DRAMATIS PERSONE.

STRANGER, afterwards CESAR

ARNOLD.

BOURBON.

PHILIBERT.

CELLINI.

BERTHA.

OLIMPIA.

Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, Priests,

Peasants, etc.

Thou incubus ! Thou nightmare! Of seven sons,

i. The Deformed—a drama.—B. Pisa, 1822.

Out,

1. [Moore (Life, p. 13) quotes these lines in connection with a passage in Byron's "Memoranda," where, in speaking of his own sensitiveness on the subject of his deformed foot, he described the feeling of horror and humiliation that came over him, when his mother, in one of her fits of passion, called him "a lame brat!" "It may be questioned," he adds, "whether that whole drama [The Deformed Transformed was not indebted for its origin to that single recollection." Byron's early letters (e.g. November 2, 11, 17, 1804, Letters, 1898, i. 41, 45, 48) are full of complaints of his mother's "eccentric behaviour," her "fits of phrenzy," her "caprices," passions," and so forth; and there is convincing proof-see Life, pp. 28, 306; Letters, 1898, ii. 122 (incident at Bellingham's execution); Letters, 1901, vi. 179 (Le Diable Boiteux)-that he regarded the contraction of the muscles of his legs as a more or less repulsive deformity. And yet, to quote one of a hundred testimonies,-" with regard to Lord Byron's features, Mr. Mathews observed, that he was the only man he ever contemplated, to whom he felt disposed to apply the word beautiful" (Memoirs of Charles Mathews, 1838, ii. 380). The looker-on or the consoler computes the magnitude and the liberality of the compensation. The sufferer thinks only of his sufferings.]

But as thou hast—hence, hence—and do thy best!
That back of thine may bear its burthen; 'tis
More high, if not so broad as that of others.

Arn. It bears its burthen ;-but, my heart! Will it Sustain that which you lay upon it, Mother?

I love, or, at the least, I loved you: nothing
Save You, in nature, can love aught like me.
You nursed me-do not kill me!

Bert.

ΙΟ

Yes I nursed thee,

Because thou wert my first-born, and I knew not
If there would be another unlike thee,

That monstrous sport of Nature. But get hence,
And gather wood!1

Arn.
I will but when I bring it,
Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are
So beautiful and lusty, and as free

As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me:
Our milk has been the same.

Bert.
As is the hedgehog's, 20
Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam

Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds
The nipple, next day, sore, and udder dry.
Call not thy brothers brethren! Call me not
Mother; for if I brought thee forth, it was
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out!

Arn. (solus). Oh, mother!

must do

Her bidding;-wearily but willingly
I would fulfil it, could I only hope

[Exit BERTHA. She is gone, and I

A kind word in return. What shall I do?

30

[ARNOLD begins to cut wood: in doing this he wounds

one of his hands.

My labour for the day is over now.

Accurséd be this blood that flows so fast;

1. [So, too, Prospero to Caliban, Tempest, act i. sc. 2, line 309, etc.]