Part 9

Ah!—What should follow slips from my reflection; Whatever follows ne’ertheless may be As _à propos_ of hope or retrospection, As though the lurking thought had follow’d free. All present life is but an interjection, An ‘Oh!’ or ‘Ah!’ of joy or misery, Or a ‘Ha! ha!’ or ‘Bah!’—a yawn, or ‘Pooh!’ Of which perhaps the latter is most true.

But, more or less, the whole ’s a syncope Or a singultus—emblems of emotion, The grand antithesis to great ennui, Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean,— That watery outline of eternity, Or miniature at least, as is my notion, Which ministers unto the soul’s delight, In seeing matters which are out of sight.

But all are better than the sigh supprest, Corroding in the cavern of the heart, Making the countenance a masque of rest, And turning human nature to an art. Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best; Dissimulation always sets apart A corner for herself; and therefore fiction Is that which passes with least contradiction.

Ah! who can tell? Or rather, who can not Remember, without telling, passion’s errors? The drainer of oblivion, even the sot, Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors: What though on Lethe’s stream he seem to float, He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors; The ruby glass that shakes within his hand Leaves a sad sediment of Time’s worst sand.

And as for love—O love!—We will proceed. The Lady Adeline Amundeville, A pretty name as one would wish to read, Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. There’s music in the sighing of a reed; There’s music in the gushing of a rill; There’s music in all things, if men had ears: Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.

The Lady Adeline, right honourable; And honour’d, ran a risk of growing less so; For few of the soft sex are very stable In their resolves—alas! that I should say so! They differ as wine differs from its label, When once decanted;—I presume to guess so, But will not swear: yet both upon occasion, Till old, may undergo adulteration.

But Adeline was of the purest vintage, The unmingled essence of the grape; and yet Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage, Or glorious as a diamond richly set; A page where Time should hesitate to print age, And for which Nature might forego her debt— Sole creditor whose process doth involve in ’t The luck of finding every body solvent.

O Death! thou dunnest of all duns! thou daily Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap, Like a meek tradesman when, approaching palely, Some splendid debtor he would take by sap: But oft denied, as patience ’gins to fail, he Advances with exasperated rap, And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, On ready money, or ‘a draft on Ransom.’

Whate’er thou takest, spare a while poor Beauty! She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. What though she now and then may slip from duty, The more ’s the reason why you ought to stay. Gaunt Gourmand! with whole nations for your booty, You should be civil in a modest way: Suppress, then, some slight feminine diseases, And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases.

Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous Where she was interested (as was said), Because she was not apt, like some of us, To like too readily, or too high bred To show it (points we need not now discuss)— Would give up artlessly both heart and head Unto such feelings as seem’d innocent, For objects worthy of the sentiment.

Some parts of Juan’s history, which Rumour, That live gazette, had scatter’d to disfigure, She had heard; but women hear with more good humour Such aberrations than we men of rigour: Besides, his conduct, since in England, grew more Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigour; Because he had, like Alcibiades, The art of living in all climes with ease.

His manner was perhaps the more seductive, Because he ne’er seem’d anxious to seduce; Nothing affected, studied, or constructive Of coxcombry or conquest: no abuse Of his attractions marr’d the fair perspective, To indicate a Cupidon broke loose, And seem to say, ‘Resist us if you can’— Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man.

They are wrong—that ’s not the way to set about it; As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it; In fact, his manner was his own alone; Sincere he was—at least you could not doubt it, In listening merely to his voice’s tone. The devil hath not in all his quiver’s choice An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.

By nature soft, his whole address held off Suspicion: though not timid, his regard Was such as rather seem’d to keep aloof, To shield himself than put you on your guard: Perhaps ’twas hardly quite assured enough, But modesty ’s at times its own reward, Like virtue; and the absence of pretension Will go much farther than there’s need to mention.

Serene, accomplish’d, cheerful but not loud; Insinuating without insinuation; Observant of the foibles of the crowd, Yet ne’er betraying this in conversation; Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud, So as to make them feel he knew his station And theirs:—without a struggle for priority, He neither brook’d nor claim’d superiority.

That is, with men: with women he was what They pleased to make or take him for; and their Imagination ’s quite enough for that: So that the outline ’s tolerably fair, They fill the canvas up—and ‘verbum sat.’ If once their phantasies be brought to bear Upon an object, whether sad or playful, They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael.

Adeline, no deep judge of character, Was apt to add a colouring from her own: ’Tis thus the good will amiably err, And eke the wise, as has been often shown. Experience is the chief philosopher, But saddest when his science is well known: And persecuted sages teach the schools Their folly in forgetting there are fools.

Was it not so, great Locke? and greater Bacon? Great Socrates? And thou, Diviner still, Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken, And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill? Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken, How was thy toil rewarded? We might fill Volumes with similar sad illustrations, But leave them to the conscience of the nations.

I perch upon an humbler promontory, Amidst life’s infinite variety: With no great care for what is nicknamed glory, But speculating as I cast mine eye On what may suit or may not suit my story, And never straining hard to versify, I rattle on exactly as I’d talk With any body in a ride or walk.

I don’t know that there may be much ability Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme; But there’s a conversational facility, Which may round off an hour upon a time. Of this I’m sure at least, there’s no servility In mine irregularity of chime, Which rings what ’s uppermost of new or hoary, Just as I feel the ‘Improvvisatore.’

‘Omnia vult belle Matho dicere—dic aliquando Et bene, dic neutrum, dic aliquando male.’ The first is rather more than mortal can do; The second may be sadly done or gaily; The third is still more difficult to stand to; The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily. The whole together is what I could wish To serve in this conundrum of a dish.

A modest hope—but modesty ’s my forte, And pride my feeble:—let us ramble on. I meant to make this poem very short, But now I can’t tell where it may not run. No doubt, if I had wish’ to pay my court To critics, or to hail the setting sun Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision Were more;—but I was born for opposition.

But then ’tis mostly on the weaker side; So that I verily believe if they Who now are basking in their full-blown pride Were shaken down, and ‘dogs had had their day,’ Though at the first I might perchance deride Their tumble, I should turn the other way, And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, Because I hate even democratic royalty.

I think I should have made a decent spouse, If I had never proved the soft condition; I think I should have made monastic vows, But for my own peculiar superstition: ’Gainst rhyme I never should have knock’d my brows, Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian, Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, If some one had not told me to forego it.

But ‘laissez aller’—knights and dames I sing, Such as the times may furnish. ’Tis a flight Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite: The difficultly lies in colouring (Keeping the due proportions still in sight) With nature manners which are artificial, And rend’ring general that which is especial.

The difference is, that in the days of old Men made the manners; manners now make men— Pinn’d like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold, At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten. Now this at all events must render cold Your writers, who must either draw again Days better drawn before, or else assume The present, with their common-place costume.

We’ll do our best to make the best on ’t:—March! March, my Muse! If you cannot fly, yet flutter; And when you may not be sublime, be arch, Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. We surely may find something worth research: Columbus found a new world in a cutter, Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage, While yet America was in her non-age.

When Adeline, in all her growing sense Of Juan’s merits and his situation, Felt on the whole an interest intense,— Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation, Or that he had an air of innocence, Which is for innocence a sad temptation,— As women hate half measures, on the whole, She ’gan to ponder how to save his soul.

She had a good opinion of advice, Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, For which small thanks are still the market price, Even where the article at highest rate is: She thought upon the subject twice or thrice, And morally decided, the best state is For morals, marriage; and this question carried, She seriously advised him to get married.

Juan replied, with all becoming deference, He had a predilection for that tie; But that, at present, with immediate reference To his own circumstances, there might lie Some difficulties, as in his own preference, Or that of her to whom he might apply: That still he’d wed with such or such a lady, If that they were not married all already.

Next to the making matches for herself, And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, Arranging them like books on the same shelf, There’s nothing women love to dabble in More (like a stock-holder in growing pelf) Than match-making in general: ’tis no sin Certes, but a preventative, and therefore That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore.

But never yet (except of course a miss Unwed, or mistress never to be wed, Or wed already, who object to this) Was there chaste dame who had not in her head Some drama of the marriage unities, Observed as strictly both at board and bed As those of Aristotle, though sometimes They turn out melodrames or pantomimes.

They generally have some only son, Some heir to a large property, some friend Of an old family, some gay Sir John, Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end A line, and leave posterity undone, Unless a marriage was applied to mend The prospect and their morals: and besides, They have at hand a blooming glut of brides.

From these they will be careful to select, For this an heiress, and for that a beauty; For one a songstress who hath no defect, For t’ other one who promises much duty; For this a lady no one can reject, Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty; A second for her excellent connections; A third, because there can be no objections.

When Rapp the Harmonist embargo’d marriage In his harmonious settlement (which flourishes Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage, Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, Without those sad expenses which disparage What Nature naturally most encourages)— Why call’d he ‘Harmony’ a state sans wedlock? Now here I’ve got the preacher at a dead lock.

Because he either meant to sneer at harmony Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. But whether reverend Rapp learn’d this in Germany Or no, ’tis said his sect is rich and godly, Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. My objection ’s to his title, not his ritual, Although I wonder how it grew habitual.

But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, Who favour, malgré Malthus, generation— Professors of that genial art, and patrons Of all the modest part of propagation; Which after all at such a desperate rate runs, That half its produce tends to emigration, That sad result of passions and potatoes— Two weeds which pose our economic Catos.

Had Adeline read Malthus? I can’t tell; I wish she had: his book ’s the eleventh commandment, Which says, ‘Thou shalt not marry,’ unless well: This he (as far as I can understand) meant. ’Tis not my purpose on his views to dwell Nor canvass what so ‘eminent a hand’ meant; But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, Or turning marriage into arithmetic.

But Adeline, who probably presumed That Juan had enough of maintenance, Or separate maintenance, in case ’twas doom’d— As on the whole it is an even chance That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom’d, May retrograde a little in the dance Of marriage (which might form a painter’s fame, Like Holbein’s ‘Dance of Death’—but ’tis the same);—

But Adeline determined Juan’s wedding In her own mind, and that ’s enough for woman: But then, with whom? There was the sage Miss Reading, Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss Knowman. And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. She deem’d his merits something more than common: All these were unobjectionable matches, And might go on, if well wound up, like watches.

There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer’s sea, That usual paragon, an only daughter, Who seem’d the cream of equanimity Till skimm’d—and then there was some milk and water, With a slight shade of blue too, it might be, Beneath the surface; but what did it matter? Love ’s riotous, but marriage should have quiet, And being consumptive, live on a milk diet.

And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, A dashing demoiselle of good estate, Whose heart was fix’d upon a star or blue string; But whether English dukes grew rare of late, Or that she had not harp’d upon the true string, By which such sirens can attract our great, She took up with some foreign younger brother, A Russ or Turk—the one ’s as good as t’ other.

And then there was—but why should I go on, Unless the ladies should go off?—there was Indeed a certain fair and fairy one, Of the best class, and better than her class,— Aurora Raby, a young star who shone O’er life, too sweet an image for such glass, A lovely being, scarcely form’d or moulded, A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded;

Rich, noble, but an orphan; left an only Child to the care of guardians good and kind; But still her aspect had an air so lonely! Blood is not water; and where shall we find Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie By death, when we are left, alas! behind, To feel, in friendless palaces, a home Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb?

Early in years, and yet more infantine In figure, she had something of sublime In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs’ shine. All youth—but with an aspect beyond time; Radiant and grave—as pitying man’s decline; Mournful—but mournful of another’s crime, She look’d as if she sat by Eden’s door. And grieved for those who could return no more.

She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere, As far as her own gentle heart allow’d, And deem’d that fallen worship far more dear Perhaps because ’twas fallen: her sires were proud Of deeds and days when they had fill’d the ear Of nations, and had never bent or bow’d To novel power; and as she was the last, She held their old faith and old feelings fast.

She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, As seeking not to know it; silent, lone, As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, And kept her heart serene within its zone. There was awe in the homage which she drew; Her spirit seem’d as seated on a throne Apart from the surrounding world, and strong In its own strength—most strange in one so young!

Now it so happen’d, in the catalogue Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted, Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue Beyond the charmers we have already cited; Her beauty also seem’d to form no clog Against her being mention’d as well fitted, By many virtues, to be worth the trouble Of single gentlemen who would be double.

And this omission, like that of the bust Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. This he express’d half smiling and half serious; When Adeline replied with some disgust, And with an air, to say the least, imperious, She marvell’d ‘what he saw in such a baby As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby?’

Juan rejoin’d—‘She was a Catholic, And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion; Since he was sure his mother would fall sick, And the Pope thunder excommunication, If—’ But here Adeline, who seem’d to pique Herself extremely on the inoculation Of others with her own opinions, stated— As usual—the same reason which she late did.

And wherefore not? A reasonable reason, If good, is none the worse for repetition; If bad, the best way ’s certainly to tease on, And amplify: you lose much by concision, Whereas insisting in or out of season Convinces all men, even a politician; Or—what is just the same—it wearies out. So the end ’s gain’d, what signifies the route?

Why Adeline had this slight prejudice— For prejudice it was—against a creature As pure as sanctity itself from vice, With all the added charm of form and feature, For me appears a question far too nice, Since Adeline was liberal by nature; But nature ’s nature, and has more caprices Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces.

Perhaps she did not like the quiet way With which Aurora on those baubles look’d, Which charm most people in their earlier day: For there are few things by mankind less brook’d, And womankind too, if we so may say, Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, Like ‘Anthony’s by Caesar,’ by the few Who look upon them as they ought to do.

It was not envy—Adeline had none; Her place was far beyond it, and her mind. It was not scorn—which could not light on one Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find. It was not jealousy, I think: but shun Following the ‘ignes fatui’ of mankind. It was not—but ’tis easier far, alas! To say what it was not than what it was.

Little Aurora deem’d she was the theme Of such discussion. She was there a guest; A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, Which flow’d on for a moment in the beam Time sheds a moment o’er each sparkling crest. Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled— She had so much, or little, of the child.

The dashing and proud air of Adeline Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, Then turn’d unto the stars for loftier rays. Juan was something she could not divine, Being no sibyl in the new world’s ways; Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, Because she did not pin her faith on feature.

His fame too,—for he had that kind of fame Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind, A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame, Half virtues and whole vices being combined; Faults which attract because they are not tame; Follies trick’d out so brightly that they blind:— These seals upon her wax made no impression, Such was her coldness or her self-possession.

Juan knew nought of such a character— High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee; Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere: The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, Was Nature’s all: Aurora could not be, Nor would be thus:—the difference in them Was such as lies between a flower and gem.

Having wound up with this sublime comparison, Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, And, as my friend Scott says, ‘I sound my warison;’ Scott, the superlative of my comparative— Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen, Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share it, if There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, Of one or both of whom he seems the heir.

I say, in my slight way I may proceed To play upon the surface of humanity. I write the world, nor care if the world read, At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I Thought that it might turn out so—now I know it, But still I am, or was, a pretty poet.

The conference or congress (for it ended As congresses of late do) of the Lady Adeline and Don Juan rather blended Some acids with the sweets—for she was heady; But, ere the matter could be marr’d or mended, The silvery bell rang, not for ‘dinner ready, But for that hour, call’d half-hour, given to dress, Though ladies’ robes seem scant enough for less.

Great things were now to be achieved at table, With massy plate for armour, knives and forks For weapons; but what Muse since Homer ’s able (His feasts are not the worst part of his works) To draw up in array a single day-bill Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks, In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, Than witches, b—ches, or physicians, brew.

There was a goodly ‘soupe a la bonne femme,’ Though God knows whence it came from; there was, too, A turbot for relief of those who cram, Relieved with ‘dindon à la Parigeux;’ There also was—the sinner that I am! How shall I get this gourmand stanza through?— ‘Soupe à la Beauveau,’ whose relief was dory, Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory.

But I must crowd all into one grand mess Or mass; for should I stretch into detail, My Muse would run much more into excess, Than when some squeamish people deem her frail. But though a ‘bonne vivante,’ I must confess Her stomach ’s not her peccant part; this tale However doth require some slight refection, Just to relieve her spirits from dejection.

Fowls ‘à la Condé,’ slices eke of salmon, With ‘sauces Génévoises,’ and haunch of venison; Wines too, which might again have slain young Ammon— A man like whom I hope we shan’t see many soon; They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on, Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison; And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, As white as Cleopatra’s melted pearls.

Then there was God knows what ‘à l’Allemande,’ ‘A l’Espagnole,’ ‘timballe,’ and ‘salpicon’— With things I can’t withstand or understand, Though swallow’d with much zest upon the whole; And ‘entremets’ to piddle with at hand, Gently to lull down the subsiding soul; While great Lucullus’ Robe triumphal muffles (There’s fame) young partridge fillets, deck’d with truffles.

What are the fillets on the victor’s brow To these? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch Which nodded to the nation’s spoils below? Where the triumphal chariots’ haughty march? Gone to where victories must like dinners go. Farther I shall not follow the research: But oh! ye modern heroes with your cartridges, When will your names lend lustre e’en to partridges?

Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, Follow’d by ‘petits puits d’amour’—a dish Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, So every one may dress it to his wish, According to the best of dictionaries, Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish; But even sans ‘confitures,’ it no less true is, There’s pretty picking in those ‘petits puits.’

The mind is lost in mighty contemplation Of intellect expanded on two courses; And indigestion’s grand multiplication Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. Who would suppose, from Adam’s simple ration, That cookery could have call’d forth such resources, As form a science and a nomenclature From out the commonest demands of nature?

The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled; The diners of celebrity dined well; The ladies with more moderation mingled In the feast, pecking less than I can tell; Also the younger men too: for a springald Can’t, like ripe age, in gormandize excel, But thinks less of good eating than the whisper (When seated next him) of some pretty lisper.

Alas! I must leave undescribed the gibier, The salmi, the consommé, the purée, All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way: I must not introduce even a spare rib here, ‘Bubble and squeak’ would spoil my liquid lay: But I have dined, and must forego, Alas! The chaste description even of a ‘bécasse;’

And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines From nature for the service of the gout— Taste or the gout,—pronounce it as inclines Your stomach! Ere you dine, the French will do; But after, there are sometimes certain signs Which prove plain English truer of the two. Hast ever had the gout? I have not had it— But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it.

The simple olives, best allies of wine, Must I pass over in my bill of fare? I must, although a favourite ‘plat’ of mine In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where: On them and bread ’twas oft my luck to dine, The grass my table-cloth, in open-air, On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is.

Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl, And vegetables, all in masquerade, The guests were placed according to their roll, But various as the various meats display’d: Don Juan sat next an ‘à l’Espagnole’— No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said; But so far like a lady, that ’twas drest Superbly, and contain’d a world of zest.

By some odd chance too, he was placed between Aurora and the Lady Adeline— A situation difficult, I ween, For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. Also the conference which we have seen Was not such as to encourage him to shine; For Adeline, addressing few words to him, With two transcendent eyes seem’d to look through him.

I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears: This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears, Of which I can’t tell whence their knowledge springs. Like that same mystic music of the spheres, Which no one hears, so loudly though it rings, ’Tis wonderful how oft the sex have heard Long dialogues—which pass’d without a word!

Aurora sat with that indifference Which piques a preux chevalier—as it ought: Of all offences that ’s the worst offence, Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought. Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence, Was not exactly pleased to be so caught; Like a good ship entangled among ice, And after so much excellent advice.

To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, Or something which was nothing, as urbanity Required. Aurora scarcely look’d aside, Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. The devil was in the girl! Could it be pride? Or modesty, or absence, or inanity? Heaven knows? But Adeline’s malicious eyes Sparkled with her successful prophecies,

And look’d as much as if to say, ‘I said it;’ A kind of triumph I’ll not recommend, Because it sometimes, as I have seen or read it, Both in the case of lover and of friend, Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit, To bring what was a jest to a serious end: For all men prophesy what is or was, And hate those who won’t let them come to pass.

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, Slight but select, and just enough to express, To females of perspicuous comprehensions, That he would rather make them more than less. Aurora at the last (so history mentions, Though probably much less a fact than guess) So far relax’d her thoughts from their sweet prison, As once or twice to smile, if not to listen.

From answering she began to question; this With her was rare: and Adeline, who as yet Thought her predictions went not much amiss, Began to dread she’d thaw to a coquette— So very difficult, they say, it is To keep extremes from meeting, when once set In motion; but she here too much refined— Aurora’s spirit was not of that kind.

But Juan had a sort of winning way, A proud humility, if such there be, Which show’d such deference to what females say, As if each charming word were a decree. His tact, too, temper’d him from grave to gay, And taught him when to be reserved or free: He had the art of drawing people out, Without their seeing what he was about.

Aurora, who in her indifference Confounded him in common with the crowd Of flatterers, though she deem’d he had more sense Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud— Commenced (from such slight things will great commence) To feel that flattery which attracts the proud Rather by deference than compliment, And wins even by a delicate dissent.

And then he had good looks;—that point was carried Nem. con. amongst the women, which I grieve To say leads oft to crim. con. with the married— A case which to the juries we may leave, Since with digressions we too long have tarried. Now though we know of old that looks deceive, And always have done, somehow these good looks Make more impression than the best of books.

Aurora, who look’d more on books than faces, Was very young, although so very sage, Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, Especially upon a printed page. But Virtue’s self, with all her tightest laces, Has not the natural stays of strict old age; And Socrates, that model of all duty, Own’d to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty.

And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, But innocently so, as Socrates; And really, if the sage sublime and Attic At seventy years had phantasies like these, Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic Has shown, I know not why they should displease In virgins—always in a modest way, Observe; for that with me ’s a ‘sine qua.’

Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke (See Littleton), whene’er I have express’d Opinions two, which at first sight may look Twin opposites, the second is the best. Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook, Or none at all—which seems a sorry jest: But if a writer should be quite consistent, How could he possibly show things existent?

If people contradict themselves, can I Help contradicting them, and every body, Even my veracious self?—But that ’s a lie: I never did so, never will—how should I? He who doubts all things nothing can deny: Truth’s fountains may be clear—her streams are muddy, And cut through such canals of contradiction, That she must often navigate o’er fiction.

Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, Are false, but may be render’d also true, By those who sow them in a land that ’s arable. ’Tis wonderful what fable will not do! ’Tis said it makes reality more bearable: But what ’s reality? Who has its clue? Philosophy? No: she too much rejects. Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects?

Some millions must be wrong, that ’s pretty dear; Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. God help us! Since we have need on our career To keep our holy beacons always bright, ’Tis time that some new prophet should appear, Or old indulge man with a second sight. Opinions wear out in some thousand years, Without a small refreshment from the spheres.

But here again, why will I thus entangle Myself with metaphysics? None can hate So much as I do any kind of wrangle; And yet, such is my folly, or my fate, I always knock my head against some angle About the present, past, or future state. Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian.

But though I am a temperate theologian, And also meek as a metaphysician, Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, As Eldon on a lunatic commission— In politics my duty is to show John Bull something of the lower world’s condition. It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla, To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law.

But politics, and policy, and piety, Are topics which I sometimes introduce, Not only for the sake of their variety, But as subservient to a moral use; Because my business is to dress society, And stuff with sage that very verdant goose. And now, that we may furnish with some matter all Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural.

And now I will give up all argument; And positively henceforth no temptation Shall ‘fool me to the top up of my bent:’— Yes, I’ ll begin a thorough reformation. Indeed, I never knew what people meant By deeming that my Muse’s conversation Was dangerous;—I think she is as harmless As some who labour more and yet may charm less.

Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost? No; but you have heard—I understand—be dumb! And don’t regret the time you may have lost, For you have got that pleasure still to come: And do not think I mean to sneer at most Of these things, or by ridicule benumb That source of the sublime and the mysterious:— For certain reasons my belief is serious.

Serious? You laugh;—you may: that will I not; My smiles must be sincere or not at all. I say I do believe a haunted spot Exists—and where? That shall I not recall, Because I’d rather it should be forgot, ‘Shadows the soul of Richard’ may appal. In short, upon that subject I’ve some qualms very Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury.

The night (I sing by night—sometimes an owl, And now and then a nightingale) is dim, And the loud shriek of sage Minerva’s fowl Rattles around me her discordant hymn: Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl— I wish to heaven they would not look so grim; The dying embers dwindle in the grate— I think too that I have sate up too late:

And therefore, though ’tis by no means my way To rhyme at noon—when I have other things To think of, if I ever think—I say I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, And prudently postpone, until mid-day, Treating a topic which, alas! but brings Shadows;—but you must be in my condition Before you learn to call this superstition.

CANTO THE SIXTEENTH.

The antique Persians taught three useful things, To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth. This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings— A mode adopted since by modern youth. Bows have they, generally with two strings; Horses they ride without remorse or ruth; At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, But draw the long bow better now than ever.

The cause of this effect, or this defect,— ‘For this effect defective comes by cause,’— Is what I have not leisure to inspect; But this I must say in my own applause, Of all the Muses that I recollect, Whate’er may be her follies or her flaws In some things, mine ’s beyond all contradiction The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction.

And as she treats all things, and ne’er retreats From any thing, this epic will contain A wilderness of the most rare conceits, Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain. ’Tis true there be some bitters with the sweets, Yet mix’d so slightly, that you can’t complain, But wonder they so few are, since my tale is ‘De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis.’

But of all truths which she has told, the most True is that which she is about to tell. I said it was a story of a ghost— What then? I only know it so befell. Have you explored the limits of the coast, Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell? ’Tis time to strike such puny doubters dumb as The sceptics who would not believe Columbus.

Some people would impose now with authority, Turpin’s or Monmouth Geoffry’s Chronicle; Men whose historical superiority Is always greatest at a miracle. But Saint Augustine has the great priority, Who bids all men believe the impossible, Because ’tis so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he Quiets at once with ‘quia impossibile.’

And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all; Believe:—if ’tis improbable you must, And if it is impossible, you shall: ’Tis always best to take things upon trust. I do not speak profanely, to recall Those holier mysteries which the wise and just Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted, As all truths must, the more they are disputed:

I merely mean to say what Johnson said, That in the course of some six thousand years, All nations have believed that from the dead A visitant at intervals appears; And what is strangest upon this strange head, Is, that whatever bar the reason rears ’Gainst such belief, there’s something stronger still In its behalf, let those deny who will.

The dinner and the soiree too were done, The supper too discuss’d, the dames admired, The banqueteers had dropp’d off one by one— The song was silent, and the dance expired: The last thin petticoats were vanish’d, gone Like fleecy Clouds into the sky retired, And nothing brighter gleam’d through the saloon Than dying tapers—and the peeping moon.

The evaporation of a joyous day Is like the last glass of champagne, without The foam which made its virgin bumper gay; Or like a system coupled with a doubt; Or like a soda bottle when its spray Has sparkled and let half its spirit out; Or like a billow left by storms behind, Without the animation of the wind;

Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest, Or none; or like—like nothing that I know Except itself;—such is the human breast; A thing, of which similitudes can show No real likeness,—like the old Tyrian vest Dyed purple, none at present can tell how, If from a shell-fish or from cochineal. So perish every tyrant’s robe piece-meal!

But next to dressing for a rout or ball, Undressing is a woe; our robe de chambre May sit like that of Nessus, and recall Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber. Titus exclaim’d, ‘I’ve lost a day!’ Of all The nights and days most people can remember (I have had of both, some not to be disdain’d), I wish they’d state how many they have gain’d.

And Juan, on retiring for the night, Felt restless, and perplex’d, and compromised: He thought Aurora Raby’s eyes more bright Than Adeline (such is advice) advised; If he had known exactly his own plight, He probably would have philosophised: A great resource to all, and ne’er denied Till wanted; therefore Juan only sigh’d.

He sigh’d;—the next resource is the full moon, Where all sighs are deposited; and now It happen’d luckily, the chaste orb shone As clear as such a climate will allow; And Juan’s mind was in the proper tone To hail her with the apostrophe—‘O thou!’ Of amatory egotism the Tuism, Which further to explain would be a truism.

But lover, poet, or astronomer, Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold, Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her: Great thoughts we catch from thence (besides a cold Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err); Deep secrets to her rolling light are told; The ocean’s tides and mortals’ brains she sways, And also hearts, if there be truth in lays.

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed For contemplation rather than his pillow: The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed, Let in the rippling sound of the lake’s billow, With all the mystery by midnight caused; Below his window waved (of course) a willow; And he stood gazing out on the cascade That flash’d and after darken’d in the shade.

Upon his table or his toilet,—which Of these is not exactly ascertain’d (I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain’d),— A lamp burn’d high, while he leant from a niche, Where many a Gothic ornament remain’d, In chisell’d stone and painted glass, and all That time has left our fathers of their hall.

Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw His chamber door wide open—and went forth Into a gallery, of a sombre hue, Long, furnish’d with old pictures of great worth, Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too, As doubtless should be people of high birth. But by dim lights the portraits of the dead Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread.

The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint Look living in the moon; and as you turn Backward and forward to the echoes faint Of your own footsteps—voices from the urn Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern, As if to ask how you can dare to keep A vigil there, where all but death should sleep.

And the pale smile of beauties in the grave, The charms of other days, in starlight gleams, Glimmer on high; their buried locks still wave Along the canvas; their eyes glance like dreams On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. A picture is the past; even ere its frame Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same.

As Juan mused on mutability, Or on his mistress—terms synonymous— No sound except the echo of his sigh Or step ran sadly through that antique house; When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, A supernatural agent—or a mouse, Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass Most people as it plays along the arras.

It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array’d In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear’d, Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade, With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard; His garments only a slight murmur made; He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, But slowly; and as he pass’d Juan by, Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye.

Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint Of such a spirit in these halls of old, But thought, like most men, there was nothing in ’t Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, Coin’d from surviving superstition’s mint, Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. And did he see this? or was it a vapour?

Once, twice, thrice pass’d, repass’d—the thing of air, Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t’ other place; And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base As stands a statue, stood: he felt his hair Twine like a knot of snakes around his face; He tax’d his tongue for words, which were not granted, To ask the reverend person what he wanted.

The third time, after a still longer pause, The shadow pass’d away—but where? the hall Was long, and thus far there was no great cause To think his vanishing unnatural: Doors there were many, through which, by the laws Of physics, bodies whether short or tall Might come or go; but Juan could not state Through which the spectre seem’d to evaporate.

He stood—how long he knew not, but it seem’d An age—expectant, powerless, with his eyes Strain’d on the spot where first the figure gleam’d; Then by degrees recall’d his energies, And would have pass’d the whole off as a dream, But could not wake; he was, he did surmise, Waking already, and return’d at length Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.

All there was as he left it: still his taper Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use, Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour; He rubb’d his eyes, and they did not refuse Their office; he took up an old newspaper; The paper was right easy to peruse; He read an article the king attacking, And a long eulogy of ‘patent blacking.’

This savour’d of this world; but his hand shook— He shut his door, and after having read A paragraph, I think about Horne Tooke, Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed. There, couch’d all snugly on his pillow’s nook, With what he had seen his phantasy he fed; And though it was no opiate, slumber crept Upon him by degrees, and so he slept.

He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed, Ponder’d upon his visitant or vision, And whether it ought not to be disclosed, At risk of being quizz’d for superstition. The more he thought, the more his mind was posed: In the mean time, his valet, whose precision Was great, because his master brook’d no less, Knock’d to inform him it was time to dress.

He dress’d; and like young people he was wont To take some trouble with his toilet, but This morning rather spent less time upon ’t; Aside his very mirror soon was put; His curls fell negligently o’er his front, His clothes were not curb’d to their usual cut, His very neckcloth’s Gordian knot was tied Almost an hair’s breadth too much on one side.

And when he walk’d down into the saloon, He sate him pensive o’er a dish of tea, Which he perhaps had not discover’d soon, Had it not happen’d scalding hot to be, Which made him have recourse unto his spoon; So much distrait he was, that all could see That something was the matter—Adeline The first—but what she could not well divine.

She look’d, and saw him pale, and turn’d as pale Herself; then hastily look’d down, and mutter’d Something, but what ’s not stated in my tale. Lord Henry said his muffin was ill butter’d; The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play’d with her veil, And look’d at Juan hard, but nothing utter’d. Aurora Raby with her large dark eyes Survey’d him with a kind of calm surprise.

But seeing him all cold and silent still, And everybody wondering more or less, Fair Adeline enquired, ‘If he were ill?’ He started, and said, ‘Yes—no—rather—yes.’ The family physician had great skill, And being present, now began to express His readiness to feel his pulse and tell The cause, but Juan said, ‘He was quite well.’

‘Quite well; yes,—no.’—These answers were mysterious, And yet his looks appear’d to sanction both, However they might savour of delirious; Something like illness of a sudden growth Weigh’d on his spirit, though by no means serious: But for the rest, as he himself seem’d loth To state the case, it might be ta’en for granted It was not the physician that he wanted.

Lord Henry, who had now discuss’d his chocolate, Also the muffin whereof he complain’d, Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, At which he marvell’d, since it had not rain’d; Then ask’d her Grace what news were of the duke of late? Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather pain’d With some slight, light, hereditary twinges Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges.

Then Henry turn’d to Juan, and address’d A few words of condolence on his state: ‘You look,’ quoth he, ‘as if you had had your rest Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late.’ ‘What friar?’ said Juan; and he did his best To put the question with an air sedate, Or careless; but the effort was not valid To hinder him from growing still more pallid.

‘Oh! have you never heard of the Black Friar? The spirit of these walls?’—‘In truth not I.’ ‘Why Fame—but Fame you know ’s sometimes a liar— Tells an odd story, of which by and by: Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer, Or that our sires had a more gifted eye For such sights, though the tale is half believed, The friar of late has not been oft perceived.

“The last time was—” “I pray,” said Adeline— (Who watch’d the changes of Don Juan’s brow, And from its context thought she could divine Connexions stronger then he chose to avow With this same legend)—‘if you but design To jest, you’ll choose some other theme just now, Because the present tale has oft been told, And is not much improved by growing old.’

‘Jest!’ quoth Milor; ‘why, Adeline, you know That we ourselves—’twas in the honey-moon— Saw—’—‘Well, no matter, ’twas so long ago; But, come, I’ll set your story to a tune.’ Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow, She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon As touch’d, and plaintively began to play The air of ‘’Twas a Friar of Orders Gray.’

‘But add the words,’ cried Henry, ‘which you made; For Adeline is half a poetess,’ Turning round to the rest, he smiling said. Of course the others could not but express In courtesy their wish to see display’d By one three talents, for there were no less— The voice, the words, the harper’s skill, at once Could hardly be united by a dunce.

After some fascinating hesitation,— The charming of these charmers, who seem bound, I can’t tell why, to this dissimulation,— Fair Adeline, with eyes fix’d on the ground At first, then kindling into animation, Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, And sang with much simplicity,—a merit Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it.

Beware! beware! of the Black Friar, Who sitteth by Norman stone, For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, And his mass of the days that are gone. When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, Made Norman Church his prey, And expell’d the friars, one friar still Would not be driven away.

Though he came in his might, with King Henry’s right, To turn church lands to lay, With sword in hand, and torch to light Their walls, if they said nay; A monk remain’d, unchased, unchain’d, And he did not seem form’d of clay, For he ’s seen in the porch, and he ’s seen in the church, Though he is not seen by day.

And whether for good, or whether for ill, It is not mine to say; But still with the house of Amundeville He abideth night and day. By the marriage-bed of their lords, ’tis said, He flits on the bridal eve; And ’tis held as faith, to their bed of death He comes—but not to grieve.

When an heir is born, he ’s heard to mourn, And when aught is to befall That ancient line, in the pale moonshine He walks from hall to hall. His form you may trace, but not his face, ’Tis shadow’d by his cowl; But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, And they seem of a parted soul.

But beware! beware! of the Black Friar, He still retains his sway, For he is yet the church’s heir Whoever may be the lay. Amundeville is lord by day, But the monk is lord by night; Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal To question that friar’s right.

Say nought to him as he walks the hall, And he’ll say nought to you; He sweeps along in his dusky pall, As o’er the grass the dew. Then grammercy! for the Black Friar; Heaven sain him, fair or foul! And whatsoe’er may be his prayer, Let ours be for his soul.

The lady’s voice ceased, and the thrilling wires Died from the touch that kindled them to sound; And the pause follow’d, which when song expires Pervades a moment those who listen round; And then of course the circle much admires, Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound, The tones, the feeling, and the execution, To the performer’s diffident confusion.

Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, As if she rated such accomplishment As the mere pastime of an idle day, Pursued an instant for her own content, Would now and then as ’twere without display, Yet with display in fact, at times relent To such performances with haughty smile, To show she could, if it were worth her while.

Now this (but we will whisper it aside) Was—pardon the pedantic illustration— Trampling on Plato’s pride with greater pride, As did the Cynic on some like occasion; Deeming the sage would be much mortified, Or thrown into a philosophic passion, For a spoil’d carpet—but the ‘Attic Bee’ Was much consoled by his own repartee.

Thus Adeline would throw into the shade (By doing easily, whene’er she chose, What dilettanti do with vast parade) Their sort of half profession; for it grows To something like this when too oft display’d; And that it is so everybody knows Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady T’other, Show off—to please their company or mother.

O! the long evenings of duets and trios! The admirations and the speculations; The ‘Mamma Mia’s!’ and the ‘Amor Mio’s!’ The ‘Tanti palpiti’s’ on such occasions: The ‘Lasciami’s,’ and quavering ‘Addio’s!’ Amongst our own most musical of nations; With ‘Tu mi chamas’s’ from Portingale, To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail.

In Babylon’s bravuras—as the home Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highlands, That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam O’er far Atlantic continents or islands, The calentures of music which o’ercome All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh lands, No more to be beheld but in such visions— Was Adeline well versed, as compositions.

She also had a twilight tinge of ‘Blue,’ Could write rhymes, and compose more than she wrote, Made epigrams occasionally too Upon her friends, as everybody ought. But still from that sublimer azure hue, So much the present dye, she was remote; Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet, And what was worse, was not ashamed to show it.

Aurora—since we are touching upon taste, Which now-a-days is the thermometer By whose degrees all characters are class’d— Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. The worlds beyond this world’s perplexing waste Had more of her existence, for in her There was a depth of feeling to embrace Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as Space.

Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless Grace, The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind, If she had any, was upon her face, And that was of a fascinating kind. A little turn for mischief you might trace Also thereon,—but that ’s not much; we find Few females without some such gentle leaven, For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven.

I have not heard she was at all poetic, Though once she was seen reading the ‘Bath Guide,’ And ‘Hayley’s Triumphs,’ which she deem’d pathetic, Because she said her temper had been tried So much, the bard had really been prophetic Of what she had gone through with—since a bride. But of all verse, what most ensured her praise Were sonnets to herself, or ‘bouts rimes.’

’Twere difficult to say what was the object Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay To bear on what appear’d to her the subject Of Juan’s nervous feelings on that day. Perhaps she merely had the simple project To laugh him out of his supposed dismay; Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it, Though why I cannot say—at least this minute.

But so far the immediate effect Was to restore him to his self-propriety, A thing quite necessary to the elect, Who wish to take the tone of their society: In which you cannot be too circumspect, Whether the mode be persiflage or piety, But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy, On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy.

And therefore Juan now began to rally His spirits, and without more explanation To jest upon such themes in many a sally. Her Grace, too, also seized the same occasion, With various similar remarks to tally, But wish’d for a still more detail’d narration Of this same mystic friar’s curious doings, About the present family’s deaths and wooings.

Of these few could say more than has been said; They pass’d as such things do, for superstition With some, while others, who had more in dread The theme, half credited the strange tradition; And much was talk’d on all sides on that head: But Juan, when cross-question’d on the vision, Which some supposed (though he had not avow’d it) Had stirr’d him, answer’d in a way to cloud it.

And then, the mid-day having worn to one, The company prepared to separate; Some to their several pastimes, or to none, Some wondering ’twas so early, some so late. There was a goodly match too, to be run Between some greyhounds on my lord’s estate, And a young race-horse of old pedigree Match’d for the spring, whom several went to see.

There was a picture-dealer who had brought A special Titian, warranted original, So precious that it was not to be bought, Though princes the possessor were besieging all. The king himself had cheapen’d it, but thought The civil list he deigns to accept (obliging all His subjects by his gracious acceptation) Too scanty, in these times of low taxation.

But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur,— The friend of artists, if not arts,—the owner, With motives the most classical and pure, So that he would have been the very donor, Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer, So much he deem’d his patronage an honour, Had brought the capo d’opera, not for sale, But for his judgment—never known to fail.

There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic Bricklayer of Babel, call’d an architect, Brought to survey these grey walls, which though so thick, Might have from time acquired some slight defect; Who after rummaging the Abbey through thick And thin, produced a plan whereby to erect New buildings of correctest conformation, And throw down old—which he call’d restoration.

The cost would be a trifle—an ‘old song,’ Set to some thousands (’tis the usual burden Of that same tune, when people hum it long)— The price would speedily repay its worth in An edifice no less sublime than strong, By which Lord Henry’s good taste would go forth in Its glory, through all ages shining sunny, For Gothic daring shown in English money.

There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage Lord Henry wish’d to raise for a new purchase; Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage, And one on tithes, which sure are Discord’s torches, Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage, ‘Untying’ squires ‘to fight against the churches;’ There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughman, For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman.

There were two poachers caught in a steel trap, Ready for gaol, their place of convalescence; There was a country girl in a close cap And scarlet cloak (I hate the sight to see, since— Since—since—in youth, I had the sad mishap— But luckily I have paid few parish fees since): That scarlet cloak, alas! unclosed with rigour, Presents the problem of a double figure.

A reel within a bottle is a mystery, One can’t tell how it e’er got in or out; Therefore the present piece of natural history I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt; And merely state, though not for the consistory, Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout The constable, beneath a warrant’s banner, Had bagg’d this poacher upon Nature’s manor.

Now justices of peace must judge all pieces Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game And morals of the country from caprices Of those who have not a license for the same; And of all things, excepting tithes and leases, Perhaps these are most difficult to tame: Preserving partridges and pretty wenches Are puzzles to the most precautious benches.

The present culprit was extremely pale, Pale as if painted so; her cheek being red By nature, as in higher dames less hale ’Tis white, at least when they just rise from bed. Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail, Poor soul! for she was country born and bred, And knew no better in her immorality Than to wax white—for blushes are for quality.

Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegle eye, Had gather’d a large tear into its corner, Which the poor thing at times essay’d to dry, For she was not a sentimental mourner Parading all her sensibility, Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner, But stood in trembling, patient tribulation, To be call’d up for her examination.

Of course these groups were scatter’d here and there, Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. The lawyers in the study; and in air The prize pig, ploughman, poachers; the men sent From town, viz., architect and dealer, were Both busy (as a general in his tent Writing despatches) in their several stations, Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations.

But this poor girl was left in the great hall, While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, Discuss’d (he hated beer yclept the ‘small’) A mighty mug of moral double ale. She waited until justice could recall Its kind attentions to their proper pale, To name a thing in nomenclature rather Perplexing for most virgins—a child’s father.

You see here was enough of occupation For the Lord Henry, link’d with dogs and horses. There was much bustle too, and preparation Below stairs on the score of second courses; Because, as suits their rank and situation, Those who in counties have great land resources Have ‘Public days,’ when all men may carouse, Though not exactly what ’s call’d ‘open house.’

But once a week or fortnight, uninvited (Thus we translate a general invitation), All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted, May drop in without cards, and take their station At the full board, and sit alike delighted With fashionable wines and conversation; And, as the isthmus of the grand connection, Talk o’er themselves the past and next election.

Lord Henry was a great electioneerer, Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit; But county contests cost him rather dearer, Because the neighbouring Scotch Earl of Giftgabbit Had English influence in the self-same sphere here; His son, the Honourable Dick Dicedrabbit, Was member for the ‘other interest’ (meaning The same self-interest, with a different leaning).

Courteous and cautious therefore in his county, He was all things to all men, and dispensed To some civility, to others bounty, And promises to all—which last commenced To gather to a somewhat large amount, he Not calculating how much they condensed; But what with keeping some, and breaking others, His word had the same value as another’s.

A friend to freedom and freeholders—yet No less a friend to government—he held, That he exactly the just medium hit ’Twixt place and patriotism—albeit compell’d, Such was his sovereign’s pleasure (though unfit, He added modestly, when rebels rail’d), To hold some sinecures he wish’d abolish’d, But that with them all law would be demolish’d.

He was ‘free to confess’ (whence comes this phrase? Is ’t English? No—’tis only parliamentary) That innovation’s spirit now-a-days Had made more progress than for the last century. He would not tread a factious path to praise, Though for the public weal disposed to venture high; As for his place, he could but say this of it, That the fatigue was greater than the profit.

Heaven, and his friends, knew that a private life Had ever been his sole and whole ambition; But could he quit his king in times of strife, Which threaten’d the whole country with perdition? When demagogues would with a butcher’s knife Cut through and through (oh! damnable incision!) The Gordian or the Geordi-an knot, whose strings Have tied together commons, lords, and kings.

Sooner ‘come lace into the civil list And champion him to the utmost’—he would keep it, Till duly disappointed or dismiss’d: Profit he care not for, let others reap it; But should the day come when place ceased to exist, The country would have far more cause to weep it: For how could it go on? Explain who can! He gloried in the name of Englishman.

He was as independent—ay, much more— Than those who were not paid for independence, As common soldiers, or a common—shore, Have in their several arts or parts ascendance O’er the irregulars in lust or gore, Who do not give professional attendance. Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar.

All this (save the last stanza) Henry said, And thought. I say no more—I’ve said too much; For all of us have either heard or read— Off—or upon the hustings—some slight such Hints from the independent heart or head Of the official candidate. I’ll touch No more on this—the dinner-bell hath rung, And grace is said; the grace I should have sung—

But I’m too late, and therefore must make play. ’Twas a great banquet, such as Albion old Was wont to boast—as if a glutton’s tray Were something very glorious to behold. But ’twas a public feast and public day,— Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold, Great plenty, much formality, small cheer, And every body out of their own sphere.

The squires familiarly formal, and My lords and ladies proudly condescending; The very servants puzzling how to hand Their plates—without it might be too much bending From their high places by the sideboard’s stand— Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending. For any deviation from the graces Might cost both man and master too—their places.

There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, Whose hounds ne’er err’d, nor greyhounds deign’d to lurch; Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen. There were some massy members of the church, Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches, And several who sung fewer psalms than catches.

There were some country wags too—and, alas! Some exiles from the town, who had been driven To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, And rise at nine in lieu of long eleven. And lo! upon that day it came to pass, I sate next that o’erwhelming son of heaven, The very powerful parson, Peter Pith, The loudest wit I e’er was deafen’d with.

I knew him in his livelier London days, A brilliant diner out, though but a curate; And not a joke he cut but earn’d its praise, Until preferment, coming at a sure rate (O Providence! how wondrous are thy ways! Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate?), Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o’er Lincoln, A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on.

His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes; But both were thrown away amongst the fens; For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks. No longer ready ears and short-hand pens Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax: The poor priest was reduced to common sense, Or to coarse efforts very loud and long, To hammer a horse laugh from the thick throng.

There is a difference, says the song, ‘between A beggar and a queen,’ or was (of late The latter worse used of the two we’ve seen— But we’ll say nothing of affairs of state); A difference ‘’twixt a bishop and a dean,’ A difference between crockery ware and plate, As between English beef and Spartan broth— And yet great heroes have been bred by both.

But of all nature’s discrepancies, none Upon the whole is greater than the difference Beheld between the country and the town, Of which the latter merits every preference From those who have few resources of their own, And only think, or act, or feel, with reference To some small plan of interest or ambition— Both which are limited to no condition.

But ‘en avant!’ The light loves languish o’er Long banquets and too many guests, although A slight repast makes people love much more, Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore With vivifying Venus, who doth owe To these the invention of champagne and truffles: Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles.

Dully past o’er the dinner of the day; And Juan took his place, he knew not where, Confused, in the confusion, and distrait, And sitting as if nail’d upon his chair: Though knives and forks clank’d round as in a fray, He seem’d unconscious of all passing there, Till some one, with a groan, exprest a wish (Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish.

On which, at the third asking of the bans, He started; and perceiving smiles around Broadening to grins, he colour’d more than once, And hastily—as nothing can confound A wise man more than laughter from a dunce— Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound, And with such hurry, that ere he could curb it He had paid his neighbour’s prayer with half a turbot.

This was no bad mistake, as it occurr’d, The supplicator being an amateur; But others, who were left with scarce a third, Were angry—as they well might, to be sure. They wonder’d how a young man so absurd Lord Henry at his table should endure; And this, and his not knowing how much oats Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes.

They little knew, or might have sympathised, That he the night before had seen a ghost, A prologue which but slightly harmonised With the substantial company engross’d By matter, and so much materialised, That one scarce knew at what to marvel most Of two things—how (the question rather odd is) Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies.

But what confused him more than smile or stare From all the ’squires and ’squiresses around, Who wonder’d at the abstraction of his air, Especially as he had been renown’d For some vivacity among the fair, Even in the country circle’s narrow bound (For little things upon my lord’s estate Were good small talk for others still less great)—

Was, that he caught Aurora’s eye on his, And something like a smile upon her cheek. Now this he really rather took amiss: In those who rarely smile, their smiles bespeak A strong external motive; and in this Smile of Aurora’s there was nought to pique Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles Which some pretend to trace in ladies’ smiles.

’Twas a mere quiet smile of contemplation, Indicative of some surprise and pity; And Juan grew carnation with vexation, Which was not very wise, and still less witty, Since he had gain’d at least her observation, A most important outwork of the city— As Juan should have known, had not his senses By last night’s ghost been driven from their defences.

But what was bad, she did not blush in turn, Nor seem embarrass’d—quite the contrary; Her aspect was as usual, still—not stern— And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye, Yet grew a little pale—with what? concern? I know not; but her colour ne’er was high— Though sometimes faintly flush’d—and always clear, As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere.

But Adeline was occupied by fame This day; and watching, witching, condescending To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game, And dignity with courtesy so blending, As all must blend whose part it is to aim (Especially as the sixth year is ending) At their lord’s, son’s, or similar connection’s Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections.

Though this was most expedient on the whole, And usual—Juan, when he cast a glance On Adeline while playing her grand role, Which she went through as though it were a dance, Betraying only now and then her soul By a look scarce perceptibly askance (Of weariness or scorn), began to feel Some doubt how much of Adeline was real;

So well she acted all and every part By turns—with that vivacious versatility, Which many people take for want of heart. They err—’tis merely what is call’d mobility, A thing of temperament and not of art, Though seeming so, from its supposed facility; And false—though true; for surely they’re sincerest Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest.

This makes your actors, artists, and romancers, Heroes sometimes, though seldom—sages never; But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, Little that ’s great, but much of what is clever; Most orators, but very few financiers, Though all Exchequer chancellors endeavour, Of late years, to dispense with Cocker’s rigours, And grow quite figurative with their figures.

The poets of arithmetic are they Who, though they prove not two and two to be Five, as they might do in a modest way, Have plainly made it out that four are three, Judging by what they take, and what they pay. The Sinking Fund’s unfathomable sea, That most unliquidating liquid, leaves The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives.

While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, The fair Fitz-Fulke seem’d very much at ease; Though too well bred to quiz men to their faces, Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize The ridicules of people in all places— That honey of your fashionable bees— And store it up for mischievous enjoyment; And this at present was her kind employment.

However, the day closed, as days must close; The evening also waned—and coffee came. Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose, And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame, Retired: with most unfashionable bows Their docile esquires also did the same, Delighted with their dinner and their host, But with the Lady Adeline the most.

Some praised her beauty; others her great grace; The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity Was obvious in each feature of her face, Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity. Yes; she was truly worthy her high place! No one could envy her deserved prosperity. And then her dress—what beautiful simplicity Draperied her form with curious felicity!

Meanwhile Sweet Adeline deserved their praises, By an impartial indemnification For all her past exertion and soft phrases, In a most edifying conversation, Which turn’d upon their late guests’ miens and faces, And families, even to the last relation; Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses, And truculent distortion of their tresses.

True, she said little—’twas the rest that broke Forth into universal epigram; But then ’twas to the purpose what she spoke: Like Addison’s ‘faint praise,’ so wont to damn, Her own but served to set off every joke, As music chimes in with a melodrame. How sweet the task to shield an absent friend! I ask but this of mine, to—not defend.

There were but two exceptions to this keen Skirmish of wits o’er the departed; one Aurora, with her pure and placid mien; And Juan, too, in general behind none In gay remark on what he had heard or seen, Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone: In vain he heard the others rail or rally, He would not join them in a single sally.

’Tis true he saw Aurora look as though She approved his silence; she perhaps mistook Its motive for that charity we owe But seldom pay the absent, nor would look Farther—it might or might not be so. But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, Observing little in his reverie, Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see.

The ghost at least had done him this much good, In making him as silent as a ghost, If in the circumstances which ensued He gain’d esteem where it was worth the most. And certainly Aurora had renew’d In him some feelings he had lately lost, Or harden’d; feelings which, perhaps ideal, Are so divine, that I must deem them real:—

The love of higher things and better days; The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance Of what is call’d the world, and the world’s ways; The moments when we gather from a glance More joy than from all future pride or praise, Which kindle manhood, but can ne’er entrance The heart in an existence of its own, Of which another’s bosom is the zone.

Who would not sigh Ai ai Tan Kuuerheian That hath a memory, or that had a heart? Alas! her star must fade like that of Dian: Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. Anacreon only had the soul to tie an Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart Of Eros: but though thou hast play’d us many tricks, Still we respect thee, ‘Alma Venus Genetrix!’

And full of sentiments, sublime as billows Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows Arrived, retired to his; but to despond Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows Waved o’er his couch; he meditated, fond Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep.

The night was as before: he was undrest, Saving his night-gown, which is an undress; Completely ‘sans culotte,’ and without vest; In short, he hardly could be clothed with less: But apprehensive of his spectral guest, He sate with feelings awkward to express (By those who have not had such visitations), Expectant of the ghost’s fresh operations.

And not in vain he listen’d;—Hush! what ’s that? I see—I see—Ah, no!—’tis not—yet ’tis— Ye powers! it is the—the—the—Pooh! the cat! The devil may take that stealthy pace of his! So like a spiritual pit-a-pat, Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, Gliding the first time to a rendezvous, And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe.

Again—what is ’t? The wind? No, no—this time It is the sable friar as before, With awful footsteps regular as rhyme, Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. Again through shadows of the night sublime, When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore The starry darkness round her like a girdle Spangled with gems—the monk made his blood curdle.

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass, Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter, Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass, Sounding like very supernatural water, Came over Juan’s ear, which throbb’d, alas! For immaterialism ’s a serious matter; So that even those whose faith is the most great In souls immortal, shun them tête-à-tête.

Were his eyes open?—Yes! and his mouth too. Surprise has this effect—to make one dumb, Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through As wide as if a long speech were to come. Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, Tremendous to a mortal tympanum: His eyes were open, and (as was before Stated) his mouth. What open’d next?—the door.

It open’d with a most infernal creak, Like that of hell. ‘Lasciate ogni speranza Voi che entrate!’ The hinge seem’d to speak, Dreadful as Dante’s rhima, or this stanza; Or—but all words upon such themes are weak: A single shade ’s sufficient to entrance a Hero—for what is substance to a spirit? Or how is ’t matter trembles to come near it?

The door flew wide,—not swiftly, but, as fly The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight, And then swung back, nor close, but stood awry, Half letting in long shadows on the light, Which still in Juan’s candlesticks burned high, For he had two, both tolerably bright, And in the doorway, darkening darkness, stood The sable Friar in his solemn hood.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, ’Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon’s verge. How little do we know that which we are! How less what we may be! The eternal surge Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge, Lash’d from the foam of ages; while the graves Of empires heave but like some passing waves.

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken The night before, but being sick of shaking, He first inclined to think he had been mistaken, And then to be ashamed of such mistaking. His own internal ghost began to awaken Within him and to quell his corporal quaking, Hinting that soul and body on the whole Were odds against a disembodied soul.

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce, And he arose, advanced. The shade retreated, But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, Followed, his veins no longer cold, but heated, Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce, At whatsoever risk of being defeated. The ghost stopped, menaced, then retired, until He reached the ancient wall, then stood stone still.