Part 59

A paragraph in every paper told Of their departure: such is modern fame: ’Tis pity that it takes no farther hold Than an advertisement, or much the same; When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim— ‘Departure, for his country seat, to-day, Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A.

‘We understand the splendid host intends To entertain, this autumn, a select And numerous party of his noble friends; ’Midst whom we have heard, from sources quite correct, With many more by rank and fashion deck’d; Also a foreigner of high condition, The envoy of the secret Russian mission.’

And thus we see—who doubts the Morning Post? (Whose articles are like the ‘Thirty-nine,’ Which those most swear to who believe them most)— Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain’d to shine, Deck’d by the rays reflected from his host, With those who, Pope says, ‘greatly daring dine.’ ’Tis odd, but true,—last war the News abounded More with these dinners than the kill’d or wounded;—

As thus: ‘On Thursday there was a grand dinner; Present, Lords A. B. C.’—Earls, dukes, by name Announced with no less pomp than victory’s winner: Then underneath, and in the very same Column; date, ‘Falmouth. There has lately been here The Slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame, Whose loss in the late action we regret: The vacancies are fill’d up—see Gazette.’

To Norman Abbey whirl’d the noble pair,— An old, old monastery once, and now Still older mansion; of a rich and rare Mix’d Gothic, such as artists all allow Few specimens yet left us can compare Withal: it lies perhaps a little low, Because the monks preferr’d a hill behind, To shelter their devotion from the wind.

It stood embosom’d in a happy valley, Crown’d by high woodlands, where the Druid oak Stood like Caractacus in act to rally His host, with broad arms ’gainst the thunderstroke; And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally The dappled foresters—as day awoke, The branching stag swept down with all his herd, To quaff a brook which murmur’d like a bird.

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed By a river, which its soften’d way did take In currents through the calmer water spread Around: the wildfowl nestled in the brake And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood With their green faces fix’d upon the flood.

Its outlet dash’d into a deep cascade, Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding, Its shriller echoes—like an infant made Quiet—sank into softer ripples, gliding Into a rivulet; and thus allay’d, Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, According as the skies their shadows threw.

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile (While yet the church was Rome’s) stood half apart In a grand arch, which once screen’d many an aisle. These last had disappear’d—a loss to art: The first yet frown’d superbly o’er the soil, And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, Which mourn’d the power of time’s or tempest’s march, In gazing on that venerable arch.

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, When each house was a fortalice, as tell The annals of full many a line undone,— The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign.

But in a higher niche, alone, but crowned, The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child, With her Son in her blessed arms, look’d round, Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil’d; She made the earth below seem holy ground. This may be superstition, weak or wild, But even the faintest relics of a shrine Of any worship wake some thoughts divine.

A mighty window, hollow in the centre, Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, Through which the deepen’d glories once could enter, Streaming from off the sun like seraph’s wings, Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter, The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire Lie with their hallelujahs quench’d like fire.

But in the noontide of the moon, and when The wind is winged from one point of heaven, There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then Is musical—a dying accent driven Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. Some deem it but the distant echo given Back to the night wind by the waterfall, And harmonised by the old choral wall:

Others, that some original shape, or form Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power (Though less than that of Memnon’s statue, warm In Egypt’s rays, to harp at a fix’d hour) To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm. Sad, but serene, it sweeps o’er tree or tower; The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such The fact:—I’ve heard it—once perhaps too much.

Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play’d, Symmetrical, but deck’d with carvings quaint— Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, And here perhaps a monster, there a saint: The spring gush’d through grim mouths of granite made, And sparkled into basins, where it spent Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, Like man’s vain glory, and his vainer troubles.

The mansion’s self was vast and venerable, With more of the monastic than has been Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were stable, The cells, too, and refectory, I ween: An exquisite small chapel had been able, Still unimpair’d, to decorate the scene; The rest had been reform’d, replaced, or sunk, And spoke more of the baron than the monk.

Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join’d By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, Might shock a connoisseur; but when combined, Form’d a whole which, irregular in parts, Yet left a grand impression on the mind, At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts: We gaze upon a giant for his stature, Nor judge at first if all be true to nature.

Steel barons, molten the next generation To silken rows of gay and garter’d earls, Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation; And Lady Marys blooming into girls, With fair long locks, had also kept their station; And countesses mature in robes and pearls: Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely.

Judges in very formidable ermine Were there, with brows that did not much invite The accused to think their lordships would determine His cause by leaning much from might to right: Bishops, who had not left a single sermon: Attorneys-general, awful to the sight, As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us) Of the ‘Star Chamber’ than of ‘Habeas Corpus.’

Generals, some all in armour, of the old And iron time, ere lead had ta’en the lead; Others in wigs of Marlborough’s martial fold, Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed: Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold: Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain’d the steed; And here and there some stern high patriot stood, Who could not get the place for which he sued.

But ever and anon, to soothe your vision, Fatigued with these hereditary glories, There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, Or wilder group of savage Salvatore’s; Here danced Albano’s boys, and here the sea shone In Vernet’s ocean lights; and there the stories Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted His brush with all the blood of all the sainted.

Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine; There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light, Or gloomy Caravaggio’s gloomier stain Bronzed o’er some lean and stoic anchorite:— But, lo! a Teniers woos, and not in vain, Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight: His bell-mouth’d goblet makes me feel quite Danish Or Dutch with thirst—What, ho! a flask of Rhenish.

O reader! if that thou canst read,—and know, ’Tis not enough to spell, or even to read, To constitute a reader; there must go Virtues of which both you and I have need;— Firstly, begin with the beginning (though That clause is hard); and secondly, proceed; Thirdly, commence not with the end—or, sinning In this sort, end at least with the beginning.

But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. That poets were so from their earliest date, By Homer’s ‘Catalogue of ships’ is clear; But a mere modern must be moderate— I spare you then the furniture and plate.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket:—lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!—’Tis no sport for peasants.

An English autumn, though it hath no vines, Blushing with Bacchant coronals along The paths, o’er which the far festoon entwines The red grape in the sunny lands of song, Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines; The claret light, and the Madeira strong. If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, The very best of vineyards is the cellar.

Then, if she hath not that serene decline Which makes the southern autumn’s day appear As if ’twould to a second spring resign The season, rather than to winter drear, Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine,— The sea-coal fires the ‘earliest of the year;’ Without doors, too, she may compete in mellow, As what is lost in green is gain’d in yellow.

And for the effeminate villeggiatura— Rife with more horns than hounds—she hath the chase, So animated that it might allure Saint from his beads to join the jocund race; Even Nimrod’s self might leave the plains of Dura, And wear the Melton jacket for a space: If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game.