istances of about two-and-twenty
miles. The headlands project boldly far into the sea; in front lie
several islands, and behind dark forests and the cliffy Apennines.
Nothing was omitted that could exalt and dignify the mournful rites
with the associations of classic antiquity; frankincense and wine
were not forgotten. The weather was serene and beautiful, and the
pacified ocean was silent, as the flame rose with extraordinary
brightness. Lord Byron was present; but he should himself have
described the scene and what he felt.

These antique obsequies were undoubtedly affecting; but the return of
the mourners from the burning is the most appalling orgia, without
the horror of crime, of which I have ever heard. When the duty was
done, and the ashes collected, they dined and drank much together,
and bursting from the calm mastery with which they had repressed
their feelings during the solemnity, gave way to frantic exultation.
They were all drunk; they sang, they shouted, and their barouche was
driven like a whirlwind through the forest. I can conceive nothing
descriptive of the demoniac revelry of that flight, but scraps of the
dead man's own song of Faust, Mephistophiles, and Ignis Fatuus, in
alternate chorus.

The limits of the sphere of dream,
The bounds of true and false are past;
Lead us on, thou wand'ring Gleam;
Lead us onwards, far and fast,
To the wide, the desert waste.

But see how swift, advance and shift,
Trees behind trees--row by row,
Now clift by clift, rocks bend and lift,
Their frowning foreheads as we go;
The giant-snouted crags, ho! ho!
How they snort, and how they blow.
Honour her to whom honour is due,
Old mother Baubo, honour to you.
An able sow with old Baubo upon her
Is worthy of glory and worthy of honour.

The way is wide, the way is long,
But what is that for a Bedlam throng?
Some on a ram, and some on a prong,
On poles and on broomsticks we flutter along.

Every trough will be boat enough,
With a rag for a sail, we can sweep through the sky.
Who flies not to-night, when means he to fly?

CHAPTER XL

"The Two Foscari"--"Werner"--"The Deformed Transformed"--"Don Juan"--
"The Liberal"--Removes from Pisa to Genoa

I have never heard exactly where the tragedy of The Two Foscari was
written: that it was imagined in Venice is probable. The subject
is, perhaps, not very fit for a drama, for it has no action; but it
is rich in tragic materials, revenge