"By way of divertissement, I am studying daily at an Armenian monastery the Armenian language. I found that my mind 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 is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it. I try, and shall go on; but I answer for nothing, least of all for my intentions or my success.... Four years ago the French instituted an Armenian professorship. Twenty pupils presented themselves on Monday morning, full of noble ardor, ingenuous youth, and impregnable industry. They persevered, with a courage worthy of the nation and of universal conquest, till Thursday, when fifteen of the twenty succumbed to the six-and-twentieth letter of the alphabet. It is, to be sure, a Waterloo of an alphabet,—that must be said for them."
After Byron's death, a Preface to the Armenian Grammar was found among his papers. It was probably intended for the Armenian and English Grammar which Byron helped Dr. Aucher to prepare. The following is an extract from this "Preface":—
"The society of the convent of S. Lazarus appears to unite all the advantages of the monastic institution, without any of its vices. The neatness, the comfort, the gentleness, the unaffected devotion, the accomplishments, and the virtues of the brethren of the order, are well fitted to strike a man of the world with the conviction that 'there is another and a better, even in this life.'
"These men are the priesthood of an oppressed and noble nation, which has partaken of the proscription and bondage of the Jews and of the Greeks, without the sullenness of the former or the servility of the latter. This people has attained riches without usury, and all the honors that can be awarded to slavery without intrigue. But they have long occupied, nevertheless, a part of the 'House of Bondage,' who has lately multiplied her many mansions. It would be difficult, perhaps, to find the annals of a nation less stained with crimes than those of the Armenians, whose virtues have been those of peace, and their vices those of compulsion. But whatever may have been their destiny,—and it has been bitter,—whatever it may be in future, their country must ever be one of the most interesting on the globe; and perhaps their language only requires to be more studied to become more attractive. If the Scriptures are rightly understood, it was in Armenia that Paradise was placed,—Armenia, which has paid as dearly as the descendants of Adam for that fleeting participation of its soil in the happiness of him who was created from its dust. It was in Armenia that the flood first abated, and the dove alighted. But with the disappearance of Paradise itself may be almost dated the unhappiness of the country; for, though long a powerful kingdom, it was scarcely ever an independent one, and the satraps of Persia and the pachas of Turkey have alike desolated the region where God created man in his own image."
The hours pass imperceptibly away. In hearing what the monk tells, and in reading what he gives us concerning the Society,—like the above and kindred facts,—the day declines, until the sensation of the lessening light reminds us that there is still something to be done, delightful as this reading and musing is. Within twilight has come; but without, although the east is dusky, it is so by contrast with the west. The setting sun has sunk so far that it illumines the sky alone, where golden minarets are reaching toward mid-heaven, and low, sleeping clouds of purplish hue sink with the sun beyond the horizon. At the last there are flashes of brilliant flame, and then sea and sky are blended. The twilight grows less and less. How silent the world seems! The gentle dip of the oars alone is heard, until, as we come nearer the city, a snatch of song falls on our ear, a gondola overtakes us, and Giacomo cheerfully greets a comrade. As we near the Piazzetta, all light is gone from the sea. We leave an inky darkness behind, which makes the blinking lamps on the Molo seem brilliant by contrast.
Now comes a new pleasure,—for even in dreamy Venice mortals are still doomed to eat,—and to-night we leave our better-loved Zattere to meet friends at the Café Florian, with its frescos and mirrors and cosey cabinets, from which, while being served, we catch glimpses of the fast-filling square. The lights are multiplying; the concerts of violins and harps, and the songs of the singers are beginning. The flower-girls are tying their nosegays or weaving garlands, and gazing wistfully at the windows of the brilliant little shops; and hundreds of figures pass and repass, now in the shadow and now in the light.
But even this dinner will end. The delicious sorbet and the fragrant coffee are, all too soon, things of the past. However, we do not stay to regret them, since this evening affords one of the rare opportunities to see La Fenice open in summer. It is always entertaining to watch the coming and going of the gondolas to and from this theatre; but at this season, when most of the wealthy Venetians are away on the mainland, the audience is not brilliant, the play not very good, and we are glad to be back in the Piazza for an hour beneath the summer moon, and then to walk home through the crooked calli, that seem more like the make-believe of the stage than like real life. There are corners so dark that they might well be used for an ambush. But we have no enemies in Venice, and so by aid of Giacomo's lanthorn may safely explore these narrow ways at any hour we choose, and hang the pictures of them in our mental gallery to look at and think about when thousands of miles away. For who that loves Venice ever forgets her? and that which in her midst seems dreamlike and unreal, with time and distance crystallizes into the sharpest and clearest of memories.
On such a night as this impassionedly
The old Venetian sung these verses rare,
"That Venice must of needs eternal be,
For Heaven had looked through the pellucid air,
And cast its reflex in the crystal sea,
And Venice was the image pictured there."
I hear them now, and tremble, for I seem
As treading on an unsubstantial dream.
Who talks of vanished glory, of dead power,
Of things that were, and are not? Is he here?
Can he take in the glory of this hour,
And call it all the decking of a bier?
No, surely as on that Titanic tower
The Guardian Angel stands in æther clear,
With the moon's silver tempering his gold wing,
So Venice lives, as lives no other thing.
LORD HOUGHTON.