(As Smollett has taught us long since to believe *) “Are blazing as fast as the foe can desire : "And sparkling and darkling! "Such squalling, and bawling, and sprawling, "And jobbing, and robbing, and mobbing! "Such kicking and licking, and racing and chasing, "Blood-spilling and killing, and slaughtering and quartering! "You'd swear that old Nick, with Belphegor his clerk, "And Moloch his cad, were abroad on a lark!" "Here's a go!" said the King, staring wild like a bogle "Our lives, for we 're done for ; "So, away with base thoughts of submission or flight, "Then fire it, and meet our death-doom with a smile!" "For, although you may think me as dull as a post, The King on his throne, With a torch in one hand which he waved all abroad, That night, from the Hall, late so joyous, there broke, Blazed up the red fire, As it blazed from Queen Dido's funeral pyre! Hark to the crash, as roof, pillar, and wall Bend-rock-and down in thunder fall! Hark to the roar of the flames, as they show Heaven and earth alike in a glow! The hollow wind sobs through the ruins, as though "Twere hymning his dirge who, an hour ago, Was a King in all a King's array; But now lies, a blackened clod of clay, In that Hall whose splendours have past away, Save in old tradition, for ever and aye! * Vide Miss Tabitha Bramble, in Smollett's "Humphrey Clinker." THE ARMENIANS AT VENICE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "A PARISIAN SABBATH." "WILL Signore visit the Armenians this morning?" inquired my cicerone, as I settled myself down into the velvet cushion of a gondola. Armenian was a word associated in my memory with the "Ghost Seer" of Schiller. It was a masked Armenian that dogged the illfated Prince through the Piazza of St. Mark, and through the gambling houses of Venice. I seemed to hear his sepulchral voice mysteriously announcing, "Um neun Uhr ist er gestorben." "Is it far?" asked I.-"A short way only from the Lido," was the reply. My gondola left the stairs of the White Lion, and sailing by the Foscari Palace, soon left the Grand Canal, and rapidly approached the island of St. Lazarus. It was a calm, clear, sweet morning. The little island, surrounded by a brick wall, above which were visible clusters of irregular buildings, themselves surrounded by gardens and orange-trees, soon rose before us, all silent as death, and to me clothed in not a little mystery. We disembarked at some steps leading up to a gate. A bell was rung, and instantly a person appeared, inviting us with a smile to walk in, and begging that we would excuse him for a moment, while he ran to give notice of our arrival to his superior. We were interrupted in our momentary examination of the little court in which we stood, by the approach of a venerable man arrayed in black like a monk, with a bunch of keys dangling from the girdle around him, a sable beard hanging down over his breast, his countenance pale, his eyes intensely black, his forehead expansive, his mouth rather intellectual, and his voice thorough-bred, clear, and vivacious. "Bless me!" said he, taking each of us by the hand: "bless me !" and it was the first English which I had heard at Venice; "you are Englishmen. I am very happy to have a visit from you:" and then he laughed heartily. "Many of your countrymen come to visit us; yes, they wish to see where Lord Byron studied and wrote, and to see me, his instructor in Armenian;" and then he very faintly tried to conceal a little chuckle of innocent vanity. "We have had here Lord D.-pray, do you know him?— and the Duke of P., and Sir John R. I hope you are acquainted with them. They are noblemen indeed. Bless me! I am glad to have this attention from you; and now, if you please, we will walk a little about the convent." The excellent man's good nature took captive our friendship immediately. He seemed to receive us at once into his inmost confidence. He told us what he was formerly, what he now is, and what he soon expected to be. He gave us a brief history of the convent, of its founder, of its objects, and its present condition. He told us much about Byron; how ungovernable was his temper, how unhappy he seemed to be, and what were some of his tastes and habits while residing in this vicinity. Nothing was concealed which could gratify our curiosity; and I need hardly add, that two agreeable hours swiftly swept away like so many moments. The mystery about the Armenian's name totally vanished. I was among plainspoken, benevolent, open-hearted men; learned and pious Armenians, here apparently isolated from all the world, yet preserving pure their language, their customs, and their literature, and associated together for the accomplishment of many noble, scientific, and religious ends. The convent is about one hundred and twenty years old. It owes its existence to the enthusiastic and benevolent zeal of an Armenian, by the name of Mechitar. This man was born in 1676. In his youth he manifested very strong intellectual powers, and so unremitted and intense were their application, that before the age of twenty he had made himself complete master of all the theology, and philosophy, and literature of Armenia. To these high active powers of mind, were joined some noble qualities of the heart. Looking abroad over his country, he perceived that the glory, for which in past times it had been distinguished, existed no more. Violent religious convulsions, originating mainly in differences of opinion with respect to the divinity of Christ, had shattered the fabric of its social and political prosperity. Suddenly, and as if heaven-inspired, he was penetrated with a wish to do something for the regeneration of that country. His education had been chiefly religious. Its object was to prepare him for the service of the church. His experience of the monastic institutions established in Armenia was unfavourable to them. They were not on a sufficiently broad, enlightened, and enterprising scale. "I will found a religious order myself," said he. "The object of that order shall be to spread knowledge, spiritual, scientific, and literary, throughout my nation." This was a solitary thought, born in the solitary meditations of his cell. He had no money, no public friends, no public feeling aroused and tending towards the point before him. He had only a benevolent and comprehensive mind, vast intellectual acquisitions, and a zeal which nothing could quench. I need not record how often his labours at proselytism were baffled; how few of even the most enlightened among his countrymen were able or willing to embrace his large design; how, in the year 1709, he arrived at Constantinople with but three disciples, which city some suspicious enemies soon compelled him to leave; how, with a small accession to his numbers, he then established himself in the Morea; thence, after a few years, compelled to take flight in consequence of a war between the Turks and the Venetians, how he laid before the senate of this latter people, a plan of his enterprise, and therefrom solicited protection and aid. Venice, jealous of societies existing within the city, gave to him, in 1717, this little island of St. Lazarus:—an island which, in the twelfth century, contained an hospital for lepers, and which, until lately, had long served as an asylum for the poor. Here now, out of funds bestowed by wealthy Armenian merchants, these walls were erected. The few men, whom kindred zeal had united to Mechitar, commenced their labours. Their system of operations was established, a system under which young men of talents were to be educated for missionaries into Armenia; under which, not only were suitable works in foreign languages to be translated into the Armenian, but likewise original works on science, philosophy, and religion, to be composed, and all to be distributed among their unprovided countrymen. Their founder died in 1749. The society continued to pursue its worthy labours. At this time, its condition is flourishing. It numbers in its little circle fifty devoted minds. It has translated many works into the Armenian from various languages: the Iliad of Homer, the works of Cicero, the Telemachus of Fenelon; and amongst those from the English, I noticed a beautiful edi tion of Paradise Lost, and another of Young's Night Thoughts. It has given birth to an admirable dictionary of the Armenian tongue, and to a very comprehensive history of the nation. Among its other original productions, are a Universal Biography, and a complete Treatise on Mathematics. Even Father Aucher, who was now waiting upon us through the cloisters, had well translated portions of the text of Eusebius, enriching them with copious illustrative notes: and at this time he is engaged upon a kind of Conversations-Lexicon, which will help to supply a desideratum in Armenian literature. We had now made the circuit of the cells, and arrived at the dining-hall. Over its door is written in Armenian, "Silence should be preserved while the Scriptures are read." The members of the society were at their simple repast, and during that time they speak nothing, listening to one of their order, who reads a chapter from the Bible. I have never seen a finer collection of heads, or of intellectual and benevolent countenances, than were these before me. I looked upon them with a feeling quite different from that with which I had so often regarded the lazy monks that crowd many Italian monasteries. Before me were men of action, not of idleness; men inspired with noble and comprehensive wishes, not narrowed down to the narrow cells in which they lived. After dinner they enjoy, by their strictlyfollowed regulations, two hours of recreation, which they generally spend in walking among the gardens, conversing with each other or the boys under their charge. Seven hours are given to sleep, seven to active intellectual labour, and what remains after that employed in bodily exercise, is given to God. We now visited the printing-office. The press is very finely constructed, and from it have proceeded pages of great beauty and delicacy. I purchased a little gilt-bound volume, containing, in twentyfour different languages, the prayers of Niersis Clajensis, an Armenian patriarch. From the printing-office, we passed to the studio of Father Aucher, who, I may here say, is secretary of the society. It realized all that I had ever conceived of the studio of an orientalist. It is small, and its walls are quite concealed by surrounding books and manuscripts. Many of these were in wire-protected cases, in binding most strange, and type quite incomprehensible. Here were some translations from the Greek, whose originals were lost. We were likewise shown several works in Sanscrit, in the Chinese character, and in other symbols that looked more outlandish than either. Father Aucher seemed to be delighted at handling them, translated a little for our edification, and then put them under lock and key again. He now pointed to a quaintly-fashioned chair, standing by a window that looked out upon the quiet waters, and desired each of us to favour him by inserting our names in a book for that purpose, which lay on an adjacent table. After this ceremony, he in a little triumph turned to the name of Byron, written by his own hand, under the date of November 27th, 1816. He related to us, that on the first arrival of the poet at the convent, quite unaware of his title, he addressed him no otherwise than as Mr. Byron. The nobleman asked him if he had a dictionary of English proper names, and if so, to look out the word Byron. The hint of the lord was not misunderstood, and no further occasion for offence was given. After a visit to the chapel, we entered the library. "And now," said Father Aucher, walking towards a table, "I am going to show the spot where I was accustomed to give Lord Byron lessons in the Armenian language. He did not make very rapid progress. He was often very pettish, and complained a good deal of the hardships he experienced in trying to learn it."-"And is this the very desk?" asked I.-" Why, bless me, it is the very same," said the monk. It was to this island that the poet was wont, each morning, to row himself alone in his gondola, from the palace of the Merchant of Venice, with whom he then lived. And why, in this solitary spot, did he begin to study the Armenian tongue? "I found that my mind," these are his own words,-" wanted something craggy to break upon, and this, as the most difficult thing I could discover here for an amusement, I have chosen to torture me into attention." It was hither that he came, heart-riven and yet erect in pride, after his exile from his native land. The bridge between that land and him, had not only been passed, but broken down. He had left behind him many spots blackening his fame, but not yet had he plunged into those dark paths of Venetian vice, which tainted not merely his body but his soul. He had not yet familiarized himself with those elements, -worse indeed than worthless,-which afterwards his imagination wrought up into the scenes and associations of Don Juan. Happier he, and better for some thousands who still enthusiastically admire him, if, while intermingling with these venerable men, and receiving their language into his mind, he likewise had engrafted within his heart some of the worthy habits and principles, full of purity and benevolence, which characterized their life. It was here that he assisted in the framing of an English and Armenian grammar, for the use of the Armenians, and for promoting whose publication he advanced a thousand francs. It was here that he translated two epistles, -a correspondence between the Corinthians and St. Paul,-not found in ours, but received into the Armenian version. Byron said, he considered them orthodox, and therefore did them, for the first time, into scriptural prose English. We now accompanied our excellent guide to a little portico in the garden which, overlooking the wall, embraced a prospect of the sea, and rising therefrom the towers and palaces of Venice. In this charming spot had Byron often written. And what was here his inspiration ? It is embodied in his Manfred. That was the composition to which his powers were devoted in the early months of 1817. I have ever held this drama, which he pronounced "mad as Nat Lee's Bedlam Tragedy," to be one of his sublimest productions. I now almost imagined that I beheld its noble author, here meditating and alone, working up his own remembrances, emotions, and aspirations into the passionate creation of Manfred, and deriving from the heavens, and seas, and melancholy scenes about him, some of the images which adorn that extraordinary poem. "Good or Evil, life, Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, Have been to me as rain unto the sands." And well, at this forlorn period of his career, might he seem to hear a spirit addressing him in these prophetic strains ; "And a magic voice and verse Hath begirt thee with a snare. |