‘As for the figuranti, they are like The rest of all that tribe; with here and there A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, The rest are hardly fitted for a fair; There’s one, though tall and stiffer than a pike, Yet has a sentimental kind of air Which might go far, but she don’t dance with vigour; The more ’s the pity, with her face and figure.

‘As for the men, they are a middling set; The musico is but a crack’d old basin, But being qualified in one way yet, May the seraglio do to set his face in, And as a servant some preferment get; His singing I no further trust can place in: From all the Pope makes yearly ’twould perplex To find three perfect pipes of the third sex.

‘The tenor’s voice is spoilt by affectation, And for the bass, the beast can only bellow; In fact, he had no singing education, An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow; But being the prima donna’s near relation, Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow, They hired him, though to hear him you’d believe An ass was practising recitative.

‘’Twould not become myself to dwell upon My own merits, and though young—I see, Sir—you Have got a travell’d air, which speaks you one To whom the opera is by no means new: You’ve heard of Raucocanti?—I’m the man; The time may come when you may hear me too; You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, But next, when I’m engaged to sing there—do go.

‘Our baritone I almost had forgot, A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit; With graceful action, science not a jot, A voice of no great compass, and not sweet, He always is complaining of his lot, Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street; In lovers’ parts his passion more to breathe, Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth.’

Here Raucocanti’s eloquent recital Was interrupted by the pirate crew, Who came at stated moments to invite all The captives back to their sad berths; each threw A rueful glance upon the waves (which bright all From the blue skies derived a double blue, Dancing all free and happy in the sun), And then went down the hatchway one by one.

They heard next day—that in the Dardanelles, Waiting for his Sublimity’s firman, The most imperative of sovereign spells, Which every body does without who can, More to secure them in their naval cells, Lady to lady, well as man to man, Were to be chain’d and lotted out per couple, For the slave market of Constantinople.

It seems when this allotment was made out, There chanced to be an odd male, and odd female, Who (after some discussion and some doubt, If the soprano might be deem’d to be male, They placed him o’er the women as a scout) Were link’d together, and it happen’d the male Was Juan,—who, an awkward thing at his age, Pair’d off with a Bacchante blooming visage.

With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain’d The tenor; these two hated with a hate Found only on the stage, and each more pain’d With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate; Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain’d, Instead of bearing up without debate, That each pull’d different ways with many an oath, ‘Arcades ambo,’ id est—blackguards both.

Juan’s companion was a Romagnole, But bred within the March of old Ancona, With eyes that look’d into the very soul (And other chief points of a ‘bella donna’), Bright—and as black and burning as a coal; And through her dear brunette complexion shone Great wish to please—a most attractive dower, Especially when added to the power.

But all that power was wasted upon him, For sorrow o’er each sense held stern command; Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim; And though thus chain’d, as natural her hand Touch’d his, nor that—nor any handsome limb (And she had some not easy to withstand) Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle; Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little.

No matter; we should ne’er too much enquire, But facts are facts: no knight could be more true, And firmer faith no ladye—love desire; We will omit the proofs, save one or two: ’Tis said no one in hand ‘can hold a fire By thought of frosty Caucasus;’ but few, I really think; yet Juan’s then ordeal Was more triumphant, and not much less real.

Here I might enter on a chaste description, Having withstood temptation in my youth, But hear that several people take exception At the first two books having too much truth; Therefore I’ll make Don Juan leave the ship soon, Because the publisher declares, in sooth, Through needles’ eyes it easier for the camel is To pass, than those two cantos into families.

’Tis all the same to me; I’m fond of yielding, And therefore leave them to the purer page Of Smollett, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, Who say strange things for so correct an age; I once had great alacrity in wielding My pen, and liked poetic war to wage, And recollect the time when all this cant Would have provoked remarks which now it shan’t.

As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble; But at this hour I wish to part in peace, Leaving such to the literary rabble: Whether my verse’s fame be doom’d to cease While the right hand which wrote it still is able, Or of some centuries to take a lease, The grass upon my grave will grow as long, And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song.

Of poets who come down to us through distance Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of Fame, Life seems the smallest portion of existence; Where twenty ages gather o’er a name, ’Tis as a snowball which derives assistance From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow; But, after all, ’tis nothing but cold snow.

And so great names are nothing more than nominal, And love of glory ’s but an airy lust, Too often in its fury overcoming all Who would as ’twere identify their dust From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all, Leaves nothing till ‘the coming of the just’— Save change: I’ve stood upon Achilles’ tomb, And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome.

The very generations of the dead Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, Until the memory of an age is fled, And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring’s doom: Where are the epitaphs our fathers read? Save a few glean’d from the sepulchral gloom Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath, And lose their own in universal death.

I canter by the spot each afternoon Where perish’d in his fame the hero-boy, Who lived too long for men, but died too soon For human vanity, the young De Foix! A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn, But which neglect is hastening to destroy, Records Ravenna’s carnage on its face, While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.

I pass each day where Dante’s bones are laid: A little cupola, more neat than solemn, Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid To the bard’s tomb, and not the warrior’s column. The time must come, when both alike decay’d, The chieftain’s trophy, and the poet’s volume, Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth, Before Pelides’ death, or Homer’s birth.

With human blood that column was cemented, With human filth that column is defiled, As if the peasant’s coarse contempt were vented To show his loathing of the spot he soil’d: Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild Instinct of gore and glory earth has known Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone.

Yet there will still be bards: though fame is smoke, Its fumes are frankincense to human thought; And the unquiet feelings, which first woke Song in the world, will seek what then they sought; As on the beach the waves at last are broke, Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought Dash into poetry, which is but passion, Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion.

If in the course of such a life as was At once adventurous and contemplative, Men, who partake all passions as they pass, Acquire the deep and bitter power to give Their images again as in a glass, And in such colours that they seem to live; You may do right forbidding them to show ’em, But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem.

O! ye, who make the fortunes of all books! Benign Ceruleans of the second sex! Who advertise new poems by your looks, Your ‘imprimatur’ will ye not annex? What! must I go to the oblivious cooks, Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks? Ah! must I then the only minstrel be, Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea!

What! can I prove ‘a lion’ then no more? A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling? To bear the compliments of many a bore, And sigh, ‘I can’t get out,’ like Yorick’s starling; Why then I’ll swear, as poet Wordy swore (Because the world won’t read him, always snarling), That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery, Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie.

O! ‘darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,’ As some one somewhere sings about the sky, And I, ye learned ladies, say of you; They say your stockings are so (Heaven knows why, I have examined few pair of that hue); Blue as the garters which serenely lie Round the Patrician left-legs, which adorn The festal midnight, and the levee morn.

Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures— But times are alter’d since, a rhyming lover, You read my stanzas, and I read your features: And—but no matter, all those things are over; Still I have no dislike to learned natures, For sometimes such a world of virtues cover; I knew one woman of that purple school, The loveliest, chastest, best, but—quite a fool.

Humboldt, ‘the first of travellers,’ but not The last, if late accounts be accurate, Invented, by some name I have forgot, As well as the sublime discovery’s date, An airy instrument, with which he sought To ascertain the atmospheric state, By measuring ‘the intensity of blue:’ O, Lady Daphne! let me measure you!

But to the narrative:—The vessel bound With slaves to sell off in the capital, After the usual process, might be found At anchor under the seraglio wall; Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound, Were landed in the market, one and all, And there with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians, Bought up for different purposes and passions.

Some went off dearly; fifteen hundred dollars For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given, Warranted virgin; beauty’s brightest colours Had deck’d her out in all the hues of heaven: Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers, Who bade on till the hundreds reach’d eleven; But when the offer went beyond, they knew ’Twas for the Sultan, and at once withdrew.

Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price Which the West Indian market scarce would bring; Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice What ’twas ere Abolition; and the thing Need not seem very wonderful, for vice Is always much more splendid than a king: The virtues, even the most exalted, Charity, Are saving—vice spares nothing for a rarity.

But for the destiny of this young troop, How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews, How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, And others rose to the command of crews As renegadoes; while in hapless group, Hoping no very old vizier might choose, The females stood, as one by one they pick’d ’em, To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim:

All this must be reserved for further song; Also our hero’s lot, howe’er unpleasant (Because this Canto has become too long), Must be postponed discreetly for the present; I’m sensible redundancy is wrong, But could not for the muse of me put less in ’t: And now delay the progress of Don Juan, Till what is call’d in Ossian the fifth duan.

[Illustration]

CANTO THE FIFTH.

When amatory poets sing their loves In liquid lines mellifluously bland, And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves, They little think what mischief is in hand; The greater their success the worse it proves, As Ovid’s verse may give to understand; Even Petrarch’s self, if judged with due severity, Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity.

I therefore do denounce all amorous writing, Except in such a way as not to attract; Plain—simple—short, and by no means inviting, But with a moral to each error tack’d, Form’d rather for instructing than delighting, And with all passions in their turn attack’d; Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill, This poem will become a moral model.

The European with the Asian shore Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream Here and there studded with a seventy-four; Sophia’s cupola with golden gleam; The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar; The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream, Far less describe, present the very view Which charm’d the charming Mary Montagu.

I have a passion for the name of ‘Mary,’ For once it was a magic sound to me; And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be; All feelings changed, but this was last to vary, A spell from which even yet I am not quite free: But I grow sad—and let a tale grow cold, Which must not be pathetically told.

The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave Broke foaming o’er the blue Symplegades; ’Tis a grand sight from off ‘the Giant’s Grave To watch the progress of those rolling seas Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease; There’s not a sea the passenger e’er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

’Twas a raw day of Autumn’s bleak beginning, When nights are equal, but not so the days; The Parcae then cut short the further spinning Of seamen’s fates, and the loud tempests raise The waters, and repentance for past sinning In all, who o’er the great deep take their ways: They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don’t; Because if drown’d, they can’t—if spared, they won’t.

A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation, And age, and sex, were in the market ranged; Each bevy with the merchant in his station: Poor creatures! their good looks were sadly changed. All save the blacks seem’d jaded with vexation, From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged; The negroes more philosophy display’d,— Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay’d.

Juan was juvenile, and thus was full, As most at his age are, of hope and health; Yet I must own he looked a little dull, And now and then a tear stole down by stealth; Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull His spirit down; and then the loss of wealth, A mistress, and such comfortable quarters, To be put up for auction amongst Tartars,

Were things to shake a stoic; ne’ertheless, Upon the whole his carriage was serene: His figure, and the splendour of his dress, Of which some gilded remnants still were seen, Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess He was above the vulgar by his mien; And then, though pale, he was so very handsome; And then—they calculated on his ransom.

Like a backgammon board the place was dotted With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale, Though rather more irregularly spotted: Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. It chanced amongst the other people lotted, A man of thirty rather stout and hale, With resolution in his dark grey eye, Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy.

He had an English look; that is, was square In make, of a complexion white and ruddy, Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair, And, it might be from thought or toil or study, An open brow a little mark’d with care: One arm had on a bandage rather bloody; And there he stood with such sang-froid, that greater Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator.

But seeing at his elbow a mere lad, Of a high spirit evidently, though At present weigh’d down by a doom which had O’erthrown even men, he soon began to show A kind of blunt compassion for the sad Lot of so young a partner in the woe, Which for himself he seem’d to deem no worse Than any other scrape, a thing of course.

‘My boy!’ said he, ‘amidst this motley crew Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not, All ragamuffins differing but in hue, With whom it is our luck to cast our lot, The only gentlemen seem I and you; So let us be acquainted, as we ought: If I could yield you any consolation, ’Twould give me pleasure.—Pray, what is your nation?’

When Juan answer’d—‘Spanish!’ he replied, ‘I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek; Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed: Fortune has play’d you here a pretty freak, But that ’s her way with all men, till they’re tried; But never mind,—she’ll turn, perhaps, next week; She has served me also much the same as you, Except that I have found it nothing new.’

‘Pray, sir,’ said Juan, ‘if I may presume, What brought you here?’—‘Oh! nothing very rare— Six Tartars and a drag-chain.’—‘To this doom But what conducted, if the question’s fair, Is that which I would learn.’—‘I served for some Months with the Russian army here and there, And taking lately, by Suwarrow’s bidding, A town, was ta’en myself instead of Widdin.’

‘Have you no friends?’—‘I had—but, by God’s blessing, Have not been troubled with them lately. Now I have answer’d all your questions without pressing, And you an equal courtesy should show.’ ‘Alas!’ said Juan, ‘’twere a tale distressing, And long besides.’—‘Oh! if ’tis really so, You’re right on both accounts to hold your tongue; A sad tale saddens doubly, when ’tis long.

‘But droop not: Fortune at your time of life, Although a female moderately fickle, Will hardly leave you (as she ’s not your wife) For any length of days in such a pickle. To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle: Men are the sport of circumstances, when The circumstances seem the sport of men.’

‘’Tis not,’ said Juan, ‘for my present doom I mourn, but for the past;—I loved a maid:’— He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom; A single tear upon his eyelash staid A moment, and then dropp’d; ‘but to resume, ’Tis not my present lot, as I have said, Which I deplore so much; for I have borne Hardships which have the hardiest overworn,

‘On the rough deep. But this last blow—’ and here He stopp’d again, and turn’d away his face. ‘Ay,’ quoth his friend, ‘I thought it would appear That there had been a lady in the case; And these are things which ask a tender tear, Such as I, too, would shed if in your place: I cried upon my first wife’s dying day, And also when my second ran away:

‘My third—’—‘Your third!’ quoth Juan, turning round; ‘You scarcely can be thirty: have you three?’ ‘No—only two at present above ground: Surely ’tis nothing wonderful to see One person thrice in holy wedlock bound!’ ‘Well, then, your third,’ said Juan; ‘what did she? She did not run away, too,—did she, sir?’ ‘No, faith.’—‘What then?’—‘I ran away from her.’

‘You take things coolly, sir,’ said Juan. ‘Why,’ Replied the other, ‘what can a man do? There still are many rainbows in your sky, But mine have vanish’d. All, when life is new, Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high; But time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.

‘’Tis true, it gets another bright and fresh, Or fresher, brighter; but the year gone through, This skin must go the way, too, of all flesh, Or sometimes only wear a week or two;— Love ’s the first net which spreads its deadly mesh; Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days, Where still we flutter on for pence or praise.’

‘All this is very fine, and may be true,’ Said Juan; ‘but I really don’t see how It betters present times with me or you.’ ‘No?’ quoth the other; ‘yet you will allow By setting things in their right point of view, Knowledge, at least, is gain’d; for instance, now, We know what slavery is, and our disasters May teach us better to behave when masters.’

‘Would we were masters now, if but to try Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here,’ Said Juan,—swallowing a heart-burning sigh: ‘Heaven help the scholar whom his fortune sends here!’ ‘Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by,’ Rejoin’d the other, when our bad luck mends here; Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us) I wish to God that somebody would buy us!

‘But after all, what is our present state? ’Tis bad, and may be better—all men’s lot: Most men are slaves, none more so than the great, To their own whims and passions, and what not; Society itself, which should create Kindness, destroys what little we had got: To feel for none is the true social art Of the world’s stoics—men without a heart.’

Just now a black old neutral personage Of the third sex stept up, and peering over The captives, seem’d to mark their looks and age, And capabilities, as to discover If they were fitted for the purposed cage: No lady e’er is ogled by a lover, Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor,

As is a slave by his intended bidder. ’Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext’rous; some by features Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, Some by a place—as tend their years or natures; The most by ready cash—but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.

The eunuch, having eyed them o’er with care, Turn’d to the merchant, and begun to bid First but for one, and after for the pair; They haggled, wrangled, swore, too—so they did! As though they were in a mere Christian fair Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid; So that their bargain sounded like a battle For this superior yoke of human cattle.

At last they settled into simple grumbling, And pulling out reluctant purses, and Turning each piece of silver o’er, and tumbling Some down, and weighing others in their hand, And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling, Until the sum was accurately scann’d, And then the merchant giving change, and signing Receipts in full, began to think of dining.

I wonder if his appetite was good? Or, if it were, if also his digestion? Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, And conscience ask a curious sort of question, About the right divine how far we should Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprest one, I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four.

Voltaire says ‘No:’ he tells you that Candide Found life most tolerable after meals; He ’s wrong—unless man were a pig, indeed, Repletion rather adds to what he feels, Unless he ’s drunk, and then no doubt he ’s freed From his own brain’s oppression while it reels. Of food I think with Philip’s son, or rather Ammon’s (ill pleased with one world and one father);

I think with Alexander, that the act Of eating, with another act or two, Makes us feel our mortality in fact Redoubled; when a roast and a ragout, And fish, and soup, by some side dishes back’d, Can give us either pain or pleasure, who Would pique himself on intellects, whose use Depends so much upon the gastric juice?

The other evening (’twas on Friday last)— This is a fact and no poetic fable— Just as my great coat was about me cast, My hat and gloves still lying on the table, I heard a shot—’twas eight o’clock scarce past— And, running out as fast as I was able, I found the military commandant Stretch’d in the street, and able scarce to pant.

Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad, They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there To perish on the pavement: so I had Him borne into the house and up the stair, And stripp’d and look’d to—But why should I ad More circumstances? vain was every care; The man was gone: in some Italian quarrel Kill’d by five bullets from an old gun-barrel.

I gazed upon him, for I knew him well; And though I have seen many corpses, never Saw one, whom such an accident befell, So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, and liver, He seem’d to sleep,—for you could scarcely tell (As he bled inwardly, no hideous river Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead: So as I gazed on him, I thought or said—

‘Can this be death? then what is life or death? Speak!’ but he spoke not: ‘Wake!’ but still he slept:— ‘But yesterday and who had mightier breath? A thousand warriors by his word were kept In awe: he said, as the centurion saith, “Go,” and he goeth; “come,” and forth he stepp’d. The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb— And now nought left him but the muffled drum.’

And they who waited once and worshipp’d—they With their rough faces throng’d about the bed To gaze once more on the commanding clay Which for the last, though not the first, time bled: And such an end! that he who many a day Had faced Napoleon’s foes until they fled,— The foremost in the charge or in the sally, Should now be butcher’d in a civic alley.

The scars of his old wounds were near his new, Those honourable scars which brought him fame; And horrid was the contrast to the view— But let me quit the theme; as such things claim Perhaps even more attention than is due From me: I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same) To try if I could wrench aught out of death Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith;

But it was all a mystery. Here we are, And there we go:—but where? five bits of lead, Or three, or two, or one, send very far! And is this blood, then, form’d but to be shed? Can every element our elements mar? And air—earth—water—fire live—and we dead? We whose minds comprehend all things? No more; But let us to the story as before.

The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, Embark’d himself and them, and off they went thence As fast as oars could pull and water float; They look’d like persons being led to sentence, Wondering what next, till the caique was brought Up in a little creek below a wall O’ertopp’d with cypresses, dark-green and tall.

Here their conductor tapping at the wicket Of a small iron door, ’twas open’d, and He led them onward, first through a low thicket Flank’d by large groves, which tower’d on either hand: They almost lost their way, and had to pick it— For night was closing ere they came to land. The eunuch made a sign to those on board, Who row’d off, leaving them without a word.

As they were plodding on their winding way Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth (Of which I might have a good deal to say, There being no such profusion in the North Of oriental plants, ‘et cetera,’ But that of late your scribblers think it worth Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works Because one poet travell’d ’mongst the Turks)—

As they were threading on their way, there came Into Don Juan’s head a thought, which he Whisper’d to his companion:—’twas the same Which might have then occurr’d to you or me. ‘Methinks,’ said he, ‘it would be no great shame If we should strike a stroke to set us free; Let ’s knock that old black fellow on the head, And march away—’twere easier done than said.’

‘Yes,’ said the other, ‘and when done, what then? How get out? how the devil got we in? And when we once were fairly out, and when From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin, To-morrow ’d see us in some other den, And worse off than we hitherto have been; Besides, I’m hungry, and just now would take, Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak.

‘We must be near some place of man’s abode;— For the old negro’s confidence in creeping, With his two captives, by so queer a road, Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping; A single cry would bring them all abroad: ’Tis therefore better looking before leaping— And there, you see, this turn has brought us through, By Jove, a noble palace!—lighted too.’

It was indeed a wide extensive building Which open’d on their view, and o’er the front There seem’d to be besprent a deal of gilding And various hues, as is the Turkish wont,— A gaudy taste; for they are little skill’d in The arts of which these lands were once the font: Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen New painted, or a pretty opera-scene.

And nearer as they came, a genial savour Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus, Things which in hungry mortals’ eyes find favour, Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause, And put himself upon his good behaviour: His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, Said, ‘In Heaven’s name let’s get some supper now, And then I’m with you, if you’re for a row.’

Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, Some to men’s feelings, others to their reason; The last of these was never much the fashion, For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, But more or less continue still to tease on, With arguments according to their ‘forte;’ But no one ever dreams of being short.—

But I digress: of all appeals,—although I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling,—no Method ’s more sure at moments to take hold Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow More tender, as we every day behold, Than that all-softening, overpowering knell, The tocsin of the soul—the dinner-bell.

Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine; And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard No Christian knoll to table, saw no line Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared, Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, And gazed around them to the left and right With the prophetic eye of appetite.

And giving up all notions of resistance, They follow’d close behind their sable guide, Who little thought that his own crack’d existence Was on the point of being set aside: He motion’d them to stop at some small distance, And knocking at the gate, ’twas open’d wide, And a magnificent large hall display’d The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade.

I won’t describe; description is my forte, But every fool describes in these bright days His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise— Death to his publisher, to him ’tis sport; While Nature, tortured twenty thousand ways, Resigns herself with exemplary patience To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations.

Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted Upon their hams, were occupied at chess; Others in monosyllable talk chatted, And some seem’d much in love with their own dress. And divers smoked superb pipes decorated With amber mouths of greater price or less; And several strutted, others slept, and some Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.

As the black eunuch enter’d with his brace Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes A moment without slackening from their pace; But those who sate ne’er stirr’d in anywise: One or two stared the captives in the face, Just as one views a horse to guess his price; Some nodded to the negro from their station, But no one troubled him with conversation.

He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping, On through a farther range of goodly rooms, Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping, A marble fountain echoes through the glooms Of night which robe the chamber, or where popping Some female head most curiously presumes To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, As wondering what the devil a noise that is.

Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls Gave light enough to hint their farther way, But not enough to show the imperial halls, In all the flashing of their full array; Perhaps there’s nothing—I’ll not say appals, But saddens more by night as well as day, Than an enormous room without a soul To break the lifeless splendour of the whole.

Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing: In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, There solitude, we know, has her full growth in The spots which were her realms for evermore; But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in More modern buildings and those built of yore, A kind of death comes o’er us all alone, Seeing what ’s meant for many with but one.

A neat, snug study on a winter’s night, A book, friend, single lady, or a glass Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite, Are things which make an English evening pass; Though certes by no means so grand a sight As is a theatre lit up by gas. I pass my evenings in long galleries solely, And that ’s the reason I’m so melancholy.

Alas! man makes that great which makes him little: I grant you in a church ’tis very well: What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell Their names who rear’d it; but huge houses fit ill— And huge tombs worse—mankind, since Adam fell: Methinks the story of the tower of Babel Might teach them this much better than I’m able.

Babel was Nimrod’s hunting-box, and then A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men, Reign’d, till one summer’s day he took to grazing, And Daniel tamed the lions in their den, The people’s awe and admiration raising; ’Twas famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, And the calumniated queen Semiramis.

That injured Queen by chroniclers so coarse Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy) Of an improper friendship for her horse (Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy): This monstrous tale had probably its source (For such exaggerations here and there I see) In writing ‘Courser’ by mistake for ‘Courier:’ I wish the case could come before a jury here.

But to resume,—should there be (what may not Be in these days?) some infidels, who don’t, Because they can’t find out the very spot Of that same Babel, or because they won’t (Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks has got, And written lately two memoirs upon’t), Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who Must be believed, though they believe not you,

Yet let them think that Horace has exprest Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, Who give themselves to architecture wholly; We know where things and men must end at best: A moral (like all morals) melancholy, And ‘Et sepulchri immemor struis domos’ Shows that we build when we should but entomb us.

At last they reach’d a quarter most retired, Where echo woke as if from a long slumber; Though full of all things which could be desired, One wonder’d what to do with such a number Of articles which nobody required; Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber With furniture an exquisite apartment, Which puzzled Nature much to know what Art meant.

It seem’d, however, but to open on A range or suite of further chambers, which Might lead to heaven knows where; but in this one The movables were prodigally rich: Sofas ’twas half a sin to sit upon, So costly were they; carpets every stitch Of workmanship so rare, they made you wish You could glide o’er them like a golden fish.

The black, however, without hardly deigning A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in wonder, Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining, As if the milky way their feet was under With all its stars; and with a stretch attaining A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder— In that remote recess which you may see— Or if you don’t the fault is not in me,—

I wish to be perspicuous; and the black, I say, unlocking the recess, pull’d forth A quantity of clothes fit for the back Of any Mussulman, whate’er his worth; And of variety there was no lack— And yet, though I have said there was no dearth, He chose himself to point out what he thought Most proper for the Christians he had bought.

The suit he thought most suitable to each Was, for the elder and the stouter, first A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, And trousers not so tight that they would burst, But such as fit an Asiatic breech; A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst, Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy; In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy.

While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend, Hinted the vast advantages which they Might probably attain both in the end, If they would but pursue the proper way Which fortune plainly seem’d to recommend; And then he added, that he needs must say, ‘’Twould greatly tend to better their condition, If they would condescend to circumcision.

‘For his own part, he really should rejoice To see them true believers, but no less Would leave his proposition to their choice.’ The other, thanking him for this excess Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice In such a trifle, scarcely could express ‘Sufficiently’ (he said) ‘his approbation Of all the customs of this polish’d nation.

‘For his own share—he saw but small objection To so respectable an ancient rite; And, after swallowing down a slight refection, For which he own’d a present appetite, He doubted not a few hours of reflection Would reconcile him to the business quite.’ ‘Will it?’ said Juan, sharply: ‘Strike me dead, But they as soon shall circumcise my head!

‘Cut off a thousand heads, before—’—‘Now, pray,’ Replied the other, ‘do not interrupt: You put me out in what I had to say. Sir!—as I said, as soon as I have supt, I shall perpend if your proposal may Be such as I can properly accept; Provided always your great goodness still Remits the matter to our own free-will.’

Baba eyed Juan, and said, ‘Be so good As dress yourself—’ and pointed out a suit In which a Princess with great pleasure would Array her limbs; but Juan standing mute, As not being in a masquerading mood, Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot; And when the old negro told him to ‘Get ready,’ Replied, ‘Old gentleman, I’m not a lady.’

‘What you may be, I neither know nor care,’ Said Baba; ‘but pray do as I desire: I have no more time nor many words to spare.’ ‘At least,’ said Juan, ‘sure I may enquire The cause of this odd travesty?’—‘Forbear,’ Said Baba, ‘to be curious; ’twill transpire, No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season: I have no authority to tell the reason.’

‘Then if I do,’ said Juan, ‘I’ll be—’—‘Hold!’ Rejoin’d the negro, ‘pray be not provoking; This spirit ’s well, but it may wax too bold, And you will find us not top fond of joking.’ ‘What, sir!’ said Juan, ‘shall it e’er be told That I unsex’d my dress?’ But Baba, stroking The things down, said, ‘Incense me, and I call Those who will leave you of no sex at all.

‘I offer you a handsome suit of clothes: A woman’s, true; but then there is a cause Why you should wear them.’—‘What, though my soul loathes The effeminate garb?’—thus, after a short pause, Sigh’d Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, ‘What the devil shall I do with all this gauze?’ Thus he profanely term’d the finest lace Which e’er set off a marriage-morning face.

And then he swore; and, sighing, on he slipp’d A pair of trousers of flesh-colour’d silk; Next with a virgin zone he was equipp’d, Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk; But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp’d, Which—as we say—or, as the Scotch say, whilk (The rhyme obliges me to this; sometimes Monarchs are less imperative than rhymes)—

Whilk, which (or what you please), was owing to His garment’s novelty, and his being awkward: And yet at last he managed to get through His toilet, though no doubt a little backward: The negro Baba help’d a little too, When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard; And, wrestling both his arms into a gown, He paused, and took a survey up and down.

One difficulty still remain’d—his hair Was hardly long enough; but Baba found So many false long tresses all to spare, That soon his head was most completely crown’d, After the manner then in fashion there; And this addition with such gems was bound As suited the ensemble of his toilet, While Baba made him comb his head and oil it.

And now being femininely all array’d, With some small aid from scissors, paint, and tweezers, He look’d in almost all respects a maid, And Baba smilingly exclaim’d, ‘You see, sirs, A perfect transformation here display’d; And now, then, you must come along with me, sirs, That is—the Lady:’ clapping his hands twice, Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice.

‘You, sir,’ said Baba, nodding to the one, ‘Will please to accompany those gentlemen To supper; but you, worthy Christian nun, Will follow me: no trifling, sir; for when I say a thing, it must at once be done. What fear you? think you this a lion’s den? Why, ’tis a palace; where the truly wise Anticipate the Prophet’s paradise.

‘You fool! I tell you no one means you harm.’ ‘So much the better,’ Juan said, ‘for them; Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, Which is not quite so light as you may deem. I yield thus far; but soon will break the charm If any take me for that which I seem: So that I trust for everybody’s sake, That this disguise may lead to no mistake.’

‘Blockhead! come on, and see,’ quoth Baba; while Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a smile Upon the metamorphosis in view,— ‘Farewell!’ they mutually exclaim’d: ‘this soil Seems fertile in adventures strange and new; One ’s turn’d half Mussulman, and one a maid, By this old black enchanter’s unsought aid.’

‘Farewell!’ said Juan: ‘should we meet no more, I wish you a good appetite.’—‘Farewell!’ Replied the other; ‘though it grieves me sore; When we next meet we’ll have a tale to tell: We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. Keep your good name; though Eve herself once fell.’ ‘Nay,’ quoth the maid, ‘the Sultan’s self shan’t carry me, Unless his highness promises to marry me.

And thus they parted, each by separate doors; Baba led Juan onward room by room Through glittering galleries and o’er marble floors, Till a gigantic portal through the gloom, Haughty and huge, along the distance lowers; And wafted far arose a rich perfume: It seem’d as though they came upon a shrine, For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine.

The giant door was broad, and bright, and high, Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise; Warriors thereon were battling furiously; Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish’d lies; There captives led in triumph droop the eye, And in perspective many a squadron flies: It seems the work of times before the line Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine.

This massy portal stood at the wide close Of a huge hall, and on its either side Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose, Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied In mockery to the enormous gate which rose O’er them in almost pyramidic pride: The gate so splendid was in all its features, You never thought about those little creatures,

Until you nearly trod on them, and then You started back in horror to survey The wondrous hideousness of those small men, Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor grey, But an extraneous mixture, which no pen Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may; They were mis-shapen pigmies, deaf and dumb— Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum.

Their duty was—for they were strong, and though They look’d so little, did strong things at times— To ope this door, which they could really do, The hinges being as smooth as Rogers’ rhymes; And now and then, with tough strings of the bow, As is the custom of those Eastern climes, To give some rebel Pacha a cravat; For mutes are generally used for that.

They spoke by signs—that is, not spoke at all; And looking like two incubi, they glared As Baba with his fingers made them fall To heaving back the portal folds: it scared Juan a moment, as this pair so small With shrinking serpent optics on him stared; It was as if their little looks could poison Or fascinate whome’er they fix’d their eyes on.

Before they enter’d, Baba paused to hint To Juan some slight lessons as his guide: ‘If you could just contrive,’ he said, ‘to stint That somewhat manly majesty of stride, ’Twould be as well, and (though there’s not much in ’t) To swing a little less from side to side, Which has at times an aspect of the oddest;— And also could you look a little modest,

‘’Twould be convenient; for these mutes have eyes Like needles, which may pierce those petticoats; And if they should discover your disguise, You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats; And you and I may chance, ere morning rise, To find our way to Marmora without boats, Stitch’d up in sacks—a mode of navigation A good deal practised here upon occasion.’

With this encouragement, he led the way Into a room still nobler than the last; A rich confusion form’d a disarray In such sort, that the eye along it cast Could hardly carry anything away, Object on object flash’d so bright and fast; A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter, Magnificently mingled in a litter.

Wealth had done wonders—taste not much; such things Occur in Orient palaces, and even In the more chasten’d domes of Western kings (Of which I have also seen some six or seven), Where I can’t say or gold or diamond flings Great lustre, there is much to be forgiven; Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures, On which I cannot pause to make my strictures.

In this imperial hall, at distance lay Under a canopy, and there reclined Quite in a confidential queenly way, A lady; Baba stopp’d, and kneeling sign’d To Juan, who though not much used to pray, Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind, What all this meant: while Baba bow’d and bended His head, until the ceremony ended.

The lady rising up with such an air As Venus rose with from the wave, on them Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem; And raising up an arm as moonlight fair, She sign’d to Baba, who first kiss’d the hem Of her deep purple robe, and speaking low, Pointed to Juan who remain’d below.

Her presence was as lofty as her state; Her beauty of that overpowering kind, Whose force description only would abate: I’d rather leave it much to your own mind, Than lessen it by what I could relate Of forms and features; it would strike you blind Could I do justice to the full detail; So, luckily for both, my phrases fail.

Thus much however I may add,—her years Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs; But there are forms which Time to touch forbears, And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things, Such as was Mary’s Queen of Scots; true—tears And love destroy; and sapping sorrow wrings Charms from the charmer, yet some never grow Ugly; for instance—Ninon de l’Enclos.

She spake some words to her attendants, who Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, And were all clad alike; like Juan, too, Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen; They form’d a very nymph-like looking crew, Which might have call’d Diana’s chorus ‘cousin,’ As far as outward show may correspond; I won’t be bail for anything beyond.

They bow’d obeisance and withdrew, retiring, But not by the same door through which came in Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring, At some small distance, all he saw within This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring Marvel and praise; for both or none things win; And I must say, I ne’er could see the very Great happiness of the ‘Nil Admirari.’

‘Not to admire is all the art I know (Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of speech) To make men happy, or to keep them so’ (So take it in the very words of Creech)— Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago; And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach From his translation; but had none admired, Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired?

Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, Motion’d to Juan to approach, and then A second time desired him to kneel down, And kiss the lady’s foot; which maxim when He heard repeated, Juan with a frown Drew himself up to his full height again, And said, ‘It grieved him, but he could not stoop To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope.’

Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride, Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat He mutter’d (but the last was given aside) About a bow-string—quite in vain; not yet Would Juan bend, though ’twere to Mahomet’s bride: There’s nothing in the world like etiquette In kingly chambers or imperial halls, As also at the race and county balls.

He stood like Atlas, with a world of words About his ears, and nathless would not bend: The blood of all his line ’s Castilian lords Boil’d in his veins, and rather than descend To stain his pedigree a thousand swords A thousand times of him had made an end; At length perceiving the ‘foot’ could not stand, Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand.

Here was an honourable compromise, A half-way house of diplomatic rest, Where they might meet in much more peaceful guise; And Juan now his willingness exprest To use all fit and proper courtesies, Adding, that this was commonest and best, For through the South the custom still commands The gentleman to kiss the lady’s hands.

And he advanced, though with but a bad grace, Though on more thorough-bred or fairer fingers No lips e’er left their transitory trace; On such as these the lip too fondly lingers, And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace, As you will see, if she you love shall bring hers In contact; and sometimes even a fair stranger’s An almost twelvemonth’s constancy endangers.

The lady eyed him o’er and o’er, and bade Baba retire, which he obey’d in style, As if well used to the retreating trade; And taking hints in good part all the while, He whisper’d Juan not to be afraid, And looking on him with a sort of smile, Took leave, with such a face of satisfaction As good men wear who have done a virtuous action.

When he was gone, there was a sudden change: I know not what might be the lady’s thought, But o’er her bright brow flash’d a tumult strange, And into her dear cheek the blood was brought, Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range The verge of Heaven; and in her large eyes wrought, A mixture of sensations might be scann’d, Of half voluptuousness and half command.

Her form had all the softness of her sex, Her features all the sweetness of the devil, When he put on the cherub to perplex Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil; The sun himself was scarce more free from specks Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil; Yet, somehow, there was something somewhere wanting, As if she rather order’d than was granting.

Something imperial, or imperious, threw A chain o’er all she did; that is, a chain Was thrown as ’twere about the neck of you,— And rapture’s self will seem almost a pain With aught which looks like despotism in view: Our souls at least are free, and ’tis in vain We would against them make the flesh obey— The spirit in the end will have its way.

Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet; Her very nod was not an inclination; There was a self-will even in her small feet, As though they were quite conscious of her station— They trod as upon necks; and to complete Her state (it is the custom of her nation), A poniard deck’d her girdle, as the sign She was a sultan’s bride (thank Heaven, not mine!).

‘To hear and to obey’ had been from birth The law of all around her; to fulfill All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth, Had been her slaves’ chief pleasure, as her will; Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth: Judge, then, if her caprices e’er stood still; Had she but been a Christian, I’ve a notion We should have found out the ‘perpetual motion.’

Whate’er she saw and coveted was brought; Whate’er she did not see, if she supposed It might be seen, with diligence was sought, And when ’twas found straightway the bargain closed; There was no end unto the things she bought, Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused; Yet even her tyranny had such a grace, The women pardon’d all except her face.

Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught Her eye in passing on his way to sale; She order’d him directly to be bought, And Baba, who had ne’er been known to fail In any kind of mischief to be wrought, At all such auctions knew how to prevail: She had no prudence, but he had; and this Explains the garb which Juan took amiss.

His youth and features favour’d the disguise, And, should you ask how she, a sultan’s bride, Could risk or compass such strange phantasies, This I must leave sultanas to decide: Emperors are only husbands in wives’ eyes, And kings and consorts oft are mystified, As we may ascertain with due precision, Some by experience, others by tradition.

But to the main point, where we have been tending:— She now conceived all difficulties past, And deem’d herself extremely condescending When, being made her property at last, Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending Passion and power, a glance on him she cast, And merely saying, ‘Christian, canst thou love?’ Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move

And so it was, in proper time and place; But Juan, who had still his mind o’erflowing With Haidee’s isle and soft Ionian face, Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing, Rush back upon his heart, which fill’d apace, And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing; These words went through his soul like Arab-spears, So that he spoke not, but burst into tears.

She was a good deal shock’d; not shock’d at tears, For women shed and use them at their liking; But there is something when man’s eye appears Wet, still more disagreeable and striking; A woman’s tear-drop melts, a man’s half sears, Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter) To them ’tis a relief, to us a torture.

And she would have consoled, but knew not how: Having no equals, nothing which had e’er Infected her with sympathy till now, And never having dreamt what ’twas to bear Aught of a serious, sorrowing kind, although There might arise some pouting petty care To cross her brow, she wonder’d how so near Her eyes another’s eye could shed a tear.

But nature teaches more than power can spoil, And, when a strong although a strange sensation Moves—female hearts are such a genial soil For kinder feelings, whatsoe’er their nation, They naturally pour the ‘wine and oil,’ Samaritans in every situation; And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why, Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye.

But tears must stop like all things else; and soon Juan, who for an instant had been moved To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone Of one who dared to ask if ‘he had loved,’ Call’d back the stoic to his eyes, which shone Bright with the very weakness he reproved; And although sensitive to beauty, he Felt most indignant still at not being free.

Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days, Was much embarrass’d, never having met In all her life with aught save prayers and praise; And as she also risk’d her life to get Him whom she meant to tutor in love’s ways Into a comfortable tête-à-tête, To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr, And they had wasted now almost a quarter.

I also would suggest the fitting time To gentlemen in any such like case, That is to say in a meridian clime— With us there is more law given to the chase, But here a small delay forms a great crime: So recollect that the extremest grace Is just two minutes for your declaration— A moment more would hurt your reputation.

Juan’s was good; and might have been still better, But he had got Haidee into his head: However strange, he could not yet forget her, Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. Gulbeyaz, who look’d on him as her debtor For having had him to her palace led, Began to blush up to the eyes, and then Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again.

At length, in an imperial way, she laid Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes Which needed not an empire to persuade, Look’d into his for love, where none replies: Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid, That being the last thing a proud woman tries; She rose, and pausing one chaste moment, threw Herself upon his breast, and there she grew.

This was an awkward test, as Juan found, But he was steel’d by sorrow, wrath, and pride: With gentle force her white arms he unwound, And seated her all drooping by his side, Then rising haughtily he glanced around, And looking coldly in her face, he cried, ‘The prison’d eagle will not pair, nor Serve a Sultana’s sensual phantasy.

‘Thou ask’st if I can love? be this the proof How much I have loved—that I love not thee! In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof, Were fitter for me: Love is for the free! I am not dazzled by this splendid roof, Whate’er thy power, and great it seems to be; Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne, And hands obey—our hearts are still our own.’

This was a truth to us extremely trite; Not so to her, who ne’er had heard such things: She deem’d her least command must yield delight, Earth being only made for queens and kings. If hearts lay on the left side or the right She hardly knew, to such perfection brings Legitimacy its born votaries, when Aware of their due royal rights o’er men.

Besides, as has been said, she was so fair As even in a much humbler lot had made A kingdom or confusion anywhere, And also, as may be presumed, she laid Some stress on charms, which seldom are, if e’er, By their possessors thrown into the shade: She thought hers gave a double ‘right divine;’ And half of that opinion ’s also mine.

Remember, or (if you can not) imagine, Ye, who have kept your chastity when young, While some more desperate dowager has been waging Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung By your refusal, recollect her raging! Or recollect all that was said or sung On such a subject; then suppose the face Of a young downright beauty in this case.

Suppose,—but you already have supposed, The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, Phaedra, and all which story has disclosed Of good examples; pity that so few by Poets and private tutors are exposed, To educate—ye youth of Europe—you by! But when you have supposed the few we know, You can’t suppose Gulbeyaz’ angry brow.

A tigress robb’d of young, a lioness, Or any interesting beast of prey, Are similes at hand for the distress Of ladies who can not have their own way; But though my turn will not be served with less, These don’t express one half what I should say: For what is stealing young ones, few or many, To cutting short their hopes of having any?

The love of offspring ’s nature’s general law, From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings; There’s nothing whets the beak, or arms the claw Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings; And all who have seen a human nursery, saw How mothers love their children’s squalls and chucklings; This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger.

If I said fire flash’d from Gulbeyaz’ eyes, ’Twere nothing—for her eyes flash’d always fire; Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer, So supernatural was her passion’s rise; For ne’er till now she knew a check’d desire: Even ye who know what a check’d woman is (Enough, God knows!) would much fall short of this.

Her rage was but a minute’s, and ’twas well— A moment’s more had slain her; but the while It lasted ’twas like a short glimpse of hell: Nought ’s more sublime than energetic bile, Though horrible to see yet grand to tell, Like ocean warring ’gainst a rocky isle; And the deep passions flashing through her form Made her a beautiful embodied storm.

A vulgar tempest ’twere to a typhoon To match a common fury with her rage, And yet she did not want to reach the moon, Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page; Her anger pitch’d into a lower tune, Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age— Her wish was but to ‘kill, kill, kill,’ like Lear’s, And then her thirst of blood was quench’d in tears.

A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass’d, Pass’d without words—in fact she could not speak; And then her sex’s shame broke in at last, A sentiment till then in her but weak, But now it flow’d in natural and fast, As water through an unexpected leak; For she felt humbled—and humiliation Is sometimes good for people in her station

It teaches them that they are flesh and blood, It also gently hints to them that others, Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud; That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, And works of the same pottery, bad or good, Though not all born of the same sires and mothers: It teaches—Heaven knows only what it teaches, But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches.

Her first thought was to cut off Juan’s head; Her second, to cut only his—acquaintance; Her third, to ask him where he had been bred; Her fourth, to rally him into repentance; Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed; Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentence The lash to Baba:—but her grand resource Was to sit down again, and cry of course.

She thought to stab herself, but then she had The dagger close at hand, which made it awkward; For Eastern stays are little made to pad, So that a poniard pierces if ’tis stuck hard: She thought of killing Juan—but, poor lad! Though he deserved it well for being so backward, The cutting off his head was not the art Most likely to attain her aim—his heart.

Juan was moved; he had made up his mind To be impaled, or quarter’d as a dish For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined, Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish, And thus heroically stood resign’d, Rather than sin—except to his own wish: But all his great preparatives for dying Dissolved like snow before a woman crying.

As through his palms Bob Acres’ valour oozed, So Juan’s virtue ebb’d, I know not how; And first he wonder’d why he had refused; And then, if matters could be made up now; And next his savage virtue he accused, Just as a friar may accuse his vow, Or as a dame repents her of her oath, Which mostly ends in some small breach of both.

So he began to stammer some excuses; But words are not enough in such a matter, Although you borrow’d all that e’er the muses Have sung, or even a Dandy’s dandiest chatter, Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses; Just as a languid smile began to flatter His peace was making, but before he ventured Further, old Baba rather briskly enter’d.

‘Bride of the Sun! and Sister of the Moon!’ (’Twas thus he spake) ‘and Empress of the Earth! Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune, Whose smile makes all the planets dance with mirth, Your slave brings tidings—he hopes not too soon— Which your sublime attention may be worth: The Sun himself has sent me like a ray, To hint that he is coming up this way.’

‘Is it,’ exclaim’d Gulbeyaz, ‘as you say? I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning! But bid my women form the milky way. Hence, my old comet! give the stars due warning— And, Christian! mingle with them as you may, And as you’d have me pardon your past scorning—’ Here they were interrupted by a humming Sound, and then by a cry, ‘The Sultan ’s coming!’

First came her damsels, a decorous file, And then his Highness’ eunuchs, black and white; The train might reach a quarter of a mile: His majesty was always so polite As to announce his visits a long while Before he came, especially at night; For being the last wife of the Emperour, She was of course the favorite of the four.

His Highness was a man of solemn port, Shawl’d to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, Snatch’d from a prison to preside at court, His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise; He was as good a sovereign of the sort As any mention’d in the histories Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine Save Solyman, the glory of their line.

He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers With more than ‘Oriental scrupulosity;’ He left to his vizier all state affairs, And show’d but little royal curiosity: I know not if he had domestic cares— No process proved connubial animosity; Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen, Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen.

If now and then there happen’d a slight slip, Little was heard of criminal or crime; The story scarcely pass’d a single lip— The sack and sea had settled all in time, From which the secret nobody could rip: The Public knew no more than does this rhyme; No scandals made the daily press a curse— Morals were better, and the fish no worse.

He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, Was also certain that the earth was square, Because he had journey’d fifty miles, and found No sign that it was circular anywhere; His empire also was without a bound: ’Tis true, a little troubled here and there, By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours, But then they never came to ‘the Seven Towers;’

Except in shape of envoys, who were sent To lodge there when a war broke out, according To the true law of nations, which ne’er meant Those scoundrels, who have never had a sword in Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording Their lies, yclep’d despatches, without risk or The singeing of a single inky whisker.

He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons, Of whom all such as came of age were stow’d, The former in a palace, where like nuns They lived till some Bashaw was sent abroad, When she, whose turn it was, was wed at once, Sometimes at six years old—though it seems odd, ’Tis true; the reason is, that the Bashaw Must make a present to his sire in law.

His sons were kept in prison, till they grew Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, One or the other, but which of the two Could yet be known unto the fates alone; Meantime the education they went through Was princely, as the proofs have always shown: So that the heir apparent still was found No less deserving to be hang’d than crown’d.

His majesty saluted his fourth spouse With all the ceremonies of his rank, Who clear’d her sparkling eyes and smooth’d her brows, As suits a matron who has play’d a prank; These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, To save the credit of their breaking bank: To no men are such cordial greetings given As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven.

His Highness cast around his great black eyes, And looking, as he always look’d, perceived Juan amongst the damsels in disguise, At which he seem’d no whit surprised nor grieved, But just remark’d with air sedate and wise, While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, ‘I see you’ve bought another girl; ’tis pity That a mere Christian should be half so pretty.’

This compliment, which drew all eyes upon The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake. Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone: O! Mahomet! that his majesty should take Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one Of them his lips imperial ever spake! There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, But etiquette forbade them all to giggle.

The Turks do well to shut—at least, sometimes— The women up, because, in sad reality, Their chastity in these unhappy climes Is not a thing of that astringent quality Which in the North prevents precocious crimes, And makes our snow less pure than our morality; The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice, Has quite the contrary effect on vice.

Thus in the East they are extremely strict, And Wedlock and a Padlock mean the same; Excepting only when the former ’s pick’d It ne’er can be replaced in proper frame; Spoilt, as a pipe of claret is when prick’d: But then their own Polygamy ’s to blame; Why don’t they knead two virtuous souls for life Into that moral centaur, man and wife?

Thus far our chronicle; and now we pause, Though not for want of matter; but ’tis time According to the ancient epic laws, To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. Let this fifth canto meet with due applause, The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime; Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps You’ll pardon to my muse a few short naps.

CANTO THE SIXTH.

‘There is a tide in the affairs of men Which,—taken at the flood,’—you know the rest, And most of us have found it now and then; At least we think so, though but few have guess’d The moment, till too late to come again. But no doubt every thing is for the best— Of which the surest sign is in the end: When things are at the worst they sometimes mend.

There is a tide in the affairs of women Which, taken at the flood, leads—God knows where: Those navigators must be able seamen Whose charts lay down its current to a hair; Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen With its strange whirls and eddies can compare: Men with their heads reflect on this and that— But women with their hearts on heaven knows what!

And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she, Young, beautiful, and daring—who would risk A throne, the world, the universe, to be Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk The stars from out the sky, than not be free As are the billows when the breeze is brisk— Though such a she ’s a devil (if that there be one), Yet she would make full many a Manichean.

Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset By commonest ambition, that when passion O’erthrows the same, we readily forget, Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. If Antony be well remember’d yet, ’Tis not his conquests keep his name in fashion, But Actium, lost for Cleopatra’s eyes, Outbalances all Caesar’s victories.

He died at fifty for a queen of forty; I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport—I Remember when, though I had no great plenty Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I Gave what I had—a heart: as the world went, I Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could never Restore me those pure feelings, gone forever.

’Twas the boy’s ‘mite,’ and, like the ‘widow’s,’ may Perhaps be weigh’d hereafter, if not now; But whether such things do or do not weigh, All who have loved, or love, will still allow Life has nought like it. God is love, they say, And Love ’s a god, or was before the brow Of earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears Of—but Chronology best knows the years.

We left our hero and third heroine in A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman: Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin, And don’t agree at all with the wise Roman, Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious, Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius.

I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong; I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it; But I detest all fiction even in song, And so must tell the truth, howe’er you blame it. Her reason being weak, her passions strong, She thought that her lord’s heart (even could she claim it) Was scarce enough; for he had fifty-nine Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine.

I am not, like Cassio, ‘an arithmetician,’ But by ‘the bookish theoric’ it appears, If ’tis summ’d up with feminine precision, That, adding to the account his Highness’ years, The fair Sultana err’d from inanition; For, were the Sultan just to all his dears, She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part Of what should be monopoly—the heart.

It is observed that ladies are litigious Upon all legal objects of possession, And not the least so when they are religious, Which doubles what they think of the transgression: With suits and prosecutions they besiege us, As the tribunals show through many a session, When they suspect that any one goes shares In that to which the law makes them sole heirs.

Now, if this holds good in a Christian land, The heathen also, though with lesser latitude, Are apt to carry things with a high hand, And take what kings call ‘an imposing attitude,’ And for their rights connubial make a stand, When their liege husbands treat them with ingratitude: And as four wives must have quadruple claims, The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames.

Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) The favourite; but what ’s favour amongst four? Polygamy may well be held in dread, Not only as a sin, but as a bore: Most wise men, with one moderate woman wed, Will scarcely find philosophy for more; And all (except Mahometans) forbear To make the nuptial couch a ‘Bed of Ware.’

His Highness, the sublimest of mankind,— So styled according to the usual forms Of every monarch, till they are consign’d To those sad hungry jacobins the worms, Who on the very loftiest kings have dined,— His Highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz’ charms, Expecting all the welcome of a lover (A ‘Highland welcome’ all the wide world over).

Now here we should distinguish; for howe’er Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, May look like what is—neither here nor there, They are put on as easily as a hat, Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, Trimm’d either heads or hearts to decorate, Which form an ornament, but no more part Of heads, than their caresses of the heart.

A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind Of gentle feminine delight, and shown More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign’d Rather to hide what pleases most unknown, Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, A sincere woman’s breast,—for over-warm Or over-cold annihilates the charm.

For over-warmth, if false, is worse than truth; If true, ’tis no great lease of its own fire; For no one, save in very early youth, Would like (I think) to trust all to desire, Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth, And apt to be transferr’d to the first buyer At a sad discount: while your over chilly Women, on t’ other hand, seem somewhat silly.

That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste, For so it seems to lovers swift or slow, Who fain would have a mutual flame confess’d, And see a sentimental passion glow, Even were St. Francis’ paramour their guest, In his monastic concubine of snow;— In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is Horatian, ‘Medio tu tutissimus ibis.’

The ‘tu’ ’s too much,—but let it stand,—the verse Requires it, that ’s to say, the English rhyme, And not the pink of old hexameters; But, after all, there’s neither tune nor time In the last line, which cannot well be worse, And was thrust in to close the octave’s chime: I own no prosody can ever rate it As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it.

If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, I know not—it succeeded, and success Is much in most things, not less in the heart Than other articles of female dress. Self-love in man, too, beats all female art; They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less; And no one virtue yet, except starvation, Could stop that worst of vices—propagation.

We leave this royal couple to repose: A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, Whate’er their dreams be, if of joys or woes: Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep As any man’s day mixture undergoes. Our least of sorrows are such as we weep; ’Tis the vile daily drop on drop which wears The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares.

A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted At a per-centage; a child cross, dog ill, A favourite horse fallen lame just as he ’s mounted, A bad old woman making a worse will, Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted As certain;—these are paltry things, and yet I’ve rarely seen the man they did not fret.

I’m a philosopher; confound them all! Bills, beasts, and men, and—no! not womankind! With one good hearty curse I vent my gall, And then my stoicism leaves nought behind Which it can either pain or evil call, And I can give my whole soul up to mind; Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth, Is more than I know—the deuce take them both!

So now all things are d—n’d, one feels at ease, As after reading Athanasius’ curse, Which doth your true believer so much please: I doubt if any now could make it worse O’er his worst enemy when at his knees, ’Tis so sententious, positive, and terse, And decorates the book of Common Prayer, As doth a rainbow the just clearing air.

Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or At least one of them!—Oh, the heavy night, When wicked wives, who love some bachelor, Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light Of the gray morning, and look vainly for Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite— To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake Lest their too lawful bed-fellow should wake!

These are beneath the canopy of heaven, Also beneath the canopy of beds Four-posted and silk curtain’d, which are given For rich men and their brides to lay their heads Upon, in sheets white as what bards call ‘driven Snow.’ Well! ’tis all hap-hazard when one weds. Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been Perhaps as wretched if a peasant’s quean.

Don Juan in his feminine disguise, With all the damsels in their long array, Had bow’d themselves before th’ imperial eyes, And at the usual signal ta’en their way Back to their chambers, those long galleries In the seraglio, where the ladies lay Their delicate limbs; a thousand bosoms there Beating for love, as the caged bird’s for air.

I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse The tyrant’s wish, ‘that mankind only had One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce:’ My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad, And much more tender on the whole than fierce; It being (not now, but only while a lad) That womankind had but one rosy mouth, To kiss them all at once from North to South.

O, enviable Briareus! with thy hands And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied In such proportion!—But my Muse withstands The giant thought of being a Titan’s bride, Or travelling in Patagonian lands; So let us back to Lilliput, and guide Our hero through the labyrinth of love In which we left him several lines above.

He went forth with the lovely Odalisques, At the given signal join’d to their array; And though he certainly ran many risks, Yet he could not at times keep, by the way (Although the consequences of such frisks Are worse than the worst damages men pay In moral England, where the thing ’s a tax), From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs.

Chapters