palace that Byron gave rooms to Leigh Hunt and his family, and here the first number of The Liberal was prepared.-M. † This I take to be a mistake. They were in the region of Montepulciano, which Rêdi, (in his "Bacco in Toscano") has pronounced to be The King of Wines. It is a pleasant tipple, smelling like a fresh nosegay, but, unfortunately, does not bear transportation. It must be drunk, not only in Italy, but in the very district where it is made.-M. There are two wines bearing this name. One is light-colored, like Hock, with a flavor something like aërated lemonade and sherry,-weak and sweet. The other (chiefly made in Sicily) has a ruby tint, is rough to the taste, being nothing more nor less than an Italian portwine. This red Lacryma Christi is much used in England to adulterate the Portuguese portwine. The sweet, pale Lacryma, mixed with an equal portion of good brandy, used to make a passable libation.-M. Of Ireland.-M. General Hart patronizes it much. Indeed the Lord Chancellor, old Manners, is a great hand at it. Byron. I cannot exactly say I recognize whom you speak of; nor did I ever hear of the liquor. Odoherty. Why, then, I wrote rather a neat song about it once on a time, which I shall just twist off for the edification of your lordship. Odoherty (sings.) 1. I care not a fig for a flagon of flip. Or a whistling can of rumbo; But my tongue through whisky punch will slip As nimble as Hurlothrumbo. So put the spirits on the board, And give the lemons a squeezer, And we'll mix a jorum, by the Lord! That will make your worship sneeze, sir. 2. The French, no doubt, are famous souls, In rum and sweet tobacco rolls, The big-breech'd Dutch in juniper gin, But are rum, gin, brandy, worth a pin, Extempore verse additional. Though here with a Lord, 'tis jolly and fine, And over a skin of Italy's wine To get a little misty; Yet not the blood of the Bourdeaux grape, The finest grape-juice going, Nor clammy Constantia, the pride of the Cape, Byron. Thank ye, Mr. Odoherty. Oh! by Jupiter, you have not been flattered; you are a prince of good-fellows; ay, and of goodlooking fellows. Odoherty. The same compliment I may pay you, my Lord. I never saw you before. By-the-by, you look much older than the print which Murray gave me when I was up at the Coronation. Byron. Ah! then you know Murray? Murray is an excellent fellow. Not such a bookseller between the Apennine and the Grampian. Odoherty. Always excepting Ebony, my Lord? Byron. How is Ebony? I'm told he's been getting fat since I saw him. |