And then he was a Count, and then he knew
Music and dancing, fiddling, French, and Tus-
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!"
His "bravo" was decisive, for that sound
Hush'd "Academie" 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.
He patronised the Improvisatori,
Nay, could himself extemporise 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.
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.
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.
Besides, within the Alps, to every woman
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin)
'Tis, 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.
(1) Cortejo is pronounced Corteho, with an aspirate, according to the Arabesque guttural. It means what there
The word was formerly a "Cicisbeo,"
But that is now grown vulgar and indecent; The Spaniards call the person a "Cortejo,"1
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 ?
However, I still think, with all due deference
To the fair single part of the creation,
That married ladies should preserve the preference
In tête-à-tête 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.
'Tis 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.
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.
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.
I like on Autumn evenings to ride out,
Without being forced to bid my groom be sure
My cloak is round his middle strapped 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 way,-
In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray.
is as yet no precise name for in England, though the practice is as common as in any tramontane country whatever.