XIX.

Didst ever see a gondola? For fear

You should not, I'll describe it you exactly; 'T is a long covered boat that 's common here, Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly; Row'd by two rowers, each call'd "gondolier," It glides along the water looking blackly, Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe,

Where none can make out what you say or do.

XX.

And up and down the long canals they go,

And under the Rialto shoot along,
By night and day, all paces,
swift or slow
And round the theatres, a sable throng,
They wait in their dusk livery of woe;

;

But not to them do woful things belong, For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, Like mourning-coaches when the funeral 's done.

XXI.

But to my story.-'T was some years ago,
It may be thirty, forty, more or less,
The Carnival was at its height, and so
Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress;
A certain lady went to see the show,

Her real name I know not, nor can guess,
And so we 'll call her Laura, if you please,
Because it slips into my verse with ease.

XXII.

years

She was not old, nor young, nor at the
Which certain people call a certain age,
Which yet the most uncertain age appears,
Because I never heard, nor could engage
A person yet, by prayers, or bribes, or tears,
To name, define by speech, or write on page,
The period meant precisely by that word,—
Which surely is exceedingly absurd.

XXIII.

Laura was blooming still, had made the best
Of time, and time return'd the compliment,
And treated her genteelly, so that, drest,

She look'd extremely well where'er she went :
A pretty woman is a welcome guest,

And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent; Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her.

XXIV.

She was a married woman; 't is convenient,
Because in Christian countries 't is a rule
To view their little slips with eyes more lenient;
Whereas if single ladies play the fool
(Unless, within the period intervenient,

A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool), I don't know how they ever can get over it, Except they manage never to discover it.

XXV.

Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic,

And made some voyages, too, in other seas; And when he lay in quarantine for pratique (A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease), His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, For thence she could discern the ship with ease: He was a merchant trading to Aleppo,

His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo.' XXVI.

He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard,

Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure; Though colour'd, as it were, within a tan-yard, He was a person both of sense and vigourA better seaman never yet did man yard:

And she, although her manners show'd no rigour, Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, So much as to be thought almost invincible.

XXVII.

But several years elapsed since they had met;
Some people thought the ship was lost, and some

That he had somehow blunder'd into debt,

And did not like the thoughts of steering home; And there were several offer'd any bet,

Or that he would, or that he would not come, For most men (till by losing render'd sager). Will back their own opinions with a wager,

XXVIII.

"T is said that their last parting was pathetic,
As partings often are, or ought to be,
And their presentiment was quite prophetic
That they should never more each other see
(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic,

Which I have known occur in two or three),
When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee,
He left this Adriatic Ariadne.

XXIX.

And Laura waited long, and wept a little,

And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might; She almost lost all appetite for victual,

And could not sleep with ease alone at night;
She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle
Against a daring housebreaker or sprite,
And so she thought it prudent to connect her
With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect her.

XXX.

She chose, (and what is there they will not chuse,
If only you will but oppose their choice?)
Till Beppo should return from his long cruise,
And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice,
A man some women like, and yet abuse-

A coxcomb was he by the public voice:
A count of wealth, they said, as well as quality,
And in his pleasures of great liberality.

XXXI.

And then he was a count, and then he knew

Music and dancing, fiddling, French, and Tuscan ;

The last not easy, be it known to you,

For few Italians speak the right Etruscan.

He was a critic upon operas too,

And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin;

And no Venetian audience could endure a

Song, scene, or air, when he cried "seccatura."

XXXII.

His "bravo" was decisive, for that sound
Hush'd "academic" sigh'd in silent awe;
The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around,

For fear of some false note's detected flaw.
The "prima donna's" tuneful heart would bound,
Dreading the deep damnation of his "bah!"
Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto,

Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto.

XXXIII.

He patronized the improvvisatori,

Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas, Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story,

Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as

Italians can be, though in this their glory

Must surely yield the palm to that which France has ; In short, he was a perfect cavaliero,

And to his very valet seem'd a hero.

XXXIV.

Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous;
So that no sort of female could complain,
Although they 're now and then a little clamorous,
He never put the pretty souls in pain:

His heart was one of those which most enamour us,
Wax to receive, and marble to retain.

He was a lover of the good old school,
Who still become more constant as they cool.

XXXV.

No wonder such accomplishments should turn
A female head, however sage and steady:
With scarce a hope that Beppo could return,

In law he was almost as good as dead; he
Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern,
And she had waited several years already ;
And really if a man won't let us know
That he 's alive, he 's dead, or should be so.

XXXVI.

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin)
'T is, I may say, permitted to have two men :
I can't tell who first brought the custom in,
But cavalier serventes" are quite common,
And no one notices, nor cares a pin;
And we may call this (not to say the worst)
A second marriage which corrupts the first.

66

The word was formerly a

XXXVII.

66 cicisbeo,"

But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ;

The Spaniards call the person a

66

cortejo,"3

For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent: In short it reaches from the Po to Teio,

And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent.

But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses? Or what becomes of damage and divorces?

XXXVIII.

However, I still think, with all due deference
To the fair single part of the creation,
That married ladies should preserve the preference
In tete-a-tete or general conversation-
And this I say without peculiar reference
To England, France, or any other nation—
Because they know the world, and are at ease,
And being natural, naturally please.

XXXIX.

'T is true, your budding Miss is very charming,
But shy and awkward at first coming out;
So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming,

All giggle, blush; half pertness, and half pout;
And glancing at Mamma, for fear there's harm in
What you, she, it, or they may be about,
The nursery still lisps out in all they utter-
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.

XL.

But cavalier servente" is the phrase
Used in politest circles to express
This supernumerary slave, who stays
Close to the lady as a part of dress;
Her word the only law which he obeys.

His is no sinecure, as you may guess;
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call,
And carries fan, and tippet, gloves, and shawl.

XLI.

With all its sinful doings, I must say,
That Italy's a pleasant place to me,
Who love to see the sun shine every day,

And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree
Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play-
Or melodrame, which people flock to see,
When the first act is ended by a dance,
In vineyards copied from the south of France.

XLII.

I like on autumn evenings to ride out,

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about, Because the skies are not the most secure : I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route, Where the green alleys windingly allure, Reeling with grapes red waggons choke the wayIn England 't would be dung, dust, or a dray.

XLIII.

I also like to dine on becaficas,

To see the sun set, sure he 'll rise to-morrow, Not through a misty morning, twinkling weak as A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, But with all heaven t' himself; that day will break as Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow That sort of farthing-candle light, which glimmers Where reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers.