Chapter 20

_Fontanges_. O monseigneur, I always did so--every time but once--you quite make me blush. Let us converse about something else, or I shall grow too serious, just as you made me the other day at the funeral sermon. And now let me tell you, my lord, you compose such pretty funeral sermons, I hope I shall have the pleasure of hearing you preach mine.

_Bossuet_. Rather let us hope, mademoiselle, that the hour is yet far distant when so melancholy a service will be performed for you. May he who is unborn be the sad announcer of your departure hence![231] May he indicate to those around him many virtues not perhaps yet full-blown in you, and point triumphantly to many faults and foibles checked by you in their early growth, and lying dead on the open road you shall have left behind you! To me the painful duty will, I trust, be spared: I am advanced in age; you are a child.

_Fontanges_. Oh, no! I am seventeen.

_Bossuet_. I should have supposed you younger by two years at least. But do you collect nothing from your own reflection, which raises so many in my breast? You think it possible that I, aged as I am, may preach a sermon on your funeral. We say that our days are few; and saying it, we say too much. Marie Angélique, we have but one: the past are not ours, and who can promise us the future? This in which we live is ours only while we live in it; the next moment may strike it off from us; the next sentence I would utter may be broken and fall between us.[232] The beauty that has made a thousand hearts to beat at one instant, at the succeeding has been without pulse and colour, without admirer, friend, companion, follower. She by whose eyes the march of victory shall have been directed, whose name shall have animated armies at the extremities of the earth, drops into one of its crevices and mingles with its dust. Duchess de Fontanges! think on this! Lady! so live as to think on it undisturbed!

_Fontanges_. O God! I am quite alarmed. Do not talk thus gravely. It is in vain that you speak to me in so sweet a voice. I am frightened even at the rattle of the beads about my neck: take them off, and let us talk on other things. What was it that dropped on the floor as you were speaking? It seemed to shake the room, though it sounded like a pin or button.

_Bossuet_. Leave it there!

_Fontanges_. Your ring fell from your hand, my Lord Bishop! How quick you are! Could not you have trusted me to pick it up?

_Bossuet_. Madame is too condescending: had this happened, I should have been overwhelmed with confusion. My hand is shrivelled: the ring has ceased to fit it. A mere accident may draw us into perdition; a mere accident may bestow on us the means of grace. A pebble has moved you more than my words.

_Fontanges_. It pleases me vastly: I admire rubies. I will ask the King for one exactly like it. This is the time he usually comes from the chase. I am sorry you cannot be present to hear how prettily I shall ask him: but that is impossible, you know; for I shall do it just when I am certain he would give me anything. He said so himself; he said but yesterday--

'Such a sweet creature is worth a world':

and no actor on the stage was more like a king than His Majesty was when he spoke it, if he had but kept his wig and robe on. And yet you know he is rather stiff and wrinkled for so great a monarch; and his eyes, I am afraid, are beginning to fail him, he looks so close at things.

_Bossuet_. Mademoiselle, such is the duty of a prince who desires to conciliate our regard and love.

_Fontanges_. Well, I think so too, though I did not like it in him at first. I am sure he will order the ring for me, and I will confess to you with it upon my finger. But first I must be cautious and particular to know of him how much it is his royal will that I should say.

[Footnote 231: Bossuet was in his fifty-fourth year; Mademoiselle de Fontanges died in child-bed the year following; he survived her twenty-three years.]

[Footnote 232: Though Bossuet was capable of uttering and even of feeling such a sentiment, his conduct towards Fénélon, the fairest apparition that Christianity ever presented, was ungenerous and unjust.

While the diocese of Cambray was ravaged by Louis, it was spared by Marlborough, who said to the Archbishop that, if he was sorry he had not taken Cambray, it was chiefly because he lost for a time the pleasure of visiting so great a man. Peterborough, the next of our generals in glory, paid his respects to him some years afterward.]

GEORGE, LORD BYRON.

(1788-1824.)

LVIII. THE VISION OF JUDGMENT.

_The Vision of Judgment_ appeared in 1822, and created a great sensation owing to its terrible attack on George III., as well as its ridicule of Southey, of whose long-forgotten _Vision of Judgment_ this is a parody.

I.

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate; His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, So little trouble had been given of late: Not that the place by any means was full, But since the Gallic era "eighty-eight", The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull, And "a pull all together", as they say At sea--which drew most souls another way.

II.

The angels all were singing out of tune, And hoarse with having little else to do, Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, Or curb a runaway young star or two, Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, Splitting some planet with its playful tail, As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

III.

The guardian seraphs had retired on high, Finding their charges past all care below; Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky Save the recording angel's black bureau; Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply With such rapidity of vice and woe, That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills, And yet was in arrear of human ills.

IV.

His business so augmented of late years, That he was forced, against his will no doubt (Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers), For some resource to turn himself about, And claim the help of his celestial peers, To aid him ere he should be quite worn out By the increased demand for his remarks: Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

V.

This was a handsome board--at least for heaven; And yet they had even then enough to do, So many conquerors' cars were daily driven, So many kingdoms fitted up anew; Each day, too, slew its thousands six or seven, Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, They threw their pens down in divine disgust, The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust.

VI.

This by the way; 'tis not mine to record What angels shrink from: even the very devil On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, So surfeited with the infernal revel: Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword, It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil. (Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion-- 'Tis that he has both generals in reversion.)

VII.

Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace, Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont, And heaven none--they form the tyrant's lease, With nothing but new names subscribed upon't: 'Twill one day finish: meantime they increase, "With seven heads and ten horns", and all in front, Like Saint John's foretold beast; but ours are born Less formidable in the head than horn.

VIII.

In the first year of freedom's second dawn Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn Left him nor mental nor external sun: A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn, A worse king never left a realm undone! He died--but left his subjects still behind, One half as mad--and t'other no less blind.

IX.

He died! his death made no great stir on earth: His burial made some pomp: there was profusion Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth Of aught but tears--save those shed by collusion. For these things may be bought at their true worth; Of elegy there was the due infusion-- Bought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners,

X.

Form'd a sepulchral mélodrame. Of all The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show, Who cared about the corpse? The funeral Made the attraction, and the black the woe, There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced the pall; And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold The rottenness of eighty years in gold.

XI.

So mix his body with the dust! It might Return to what it _must_ far sooner, were The natural compound left alone to fight Its way back into earth, and fire, and air, But the unnatural balsams merely blight What nature made him at his birth, as bare As the mere million's base unmummied clay-- Yet all his spices but prolong decay.

XII.

He's dead--and upper earth with him has done; He's buried; save the undertaker's bill, Or lapidary's scrawl, the world has gone For him, unless he left a German will. But where's the proctor who will ask his son? In whom his qualities are reigning still, Except that household virtue, most uncommon, Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman.

XIII.

"God save the King!" It is a large economy In God to save the like; but if He will Be saving, all the better; for not one am I Of those who think damnation better still; I hardly know, too, if not quite alone am I In this small hope of bettering future ill By circumscribing, with some slight restriction, The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction.

XIV.

I know this is unpopular; I know 'Tis blasphemous; I know one may be damn'd For hoping no one else may e'er be so; I know my catechism: I know we 're cramm'd With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow; I know that all save England's church have shamm'd; And that the other twice two hundred churches And synagogues have made a _damn'd_ bad purchase.

XV.

God help us all! God help me too! I am, God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, And not a whit more difficult to damn, Than is to bring to land a late-hooked fish, Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb; Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish, As one day will be that immortal fry Of almost everybody born to die.

XVI.

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, And nodded o'er his keys; when lo! there came A wondrous noise he had not heard of late-- A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame; In short, a roar of things extremely great, Which would have made all save a saint exclaim; But he, with first a start and then a wink, Said, "There's another star gone out, I think!"

XVII.

But ere he could return to his repose, A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes-- At which Saint Peter yawn'd and rubb'd his nose; "Saint porter," said the angel, "prithee rise!" Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes; To which the Saint replied, "Well, what's the matter? Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?"

XVIII.

"No," quoth the cherub; "George the Third is dead." "And who _is_ George the Third?" replied the apostle; "_What George? What Third?_" "The King of England," said The angel. "Well, he won't find kings to jostle Him on his way; but does he wear his head? Because the last we saw here had a tussle, And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces, Had he not flung his head in all our faces.

XIX.

"He was, if I remember, King of France, That head of his, which could not keep a crown On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance A claim to those of martyrs--like my own. If I had had my sword, as I had once When I cut ears off, I had cut him down; But having but my _keys_, and not my brand, I only knock'd his head from out his hand.

XX.

"And then he set up such a headless howl, That all the saints came out and took him in; And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl; That fellow Paul--the parvenu! The skin Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin So as to make a martyr, never sped Better than did that weak and wooden head.

XXI.

"But had it come up here upon its shoulders, There would have been a different tale to tell; The fellow-feeling in the saints' beholders Seems to have acted on them like a spell; And so this very foolish head heaven solders Back on its trunk: it may be very well, And seems the custom here to overthrow Whatever has been wisely done below."

XXII.

The angel answer'd, "Peter! do not pout: The king who comes has head and all entire, And never knew much what it was about-- He did as doth the puppet--by its wire, And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt: My business and your own is not to inquire Into such matters, but to mind our cue-- Which is to act as we are bid to do."

XXIII.

While thus they spake, the angelic caravan, Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an old man With an old soul, and both extremely blind, Halted before the gate, and in his shroud Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud.

XXIV.

But bringing up the rear of this bright host, A Spirit of a different aspect waved His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved; His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss'd; Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved Eternal wrath on his immortal face, And _where_ he gazed, a gloom pervaded space.

XXV.

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or Sin, With such a glance of supernatural hate, As made St. Peter wish himself within: He patter'd with his keys at a great rate, And sweated through his apostolic skin: Of course his perspiration was but ichor, Or some such other spiritual liquor.

XXVI.

The very cherubs huddled all together, Like birds when soars the falcon; and they felt A tingling to the tip of every feather, And form'd a circle like Orion's belt Around their poor old charge; who scarce knew whither His guards had led him, though they gently dealt With royal manes (for by many stories, And true, we learn the angels all are Tories).

XXVII.

As things were in this posture, the gate flew Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges Flung over space an universal hue Of many-color'd flame, until its tinges Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new Aurora Borealis spread its fringes O'er the North Pole, the same seen, when ice-bound, By Captain Perry's crew, in "Melville's Sound".

XXVIII.

And from the gate thrown open issued beaming A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight: My poor comparisons must needs be teeming With earthly likenesses, for here the night Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving.

XXIX.

'Twas the archangel Michael: all men know The make of angels and archangels, since There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince. There also are some altar-pieces, though I really can't say that they much evince One's inner notions of immortal spirits; But let the connoisseurs explain _their_ merits.

XXX.

Michael flew forth in glory and in good, A goodly work of Him from whom all glory And good arise: the portal pass'd--he stood Before him the young cherubs and saints hoary-- (I say _young_, begging to be understood By looks, not years, and should be very sorry To state, they were not older than St. Peter, But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter).

XXXI.

The cherubs and the saints bow'd down before That archangelic hierarch, the first Of essences angelical, who wore The aspect of a god; but this ne'er nursed Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core No thought, save for his Maker's service, durst Intrude, however glorified and high; He knew him but the viceroy of the sky.

XXXII.

He and the sombre silent Spirit met-- They knew each other both for good and ill; Such was their power that neither could forget His former friend and future foe; but still There was a high, immortal, proud regret In either's eye, as if't were less their will Than destiny to make the eternal years Their date of war, and their _champ clos_ the spheres.

XXXIII.

But here they were in neutral space: we know From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay A heavenly visit thrice a year or so; And that "the sons of God", like those of clay, Must keep him company; and we might show From the same book, in how polite a way The dialogue is held between the powers Of Good and Evil--but 'twould take up hours.

XXXIV.

And this is not a theologic tract, To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic, If Job be allegory or a fact, But a true narrative; and thus I pick From out the whole but such and such an act, As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, And accurate as any other vision.

LIX. THE WALTZ.

Published in 1813 and described by its author as an "Apostrophic Hymn".

Muse of the many-twinkling feet! whose charms Are now extended up from legs to arms; Terpsichore!--too long misdeem'd a maid-- Reproachful term--bestow'd but to upbraid-- Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. Far be from thee and thine the name of prude; Mock'd, yet triumphant; sneer'd at, unsubdued; Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, If but thy coats are reasonably high; Thy breast, if bare enough, requires no shield: Dance forth--_sans armour_ thou shalt take the field, And own--impregnable to _most_ assaults, Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz".

Hail, nimble nymph! to whom the young huzzar, The whisker'd votary of waltz and war, His night devotes, despite of spurs and boots; A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes: Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz! beneath whose banners A modern hero fought for modish manners; On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's fame, Cock'd, fired, and miss'd his man--but gain'd his aim: Hail, moving muse! to whom the fair one's breast Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. Oh, for the flow of Busby or of Fitz, The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, To "energize the object I pursue", And give both Belial and his dance their due!

Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine (Famed for the growth of pedigree and wine), Long be thine import from all duty free, And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee; In some few qualities alike--for hock Improves our cellar--_thou_ our living stock. The head to hock belongs--thy subtler art Intoxicates alone the heedless heart: Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs.

O Germany! how much to thee we owe, As heaven-born Pitt can testify below. Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, And only left us thy d--d debts and dances! Of subsidies and Hanover bereft, We bless thee still--for George the Third is left! Of kings the best, and last not least in worth, For graciously begetting George the Fourth. To Germany, and highnesses serene, Who owe us millions--don't we owe the queen? To Germany, what owe we not besides? So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides: Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood, Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud; Who sent us--so be pardon'd all our faults-- A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen--and Waltz.

But peace to her, her emperor and diet, Though now transferr'd to Bonaparte's "fiat!" Back to thy theme--O Muse of motion! say, How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?

Borne on thy breath of hyperborean gales From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had _mails_), Ere yet unlucky Fame, compelled to creep To snowy Gottenburg was chill'd to sleep; Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, Heligoland, to stock thy mart with lies; While unburnt Moscow yet had news to send, Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend. She came--Waltz came--and with her certain sets Of true despatches, and as true gazettes: Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch, Which _Moniteur_ nor _Morning Post_ can match; And, almost crush'd beneath the glorious news, Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's; One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs: Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind; Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it, Of Heynè, such as should not sink the packet.

Fraught with this cargo, and her fairest freight, Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. Not decent David, when, before the ark, His grand _pas-seul_ excited some remark, Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought The knight's fandango friskier than it ought; Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread, Her nimble feet danced off another's head; Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, Display'd so much of _leg_, or more of _neck_, Than thou ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune!

To you, ye husbands of ten years whose brows Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse; To you of nine years less, who only bear The budding sprouts of those that you _shall_ wear, With added ornaments around them roll'd Of native brass, or law-awarded gold: To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match; To you, ye children of--whom chance accords-- _Always_ the ladies, and _sometimes_ their lords; To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek Torments for life, or pleasures for a week; As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide, To gain your own, or snatch another's bride;-- To one and all the lovely stranger came, And every ball-room echoes with her name.

Endearing Waltz! to thy more melting tune Bow Irish jig and ancient rigadoon. Scotch reels, avaunt! and country dance forego Your future claims to each fantastic toe! Waltz, Waltz alone, both legs and arms demands, Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands; Hands which may freely range in public sight Where ne'er before--but--pray "put out the light". Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier Shines much too far, or I am much too near; And true, though strange, Waltz whispers this remark, "My slippery steps are safest in the dark!" But here the Muse with due decorum halts, And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz.

Observant travellers of every time! Ye quartos publish'd upon every clime! Oh, say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round, Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound; Can Egypt's Almas--tantalizing group-- Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop-- Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne? Ah, no! from Morier's pages down to Galt's, Each tourist pens a paragraph for "Waltz".