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Nursemaid: “Lawk! there goes Charley, and he’s took his ma’s parasol! What will missus say?”

Waiter: “Gent in No. 4 likes a holder and a thinner wine, does he? I wonder how he’ll like this bin!”

As there is no condition in life that has not proved food for Leech’s pencil, that of the waiter was fruitful in many never-to-be-forgotten scenes. I introduce one which is very humorous, and scarcely an exaggeration. It is called “How to Suit the Taste.” A guest seems to have found his port too new and strong.

One of the peculiarities of Leech’s art is that “time cannot wither it, nor custom stale its infinite variety.” I defy the most serious Scotchman to look at the sketch below without laughing at it. As the gentleman who is on the highroad to being parboiled is in one of the sketches of 1846, many of my readers may see him for the first time. I envy that man; but though I am very familiar with the wonderful little drawing, a renewed acquaintance is always a delight to me. We know the bather can jump out of the scalding water when he likes, but there he is, with clouds of steam rising about him, screaming in deadly terror for “somebody” to come to his rescue.

Better-Half (loq.): “Is this what you call sitting up with a sick friend, Mr. Wilkins?”

Here follows a drawing of a different character, opening up very appreciable possibilities, and not very pleasant consequences for the hero of the piece. Mr. Wilkins left the domestic hearth to sit up with a sick friend. “Yes, my dear,” I can hear him say to his spouse, “I may be late; for if I find I can comfort the poor fellow by my conversation, I cannot find it in my heart to hurry away from him.” Wicked Mr. Wilkins! What was there wrong in going to a masquerade? and if it was criminal to do so, why leave the evidence of your guilt where Mrs. W. could find it? Was that a lady’s mask? In the eyes of the outraged wife I dare say it was, though it may only have been used to cover the homely features of the deceiver, whose pale face and empty soda-water bottle plainly prove that the evening’s entertainment will not bear the morning’s reflections.

Juvenile: “I say, Charley, that’s a jeuced fine gurl talking to young Fipps! I should like to catch her under the mistletoe.”

The first drawings of “The Rising Generation,” in which are portrayed the premature affections and the amusing affectations of the manners and sayings of their elders that, according to Leech, distinguished the jeunesse doré of England, appeared in 1846, and have been so admirably described by Dickens elsewhere as to leave me only the task of placing some of the drawings before the reader, carefully avoiding those the great writer has noticed so felicitously. The young gentleman in the drawing introduced here would like to catch the pretty creature talking to the fascinating young man under the mistletoe, no doubt! We know his wicked intentions; but how would he carry them out? He is not tall enough to reach the lady’s elbow; but love in such passionate natures laughs at difficulties, and he will find a way; and he calls a man old enough to be his father young Fipps! Delightful little dog! and no less delightful is his friend Charley, who smiles encouragement, and would do likewise. These works of Leech possess what it is not too much to call an historical interest, as they chronicle truly the dresses of the time. In the object of our young friend’s admiration, I fancy I see the approach of crinoline, while her ringlets afford a striking contrast to the fringes of the present day. An old lady would now create a sensation indeed if she appeared in a turban like that which bedecks the sitting figure.

Juvenile: “Uncle!”

Uncle: “Now, then, what is it? This is the fourth time you’ve woke me up, sir.”

Juvenile: “Oh! just put a few coals on the fire and pass the wine, that’s a good old chap!”

Again the irrepressible juvenile, under different conditions. Behold him practising upon a very testy old gentleman, who has been so rude, in the estimation of his young nephew, as to go to sleep after dinner.

Juvenile: “Ah, it’s all very well! Love may do for boys and gals; but we, as men of the world, know ’ow ’ollow it is.”

In his notices of the freaks of the rising generation Leech did not confine himself to juveniles of the higher and middle ranks, but occasionally he shows us the young snob, of whom he makes – with modifications – the same mannish and amusingly vain creature as his confrères, the little swells. As an illustration, I present my reader with a scene in a coffee-house, in which two friends are refreshing themselves, and exchanging philosophical reflections on the vanities of human life. These lads look like shop-boys, but – in their own estimation – with souls far above their positions in life. The spokesman has found the truth of the poet’s description of the course of true love in the conduct of some barmaid who has jilted him, hence his bitterness.

In the year 1847 Leech produced much of his best work, and in justification of this dictum I advise the study of a drawing full of character, humour, and beauty. Thousands of heads of households could vouch for the truth of the situation depicted there, and where is the mistress whose mind has not misgiven her when a request from her pretty servant has been urged that she might “go to chapel this evening”? “Chapel, indeed!” one can hear her mutter to herself; “I’ve not the least doubt the baker’s man is waiting for her round the corner!” I am loath to find fault with such a work as this, but I do think that perfect maid deserved a more presentable lover than the pudding-faced, knock-kneed soldier who is personating the “bit of ribbin.” The artist appears to me to charge his story-telling maid with very bad taste indeed. Would the drawing have lost, or gained, if Leech had given us a handsome young guardsman instead of this ugly fellow? He would, at any rate, have made the little fib a little more pardonable. The other figures deserve careful attention – notably, the youth absorbed in the study of natural history.

Servant-Maid: “If you please, mem, could I go out for half an hour to buy a bit of ribbin, mem?”

If there be amongst my readers any who are unfamiliar with Cruikshank’s illustrations of “Oliver Twist,” I advise them to turn to them, where they will find a drawing of Fagin in the condemned cell at Newgate, one of the most awful renderings of agonized despair ever depicted by the hand of an artist. This great work is travestied by Leech in a manner so admirable as to make the travesty take rank with the original. Instead of Fagin, see King Louis Philippe smarting under the failure of his schemes and the impending fall of his dynasty. By the Spanish marriages the veteran trickster destroyed the power which he sought to consolidate.

Domestic troubles and misadventures were represented by Leech in many examples, with a sympathetic humour that never wearies. A party may be assembled for a dinner which is strangely delayed; conversation flags into silence. The host and hostess become uneasy, when a button-boy appears with the ominous “Oh, if you please, ’m, cook’s very sorry, ’m, could she speak to you for a moment?” Something has happened; but we are left in uncertainty as to what it was.

Or the dinner is served, when an alarming announcement is made:

Servant (rushing in): “Oh, goodness gracious, master! There’s the kitchen chimley afire, and two parish ingins a-knocking at the street door.”

One of the happiest of the servant-gal-isms appears this year – the precursor of many excellent tunes on the same string – delightfully illustrative of the vanity which we all share, more or less, with our maids. In the picture that follows, the sight of the old lady’s new bonnet and a convenient looking-glass have provided an opportunity that the pretty servant could not resist. She must see how she looks in it – and behold the result!

Domestic (soliloquizing): “Well, I’m sure, missis had better give this new bonnet to me, instead of sticking such a young-looking thing upon her old shoulders.” (The impudent minx has immediate warning.)

I must refer my readers to Punch’s almanac for 1848, copiously illustrated by Leech, for many admirable examples of his many-sided powers. Alas! my space forbids the reproduction of any of them. Amongst the rest there is one of a gentleman suffering from influenza, which, by the way, seems to have been as prevalent in 1848 as it has been recently, though not so fatal in its effects. Our sufferer is visited by a condoling friend: he sits with his feet in hot water, and, with his hand on the bell-pull, he says, “This is really very kind of you to call. Can I offer you anything? A basin of gruel, or a glass of cough mixture? Don’t say no!”

Another of a rich old lady, who stands before a pyramid of oyster-barrels, all sent to her at Christmas by her poor relations. Another – but I must pause, and again refer my reader to the almanac.

I find yet one more of the “Rising Generation” series quite irresistible. The two little bucks are perfect, and the idea of such a report as that one of them was engaged to the magnificent woman – whose face we long to see – is so ludicrous as almost to reach the sublime of absurdity. Look at the eagerness with which the precocious youth impresses upon his friend the necessity of contradicting the rumour, and the well-bred and considerate way in which the friend receives a communication which does not surprise him. He does not smile at it. There is nothing astonishing in a man’s being in love with such a fine woman, and he will certainly contradict anyone who repeats the report, as his friend desires. If the creatures had been six feet high instead of not so many more inches, they could not have conducted themselves more naturally.

Juvenile: “Oh, Charley, if you hear a report that I am going to be married to that girl in black, you can contradict it. There’s nothing in it.”

1848 witnessed the fall of the French throne and the tottering of others in Europe. It was a terrible time, and though the English throne was safe enough, a great deal of vague alarm existed in this country. The Chartists met in their thousands, and prepared a bill of grievances with signatures, making a document, it was said, some miles long. This petition they announced their intention of presenting to Parliament, accompanied by a procession, which was really to be some miles long; but they reckoned without their host – of opponents. Special constables were enrolled (amongst whom was Louis Napoleon), soldiers were at hand, skilfully hidden by the great Duke, and the Chartist procession was peacefully stopped long before it got to Westminster.

There were firebrands then as now, and a meeting was called by one of them to be held in Trafalgar Square – see how history repeats itself! – where a ragamuffin assembly appeared; so did the police, and nothing came of it except a few broken heads and the inimitable drawings by Leech. How admirable they are!

The person who wanted more liberty, equality, and fraternity than was good for him or anybody else, was a Mr. Cochran, and his adherents were called Cochranites.

Cochranite: “Hooray! Veeve ler liberty!! Harm yourselves!! To the palis!! Down with heverythink!!!!”

In the second picture the Cochranite has collapsed. A stalwart policeman has taken him in hand, and he cries, “Oh, sir – please, sir – it ain’t me, sir. I’m for God save the Queen and Rule Britannier. Boo-hoo! – oh dear! oh dear!” (bursts into tears).

Below we have another result of the agitation, touched in Leech’s happiest manner. A special constable endeavours to arrest an agitator, who evidently objects, and prepares for resistance.

Special Constable: “Now mind, you know – if I kill you, it’s nothing; but if you kill me, by Jove! it’s murder!”

A certain Master Jackey was a great favourite of Leech’s. In an elaborate work this youth’s pranks are chronicled under the heading of “Home for the Holidays.” Whether the hero of those adventures is the same as he who is pictured in the work I present to my readers I know not. In all probability the taste for practical joking which flourished so vigorously in the holiday scenes began, as we see, in the nursery. Master Jackey has been to the play, where he has witnessed the performances of a contortionist, and, emulous of rivalling the professor, he perils the limbs and lives of his brothers and sisters in his operations. We know of the tendency to imitate in all children, but when the propensity shows itself in the imitation of tricks that require long practice before they can be performed with safety, the game, though amusing to the players, may be very dangerous to the played upon. It is to be hoped that the rush of the terrified mother in this capital scene may be in time to save the baby from a perilous fall. The little brothers have already tasted the consequence of Master Jackey’s imitation.

The accompanying drawing was suggested by myself during an after-dinner conversation at a friend’s house. The talk had turned on the difficulty that the pronunciation of certain words would prove to one who had dined not wisely but too well, when it occurred to me that “Plesiosaurus” or “Ichthyosaurus” would be troublesome, and I said so. Leech smiled, and said nothing, but in Punch of the week following his idea of the difficulty appeared.

First Naturalist: “What, the s-s-she-sherpent a-an (hic!) Ich-(hic!) – thyosaurus! Nonshence!”

Second Naturalist: “Who said Ich-(hic!) – Ichthy-o-saurus? I said Plesi-o-(hic!) – saurus plainenuff.”

The cabman who doesn’t know his way about London is exceptional, but he is met with occasionally, and very provoking he is; but to have his little trap-door knocked off its hinges because he takes a wrong turning is a punishment in excess of his fault. The young gentleman passenger is of an impatient turn, and he will find that his impatience will have to be paid for unless the cabman is more good-natured than he looks.

Flunkeiana cannot be omitted in this short summary of Leech’s work, more especially as the first of a long series is one of the best. Nothing can be conceived more perfect than the man and the maid at the seaside – the girl, French from top to toe; the flunkey, a most perfect type of the class.

French Maid: “You like – a – ze – seaside – M’sieu Jean Thomas?”

John Thomas: “Par bokhoo, mamzelle – par bokhoo. I’ve – aw – been so accustomed to – aw – gaiety in town, that I’m – aw – a’most killed with arnwee down here.”

The immortal Briggs made his first appearance in Punch in the year 1849, and with one or two records of his career I regret to say I must close my selected list of Leech’s early works. To say I regret this is to say little, for I am obliged to forego numberless delightful works, many as good as, and some perhaps better than, those I have presented to my readers. Mr. Briggs first appears with newspaper in hand in his snug breakfast-room, listening to a complaint from the housemaid that a slate is off the roof, and the servant’s bedroom in danger of being flooded. Mr. Briggs replies that the sooner it is put to rights the better, before it goes any further – and he will see about it. Mr. Briggs does see about it; he sees the builder, who tells him that “a little compo” is all that is wanted. The drawings show that eight or ten men are required to manage the little compo, much to Mr. Briggs’ astonishment.

In the next scene a huge scaffolding is raised, and a small army of labourers are at work on Mr. Briggs’s roof. A noise enough to wake the dead has awoke Mr. Briggs at the unpleasant hour of five in the morning. Flower-pots and bricks fall past his dressing-room window. He finds “no time has been lost, and that the workpeople have already commenced putting the roof to rights.” The builder would not be true to his craft if he did not improve the occasion and show his employer how easy, now that the workpeople were about, it would be to make certain additions in the shape of a conservatory, etc., to the house. Briggs weakly listens to the voice of the charmer; walls are battered down to enlarge the dining-room, and the entrance-hall is enlarged. Mr. Briggs’s health gives way, and he calls in the doctor, who prescribes horse exercise.

I think it was at one of those never-to-be-forgotten dinners at Egg’s that, the talk having turned upon shooting experiences, Dickens said that the sudden rising of a cock-pheasant under one’s nose was like a firework let off in that uncongenial locality. The following week Leech subjected Mr. Briggs to the startling experience so admirably recorded in the drawing which faces this page.

For a further acquaintance with Mr. Briggs’s performances on horseback, as well as his escapades with gun and fishing-rod, I must content myself with referring those curious on the matters to the pages of Punch, where they will find entertainment that is inexhaustible.

CHAPTER III
MR. PERCIVAL LEIGH AND LEECH

In the death of Mr. Percival Leigh, which took place a short time ago, the last member of the original staff of Punch passed away. Mr. Leigh never married, and died at a very advanced age. I frequently met him in society, where his refined and gentle manners, and his quaintly humorous conversation, were what might have been anticipated from the author of “Pips his Diary,” the “Comic Grammars,” and other contributions to the paper to which he was so long and so faithfully attached. From the days of their fellow-studentship at St. Bartholomew’s (with a short interval), to the time of Leech’s death, a firm friendship existed between these two distinguished men.

Much alike in their sense of humour, they also resembled each other in numberless amiable qualities of heart and mind. Leigh’s pen was as free from personality, and as conspicuous for the gentleness with which it dealt with folly, as Leech’s pencil. In early and late days, when Leech was in trouble, Leigh’s was the hand – amongst others – ever ready to help; and to those who can read between the lines in the paper which Mr. Leigh has contributed to this book, there will be little difficulty in discovering the “friend” who found purchasers for work that the producer was barred (in a double sense) from selling for himself.

I see little or no reason for weakening my assertion that Leech arrived at his supreme eminence without any art education; for the slight mechanical knowledge of the art of drawing upon wood which he acquired from Mr. Orrin Smith, a wood-engraver, is no more worthy the name of art-teaching, than the few lessons in etching given to Leech by George Cruikshank can be called art-education. Following the example of Sir John Millais, Mr. Percival Leigh (to whom, it will be remembered, Millais recommended my predecessor, Mr. Evans, to apply) furnished the following remarks for this memoir.

Said Mr. Leigh: “Orrin Smith has been dead many years. How long Leech was with him I cannot say precisely. Perhaps a twelvemonth or thereabouts. Smith was a sociable and rather a clever man, but according to Leech, occasionally so economical that he would now and then try to get a little gratuitous work out of him. On one occasion Smith asked him to introduce a few figures, so as to put a touch of action into a drawing on wood, meant to illustrate a serious little book, the work of a clergyman. The scene represented was a quiet churchyard. Leech improved it with a group of little boys larking and boxing.

“Of course these embellishments, on discovery, were objected to as painfully incongruous, and had to be cancelled. I forget whether or no they had been actually engraven before they were taken out.”

Thus far Mr. Leigh. I think I can interpret the incongruity. I fancy I can hear Leech say, after previous unrequited sketches, “Oh, hang it! this is too bad. Well, here goes; he shall have a few figures, and I hope he’ll like ’em.”

Mr. Leigh continues: “The post-office envelope was one of Leech’s successes; so were the ‘Comic Histories’ of England and Rome, and the ‘Comic Blackstone’; but his growth in popularity was gradual. He had previously illustrated ‘Jack Brag’ for Bentley, and subsequently various articles for Bentley’s Miscellany, particularly the ‘Ingoldsby Legends,’ as well as other ephemeral works of the same publisher; amongst them the ‘Comic Latin’ and ‘English’ Grammars, and the ‘Children of the Mobility,’ a travesty of the ‘Children of the Nobility,’ long since out of print. He also furnished coloured illustrations to the ‘Fiddle-Faddle Fashion-book,’ a whimsical satire on the fopperies and literary absurdities of the period, also out of print.”

I venture again to interrupt the current of Mr. Leigh’s narrative with a word or two on the “Fiddle-Faddle” book. A copy of it, date 1840, has been lent to me. The literary portion, consisting mainly of a thrilling story of brigand life, the blood-curdling tenor of which may be imagined from the title, “Grabalotti the Bandit; or, The Emerald Monster of the Deep Dell,” is the work of Mr. Leigh. The story opens thus:

“Italia! oh, Italia! blooming birthplace of beauty! land of lazzaroni and loveliness! clime of complines and cruelty, of susceptibility and sacrilege, of roses and revenge! thy bright, blue, boundless skies serene I love; thy verdant vales, volcanoes, vines, and virgins! Thy virgins? ay, thy bright-eyed, dark-haired virgins. I love them – how I love them, though mine, alas! they ne’er can be! And there was one who, in earlier, happier hours, before these locks were – no matter. Let me proceed with the calmness becoming a narrator with my tale.”

And he proceeds “with a vengeance” to let us know that the spokesman of the above is an artist who had “halted in a deep ravine in the Abruzzi (where, on each side, the cliffs frowned like fiends upon the quailing traveller) to transfer to my portable sketch-book a slight souvenir of the celestial scene. Absorbed in my enthralling occupation, I heeded not the approach of a visitant; it was therefore with surprise, not unmingled with alarm, that I was aroused by a tap upon the shoulders, accompanied by the following sarcastic greeting:

“‘Is thy maternal parent, young man, aware of thine absence from home?’

“‘Quite so,’ I replied, in a tremulous tone, anxiously glancing round to behold the speaker.

“My acquaintance with literature – to say nothing of my constant attendance at the opera – at once convinced me that I was in the hands of a brigand.”

Had there been “any possible doubt whatever,” it would have been instantly dispelled; for after “smiling in demoniacal derision,” the disturber of the sketcher said, “deliberately and tranquilly, as he levelled a pistol at my head:

“‘Thy wealth or thy existence!’

“My sole remaining ducat was offered in vain. At the shrill sound of his whistle the crags bristled with bandits, and fifty carbines were pointed at my person. Blue with boiling agony, I made as a last resource the Masonic sign. It succeeded. At another signal every carbine was lowered, and breathless expectation brooded over the heart of its bearer.”

The bandits, however, were not so easily satisfied; for “a murmur of impatience, mingled with discontent, arose, like the billows of emotion, amongst the troop, and some twenty weapons again kissed with their stocks as many manly shoulders.

“‘Back, slaves, for your lives!’ shouted the infuriated Grabalotti, throwing himself in front of me. ‘One moment more, and, by the blood-stained power of the thundering Avalanche, the foremost of you dies!’

“Cowering in cream-like humility, each individual reversed his implement of death – all but one. A ball from the pistol of Grabalotti instantly crashed through his brain. For a moment he writhed in sable pangs; then all was over, and darkness mantled over his impetuosity for ever. Then, turning towards me, the brigand chief gave me a civil invitation to spend the day with him, which, under existing circumstances, I thought it best to accept. On our way I took the opportunity thus furnished me to survey my lawless companion. He was at least six feet and a half, independent of the coverings of his feet, in height; his air was stern and commanding; raven ringlets clustered down to his shoulders. Premature intensity glowed in his volcanic eyes; his nose was Roman, and he wore mustachios. The lines in the lower part of his face were indicative of death-fraught concentration; and the teeth, frequently disclosed by his smile of pervading bitterness, were remarkably white. The gloom of his conical hat was mocked by gay ribands. He wore a jacket of green velvet (an expensive article), lustrously gemmed with gold buttons; and those portions of his dress for which our language has no proper appellation were richly meandered with superior lace. His legs were variously swathed in the manner so characteristic of his profession. The carbine that slept in a snowy belt at his back; the pistols bickering in his girdle; and the stiletto reposing, like candid innocence, in its silver sheath, with its ivory handle protruding from his sash, were all of the most ornamental and valuable description.”

This extraordinary robber and the artist arrive at “the dwelling of the bandit, which was eligibly situate among the most romantic scenery.”

Signor Grabalotti conducted his visitor to a “table groaning with fruit, and supporting six sacramental chalices filled with the richest wine.”

The brigand has made a great haul of prisoners, whose friends have not shown the alacrity in rescuing them required by their captor, who, by way of entertaining his guest, orders them all, to the amount of a dozen, into his presence, and, arranging them in a row “along a trench in the background,” with the assistance of twelve of his men, has them all shot.

“Almost ere the smoke had cleared away, the earth was shovelled over the bodies.

“‘And now,’ said the chief, ‘for a dance in honour of our guest.’

“Four-and-twenty brisk young bandits, clad in jackets, green array, were instantly joined by as many maidens, each wearing the square coiffure, short dress, and petite apron, and otherwise fully attired in the costume of the country. Each robber provided himself with a partner, and a festive dance was performed with great spirit to a popular air.

“Their gaiety was at its height, when suddenly the sound of a distant bell stole with milky gentleness on the ear. In an instant all present fell on their knees, and, with their arms devoutly crossed upon their breasts, raised, in heavenly unison, their hymn of votive praise to the Virgin.”

Here endeth the first chapter of the “Emerald Monster of the Deep Dell.”

As “a satire on the literary absurdities of the day,” to quote its author, this capital fooling could not be surpassed; indeed, to those who remember, as the present writer can distinctly, the effusions in prose and verse – or, as Jerrold called it, “prose and worse” – that more or less filled the pages of the Keepsakes, the Books of Gems and Beauty of a long bygone time, the “Monster of the Deep Dell” is scarcely a caricature.

But I have not yet done with him. The second chapter is devoted to an account in Grabalotti language of the early life and loves of the interesting bandit:

“Rino Grabalotti is my name,” he says. “Italy is my nation; the Deep Dell is my dwelling-place, and – but no! never shall monkish cant pollute the lips to baleful imprecation attuned for ever. Let the blue and hideous glare of the lightning, and the ghastly gleam of the hag-ridden meteor, illumine the deeds of my doing. Growl, ye thunders! Roar, ye tempests! Yell, ye fiends, and howl in hideous harmony a prelude to my tale!”

He then proceeds to inform the artist (who, with an eye for copy, ventures to hint “that an outline of his history would be interesting”) that he was the son of a priest, and born in Naples; and naturally much annoyed by the scandalous irregularity of his birth, he devotes his life to robbing and murdering as many of his fellow-creatures as good fortune places in his hands in the practice of his profession.

But I anticipate. Grabalotti declines to say much about his infancy; he seems to have been pretty often reminded of the scandal of his birth, and as often he registered a vow that, sooner or later, he would close for ever the mouths of the slanderers.

“It was in my sixteenth summer,” he continues, “that I really began to live. Though in years a boy, I was in all else a man. Passion hurtled in my darkening eye, and plunged my heart in lava. I loved; what Italian at my age does not? Yes; I – the ruthless, the scathed, the smouldering, the sanguinary, the Emerald Monster of the Deep Dell – I, even I, gasped with tortuous anguish in the maddening transports of Cupid.”

Giulia is the name of the fair creature who has caused the eruption of this volcanic passion; and on what the bandit-lover calls “an evening of rosy gladness,” he seeks his fair enslaver’s window, guitar in hand. But the voice, “which was the best at a barcarole of any in Naples,” had raised a very few love notes, when a rough voice exclaims:

“‘What dost thou here, spurious offspring of sacrilege?’ accompanying the inquiry by an equally rough salutation from behind (oh, madness!) – ‘begone!’

“Confusion simmered in my brain. Frenzied, I turned; one stroke of my stiletto, and my wounded honour was salved – with gore. It was that of Giulia’s father!”

This sudden death of the author of her being offended Giulia, and she solemnly renounced young Grabalotti for ever. This intimation, conveyed in a mixture of “indignation mingled with scorn,” had an extraordinary effect. Says the lover:

“Twisting in bitterness awhile I lingered, then rushed distracted from the spot, and fled hissing with desperation to the mountains.”

The beauties of the Deep Dell produced no soothing effect on the desperate bitterness that twisted the soul of Grabalotti; he issued from the Dell to “soak and steep his heart in blood.”