The Monk: A Romance
His bosom glows with amorous fire
Eager He grasps the magic lyre;
Swift o’er the tuneful chords his fingers move:
The Feather plucked from Cupid’s wing
Sweeps the too-long-neglected string,
While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of Love.
Soon as that name was heard, the Woods
Shook off their snows; The melting floods
Broke their cold chains, and Winter fled away.
Once more the earth was deckt with flowers;
Mild Zephyrs breathed through blooming bowers;
High towered the glorious Sun, and poured the blaze of day.
Attracted by the harmonious sound,
Sylvans and Fauns the Cot surround,
And curious crowd the Minstrel to behold:
The Wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove;
Eager They run; They list, they love,
And while They hear the strain, forget the Man is old.
Cupid, to nothing constant long,
Perched on the Harp attends the song,
Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes:
Now on the Poet’s breast reposes,
Now twines his hoary locks with roses,
Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats.
Then thus Anacreon—“I no more
At other shrine my vows will pour,
Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire:
From Phœbus or the blue-eyed Maid
Now shall my verse request no aid,
For Love alone shall be the Patron of my Lyre.
“In lofty strain, of earlier days,
I spread the King’s or Hero’s praise,
And struck the martial Chords with epic fire:
But farewell, Hero! farewell, King!
Your deeds my lips no more shall sing,
For Love alone shall be the subject of my Lyre.
The Marquis returned the paper with a smile of encouragement.
“Your little poem pleases me much,” said He; “However, you must not
count my opinion for anything. I am no judge of verses, and for my own
part, never composed more than six lines in my life: Those six produced
so unlucky an effect that I am fully resolved never to compose another.
But I wander from my subject. I was going to say that you cannot employ
your time worse than in making verses. An Author, whether good or bad,
or between both, is an Animal whom everybody is privileged to attack;
For though All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves
able to judge them. A bad composition carries with it its own
punishment, contempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and entails
upon its Author a thousand mortifications. He finds himself assailed by
partial and ill-humoured Criticism: One Man finds fault with the plan,
Another with the style, a Third with the precept, which it strives to
inculcate; and they who cannot succeed in finding fault with the Book,
employ themselves in stigmatizing its Author. They maliciously rake out
from obscurity every little circumstance which may throw ridicule upon
his private character or conduct, and aim at wounding the Man, since
They cannot hurt the Writer. In short, to enter the lists of literature
is wilfully to expose yourself to the arrows of neglect, ridicule,
envy, and disappointment. Whether you write well or ill, be assured
that you will not escape from blame; Indeed this circumstance contains
a young Author’s chief consolation: He remembers that Lope de Vega and
Calderona had unjust and envious Critics, and He modestly conceives
himself to be exactly in their predicament. But I am conscious that all
these sage observations are thrown away upon you. Authorship is a mania
to conquer which no reasons are sufficiently strong; and you might as
easily persuade me not to love, as I persuade you not to write.
However, if you cannot help being occasionally seized with a poetical
paroxysm, take at least the precaution of communicating your verses to
none but those whose partiality for you secures their approbation.”
“Then, my Lord, you do not think these lines tolerable?” said Theodore
with an humble and dejected air.
“You mistake my meaning. As I said before, they have pleased me much;
But my regard for you makes me partial, and Others might judge them
less favourably. I must still remark that even my prejudice in your
favour does not blind me so much as to prevent my observing several
faults. For instance, you make a terrible confusion of metaphors; You
are too apt to make the strength of your lines consist more in the
words than sense; Some of the verses only seem introduced in order to
rhyme with others; and most of the best ideas are borrowed from other
Poets, though possibly you are unconscious of the theft yourself. These
faults may occasionally be excused in a work of length; But a short
Poem must be correct and perfect.”
“All this is true, Segnor; But you should consider that I only write
for pleasure.”
“Your defects are the less excusable. Their incorrectness may be
forgiven in those who work for money, who are obliged to compleat a
given task in a given time, and are paid according to the bulk, not
value of their productions. But in those whom no necessity forces to
turn Author, who merely write for fame, and have full leisure to polish
their compositions, faults are impardonable, and merit the sharpest
arrows of criticism.”
The Marquis rose from the Sopha; the Page looked discouraged and
melancholy, and this did not escape his Master’s observation.
“However” added He smiling, “I think that these lines do you no
discredit. Your versification is tolerably easy, and your ear seems to
be just. The perusal of your little poem upon the whole gave me much
pleasure; and if it is not asking too great a favour, I shall be highly
obliged to you for a Copy.”
The Youth’s countenance immediately cleared up. He perceived not the
smile, half approving, half ironical, which accompanied the request,
and He promised the Copy with great readiness. The Marquis withdrew to
his chamber, much amused by the instantaneous effect produced upon
Theodore’s vanity by the conclusion of his Criticism. He threw himself
upon his Couch; Sleep soon stole over him, and his dreams presented him
with the most flattering pictures of happiness with Agnes.
On reaching the Hotel de Medina, Lorenzo’s first care was to enquire
for Letters. He found several waiting for him; but that which He sought
was not amongst them. Leonella had found it impossible to write that
evening. However, her impatience to secure Don Christoval’s heart, on
which She flattered herself with having made no slight impression,
permitted her not to pass another day without informing him where She
was to be found. On her return from the Capuchin Church, She had
related to her Sister with exultation how attentive an handsome
Cavalier had been to her; as also how his Companion had undertaken to
plead Antonia’s cause with the Marquis de las Cisternas. Elvira
received this intelligence with sensations very different from those
with which it was communicated. She blamed her Sister’s imprudence in
confiding her history to an absolute Stranger, and expressed her fears
lest this inconsiderate step should prejudice the Marquis against her.
The greatest of her apprehensions She concealed in her own breast. She
had observed with inquietude that at the mention of Lorenzo, a deep
blush spread itself over her Daughter’s cheek. The timid Antonia dared
not to pronounce his name: Without knowing wherefore, She felt
embarrassed when He was made the subject of discourse, and endeavoured
to change the conversation to Ambrosio. Elvira perceived the emotions
of this young bosom: In consequence, She insisted upon Leonella’s
breaking her promise to the Cavaliers. A sigh, which on hearing this
order escaped from Antonia, confirmed the wary Mother in her
resolution.
Through this resolution Leonella was determined to break: She conceived
it to be inspired by envy, and that her Sister dreaded her being
elevated above her. Without imparting her design to anyone, She took an
opportunity of dispatching the following note to Lorenzo; It was
delivered to him as soon as he woke:
“Doubtless, Segnor Don Lorenzo, you have frequently accused me of
ingratitude and forgetfulness: But on the word of a Virgin, it was out
of my power to perform my promise yesterday. I know not in what words
to inform you how strange a reception my Sister gave your kind wish to
visit her. She is an odd Woman, with many good points about her; But
her jealousy of me frequently makes her conceive notions quite
unaccountable. On hearing that your Friend had paid some little
attention to me, She immediately took the alarm: She blamed my conduct,
and has absolutely forbidden me to let you know our abode. My strong
sense of gratitude for your kind offers of service, and ... Shall I
confess it? my desire to behold once more the too amiable Don
Christoval, will not permit my obeying her injunctions. I have
therefore stolen a moment to inform you, that we lodge in the Strada di
San Iago, four doors from the Palace d’Albornos, and nearly opposite to
the Barber’s Miguel Coello. Enquire for Donna Elvira Dalfa, since in
compliance with her Father-in-law’s order, my Sister continues to be
called by her maiden name. At eight this evening you will be sure of
finding us: But let not a word drop which may raise a suspicion of my
having written this letter. Should you see the Condé d’Ossorio, tell
him ... I blush while I declare it ... Tell him that his presence will
be but too acceptable to the sympathetic
LEONELLA.
The latter sentences were written in red ink, to express the blushes of
her cheek, while She committed an outrage upon her virgin modesty.
Lorenzo had no sooner perused this note than He set out in search of
Don Christoval. Not being able to find him in the course of the day, He
proceeded to Donna Elvira’s alone, to Leonella’s infinite
disappointment. The Domestic by whom He sent up his name, having
already declared his Lady to be at home, She had no excuse for refusing
his visit: Yet She consented to receive it with much reluctance. That
reluctance was increased by the changes which his approach produced in
Antonia’s countenance; nor was it by any means abated when the Youth
himself appeared. The symmetry of his person, animation of his
features, and natural elegance of his manners and address, convinced
Elvira that such a Guest must be dangerous for her Daughter. She
resolved to treat him with distant politeness, to decline his services
with gratitude for the tender of them, and to make him feel, without
offence, that his future visits would be far from acceptable.
On his entrance He found Elvira, who was indisposed, reclining upon a
Sopha: Antonia sat by her embroidery frame, and Leonella, in a pastoral
dress, held “_Montemayor’s Diana_.” In spite of her being the Mother of
Antonia, Lorenzo could not help expecting to find in Elvira Leonella’s
true Sister, and the Daughter of “as honest a painstaking Shoe-maker,
as any in Cordova.” A single glance was sufficient to undeceive him. He
beheld a Woman whose features, though impaired by time and sorrow,
still bore the marks of distinguished beauty: A serious dignity reigned
upon her countenance, but was tempered by a grace and sweetness which
rendered her truly enchanting. Lorenzo fancied that She must have
resembled her Daughter in her youth, and readily excused the imprudence
of the late Condé de las Cisternas. She desired him to be seated, and
immediately resumed her place upon the Sopha.
Antonia received him with a simple reverence, and continued her work:
Her cheeks were suffused with crimson, and She strove to conceal her
emotion by leaning over her embroidery frame. Her Aunt also chose to
play off her airs of modesty; She affected to blush and tremble, and
waited with her eyes cast down to receive, as She expected, the
compliments of Don Christoval. Finding after some time that no sign of
his approach was given, She ventured to look round the room, and