length grew tired of its gambols, and with a sharp fragment of rock struck it between the eyes. It sunk with a sudden plunge, and did not rise for ten minutes after, when it appeared a full mile astern. This narrative was but the first of I know not how many, of a similar cast, which presented to my imagination the Bhodrymore whale and hun-fish in every possible point of view. The latter, a voracious formidable animal of the shark species, frequently makes great havoc among the tackle with which cod and haddock are caught. Like the shark, it throws itself on its back when in the act of seizing its prey. The fishermen frequently see it lying motionless, its white belly glittering through the water, a few fathoms from the boat's side, employed in stripping off every fish from their hooks as the line is drawn over it. This formidable animal is from six to ten feet in length, and formed like the common shark. One of the boatmen's stories, though somewhat in the Munchausen style, I shall take the liberty of relating. Two Cromarty men, many years ago, were employed on a fine calm day in angling for coal-fish and rock-cod, with rods and hand-lines. Their little skiff rode to a large oblong stone, which served for an anchor, nearly opposite a rocky spire termed the Chapel, three miles south of Shandwick. Suddenly the stone was raised from the bottom with a jerk, and the boat began to move. "What can this mean," exclaimed the elder of the men, pulling in his rod, "we have surely broken loose, but who could have thought that there ran such a current here!" The other, a young daring fellow, John Clark by name, remarked in reply, that the apparent course of the skiff was directly contrary to that of the current. The motion, which was at first gentle, increased to a frightful velocity; the rope ahead was straightened until the very stem cracked; and the sea rose upon either bows into a furrow that nearly overtopped the gunwale. "Old man, said the young fellow, "didst thou ever see the like o' that!" "Guid save us, boy," said the other, "cut, cut the swing.' "Na, na, bide a wee first, I manna skaith the rape: didst thou ever see the like o' that!" In a few minutes, according to the story, they were dragged in this manner nearly two miles, when the motion ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and the skiff rode to the swing as before. The scenes exhibited on the shores of Cromarty, during the busy season of the fishing, afford nearly as much scope for description, though of a different character, as those in which the occupations of the fisherman mingle with the sublime scenes of the Moray Frith. But this description I will not attempt. Your readers must have already anticipated it. If not, let them picture to themselves the shores of a seaport town crowded with human figures, and its harbour with boats and vessels of trade. Let them imagine the bustle of the workshop combining with the confusion of the crowded fair! You, Mr. Editor, who have seen Holbein's "Dance of Death," would perhaps not question the soundness of the imagination that would body forth so busy a scene as the dance of commerce. Sailors, fishermen, curers, mechanics, all engaged, lead up the ball amid heaps of fish that glitter to the sun, tiers of casks and pyramid. of salt. Hark to the music! It is a wild combination of irregular sounds,— the hammering of mechanics, the rolling of casks, the rattling of carts, and the confused hum of a thousand voices. HAIDEE.1 Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, Which mixed all feelings-friend, child, lover, brother, All that the best can mingle and express When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another, And love too much, and yet cannot love less; But almost sanctify the sweet excess By the immortal wish and power to bless. Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, Why did they not then die?—they had lived too long Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart; Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong; The world was not for them, nor the world's art For beings passionate as Sappho's song; Love was born with them, in them, so intense It was their very spirit-not a sense. title page The first two cantos of Don Juan appeared in 1819; neither author's nor publisher's name was given on the and proclaimed by the critics. The work was roundly But the authorship was at once divined abused for its immorality, but all acknowledged its marvellous power, and the brilliant gems of poetry which thickly studded the production throughout — they were the stars which gave their light to good and bad impartially. Byron complained often, and with reason, that his personality was always identified with the heroes of his imagination. Of the purpose of Don Juan, he said, it was "to remove the cloak which the manners and maxims of society throw over their secret sins, and show them to the world as they really are the above, that may be safely read by those whose Notwithstanding, it is only selected portions, such as judgment has not obtained complete control of passion. They should have lived together deep in woods, Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care: How lonely every freeborn creature broods! The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair; Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, For ever and anon a something shook Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep: And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook A wordless music, and her face so fair Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air. Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind Walks over it, was she shaken by the dream, The mystical usurper of the mindO'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem Good to the soul which we no more can bind; Strange state of being! (for 'tis still to be) Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were And something rolled before her in a sheet, "Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasped, And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. The dream changed; in a cave she stood, its walls Of ages on its water-fretted halls, Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lurk; Her hair was dripping, and the very balls Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and murk The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, Which froze to marble as it fell - she thought. And wet, and cold, and lifeless, at her feet, Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, Of his quenched heart; and the sea dirges low And gazing on the dead, she thought his face Faded, or alter'd into something newLike to her father's features, till each trace More like and like to Lambro's aspect grewWith all his keen worn look and Grecian grace: And starting, she awoke, and what to view? Oh! Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she there? 'Tis 'tis her father's fix'd upon the pair! Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, I have seen such-but must not call to mind. Up Juan sprang to Haidee's bitter shriek, And caught her falling, and from off the wall Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak Vengeance on him who was the cause of all; Then Lambro, who till now forebore to speak, Smiled scornfully, and said, "Within my call A thousand scimitars await the word; And Haidee clung around him; "Juan, 'tis- Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be That doubt shall mingle with my filial joy? Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy." High and inscrutable the old man stood, Calm in his voice, and calm within his eyeNot always signs with him of calmest mood: He look'd upon her, but gave no reply; Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood Oft came and went, as there resolved to die; In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring. "Young man, your sword;" so Lambro once more said: Replied, "Your blood be then on your own head!" It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, A moment more will bring the sight to bear A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er; And her head droop'd as when the lily lies O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd handmaids bore Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes; Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, Days lay she in that state, unchanged, though chill- All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred The ruling passion, such as marble shows When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there, But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair; O'er the Laocoon's all-eternal throes, And ever-dying Gladiator's air, Their energy like life forms all their fame, Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. She woke at length-but not as sleepers wake_ Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat, still true, Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, For, for a while, the furies made a pause. She look'd on many a face with vacant eye, Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; She recognized no being, and no spot, However dear or cherish'd in their day; At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning And then a slave bethought her of a harp; At the first notes-irregular and sharp On him her flashing eyes a moment bent; Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart resent: And he began a long low island song. Of ancient days-ere tyranny grew strong. Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall In time to his old tune; he changed the theme, Short solace!-vain relief!-thought came too quick, Although her paroxysm drew towards its close: Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense; Nothing could make her meet her father's face, Though on all other things with looks intense She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; Avail'd for either; neither change of place, A parting pang, the spirit from her pass'd; Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, A second principle of life-which might Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth; her days and pleasures were Brief, but delightful-such as had not staid Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well By the sea-shore whereon she loved to dwell. That isle is now all desolate and bare, Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away, None but her own and father's grave is there, And nothing outward tells of human clay; Ye could not know where lies a thing so fairNo stone is there to show-no tongue to say What was; no dirge, except the hollow seas, Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. LORD BYRON. THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO. It was but a short hour before noon when the Dean of Santiago alighted from his mule at the door of Don Julian, the celebrated magician of Toledo. The house, according to old tradition, stood on the brink of the perpendicular rock which, now crowned with the Alcazar, rises to a fearful height over the Tagus. A maid of Moorish blood led the dean to a retired apartment, where Don Julian was reading. The natural politeness of a Castilian had rather been improved than impaired by the studies of the Toledan sage, who exhibited nothing either in his dress or person that might induce a suspicion of his dealing with the mysterious powers of darkness. "I heartily greet your reverence," said Don Julian to the dean, "and feel highly honoured by this visit. Whatever be the object of it, let me beg you will defer stating it till I have made you quite at home in this house. I hear my housekeeper making ready the noonday meal. That maid, sir, will show you the room which has been prepared for you; and when you have brushed off the dust of the journey, you shall find a canonical capon steaming hot upon the board." The dinner, which soon followed, was just what a pampered Spanish canon would wish it abundant, nutritive, and delicate. "No, no," said Don Julian, when the soup and a bumper of Tinto had recruited the dean's spirits, and he saw him making an attempt to break the object of his visit, "no business, please your reverence, while at dinner. Let us enjoy our meal at present; and when we have discussed the Olla, the capon, and a bottle of Yepes, it will be time enough to turn to the cares of life." The ecclesiastic's full face had never beamed with more glee at the collation on Christmas-eve, when, by the indulgence of the church, the fast is broken at sunset, instead of continuing through the night, than it did now under the influence of Don Julian's good humour and heart-cheering wine. Still it was evident that some vehement and ungovernable wish had taken possession of his mind, breaking out now and then in some hurried motion, some gulping up of a full glass of wine without stopping to relish the flavour, and fifty other symptoms of absence and impatience, which at such a distance from the cathedral could not be attributed to the afternoon bell. The time came at length of rising from table, and in spite of Don Julian's pressing request to have another bottle, the dean, with a certain dignity of manner, led his good-natured host to the recess of an oriel window looking upon the river. "Allow me, dear Don Julian," he said, "to open my heart to you; for even your hospitality must fail to make me completely happy till I have obtained the boon which I came to ask. I know that no man ever possessed greater power than you over the invisible agents of the universe. I die to become an adept in that wonderful science, and if you will receive me for your pupil, there is nothing I should think of sufficient worth to repay your friendship." "Good sir," replied Don Julian, "I should be extremely loath to offend you; but permit me to say, that in spite of the knowledge of causes and effects which I have acquired, all that my experience teaches me of the heart of man is not only vague and indistinct, but for the most part unfavourable. I only guess, I cannot read their thoughts, nor pry into the recesses of their minds. As for yourself, I am sure you are a rising man and likely to obtain the first dignities of the church. But whether, when you find yourself in places of high honour and patronage, you will remember the humble personage of whom you now ask a hazardous and important service, it is impossible for me to ascertain." "Nay, nay," exclaimed the dean, "but I know myself, if you do not, Don Julian. Generosity and friendship (since you force me to speak in my own praise) have been the delight of my soul even from childhood. Doubt not, my dear friend (for by that name I wish you would allow me to call you), doubt not, from this moment, to command my services. Whatever interest I may possess, it will be my highest gratification to see it redound in favour of you and yours.' My hearty thanks for all, worthy sir," said Don Julian. "But let us now proceed to business: the sun is set, and, if you please, we will retire to my private study." Lights being called for, Don Julian led the way to the lower part of the house; and dismissing the Moorish maid near a small door, of which he held the key in his hand, desired her to get two partridges for supper, but not to dress them till he should order it: then unlocking the door, he began to descend by a winding staircase. The dean followed with a certain degree of trepidation, which the length of the stairs greatly tended to increase; for, to all appearance, they reached below the bed of the Tagus. At this depth a comfortable neat room was found, the walls completely covered with shelves, where Don Julian kept his works on magic; globes, planispheres, and strange drawings, occupied the top of the bookcases. |