This were the worst desertion:—renegadoes, Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie, Would scarcely join again the 'reformadoes,' Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty: And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes, Whether in Caledon or Italy, Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize To pain, the moment when you cease to please.

The lawyer and the critic but behold The baser sides of literature and life, And nought remains unseen, but much untold, By those who scour those double vales of strife. While common men grow ignorantly old, The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife, Dissecting the whole inside of a question, And with it all the process of digestion.

A legal broom 's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that 's the reason he himself 's so dirty; The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper Than can be hid by altering his shirt; he Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper, At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty, In all their habits;—not so you, I own; As Caesar wore his robe you wear your gown.

And all our little feuds, at least all mine, Dear Jefferson, once my most redoubted foe (As far as rhyme and criticism combine To make such puppets of us things below), Are over: Here 's a health to 'Auld Lang Syne!' I do not know you, and may never know Your face—but you have acted on the whole Most nobly, and I own it from my soul.

And when I use the phrase of 'Auld Lang Syne!' 'T is not address'd to you—the more 's the pity For me, for I would rather take my wine With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. But somehow,—it may seem a schoolboy's whine, And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred A whole one, and my heart flies to my head,—

As 'Auld Lang Syne' brings Scotland, one and all, Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams, The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black wall, All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, Like Banquo's offspring;—floating past me seems My childhood in this childishness of mine: I care not—'t is a glimpse of 'Auld Lang Syne.'

And though, as you remember, in a fit Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit, Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, Yet 't is in vain such sallies to permit, They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early: I 'scotch'd not kill'd' the Scotchman in my blood, And love the land of 'mountain and of flood.'

Don Juan, who was real, or ideal,— For both are much the same, since what men think Exists when the once thinkers are less real Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal; And yet 't is very puzzling on the brink Of what is call'd eternity, to stare, And know no more of what is here, than there;—

Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian— How we won't mention, why we need not say: Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion Of any slight temptation in their way; But his just now were spread as is a cushion Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honour; gay Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny.

The favour of the empress was agreeable; And though the duty wax'd a little hard, Young people at his time of life should be able To come off handsomely in that regard. He was now growing up like a green tree, able For love, war, or ambition, which reward Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium Make some prefer the circulating medium.

About this time, as might have been anticipated, Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated; Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples On our fresh feelings, but—as being participated With all kinds of incorrigible samples Of frail humanity—must make us selfish, And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish.

This we pass over. We will also pass The usual progress of intrigues between Unequal matches, such as are, alas! A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, But one who is not so youthful as she was In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter,

And Death, the sovereign's sovereign, though the great Gracchus of all mortality, who levels With his Agrarian laws the high estate Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels, To one small grass-grown patch (which must await Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils Who never had a foot of land till now,— Death 's a reformer, all men must allow.

He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter, In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry— Which (though I hate to say a thing that 's bitter) Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, Through all the 'purple and fine linen,' fitter For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot— And neutralize her outward show of scarlet.

And this same state we won't describe: we would Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection; But getting nigh grim Dante's 'obscure wood,' That horrid equinox, that hateful section Of human years, that half-way house, that rude Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear;—

I won't describe,—that is, if I can help Description; and I won't reflect,—that is, If I can stave off thought, which—as a whelp Clings to its teat—sticks to me through the abyss Of this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp Holds by the rock; or as a lover's kiss Drains its first draught of lips:—but, as I said, I won't philosophise, and will be read.

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted,— A thing which happens rarely: this he owed Much to his youth, and much to his reported Valour; much also to the blood he show'd, Like a race-horse; much to each dress he sported, Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd, As purple clouds befringe the sun; but most He owed to an old woman and his post.

He wrote to Spain:—and all his near relations, Perceiving fie was in a handsome way Of getting on himself, and finding stations For cousins also, answer'd the same day. Several prepared themselves for emigrations; And eating ices, were o'erheard to say, That with the addition of a slight pelisse, Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a piece.

His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too, That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, Where his assets were waxing rather few, He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor,— Replied, 'that she was glad to see him through Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker; As the sole sign of man's being in his senses Is, learning to reduce his past expenses.

'She also recommended him to God, And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother, Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd In Catholic eyes; but told him, too, to smother Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad; Inform'd him that he had a little brother Born in a second wedlock; and above All, praised the empress's maternal love.

'She could not too much give her approbation Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men Whose age, and what was better still, whose nation And climate, stopp'd all scandal (now and then):— At home it might have given her some vexation; But where thermometers sunk down to ten, Or five, or one, or zero, she could never Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river.'

O for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise! Oh for trumps of cherubim! Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, Drew quiet consolation through its hint, When she no more could read the pious print.

She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul, But went to heaven in as sincere a way As any body on the elected roll, Which portions out upon the judgment day Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll, Such as the conqueror William did repay His knights with, lotting others' properties Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees.

I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, Erneis, Radulphus—eight-and-forty manors (If that my memory doth not greatly err) Were their reward for following Billy's banners: And though I can't help thinking 't was scarce fair To strip the Saxons of their hydes, like tanners; Yet as they founded churches with the produce, You 'll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use.

The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times He felt like other plants called sensitive, Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes, Save such as Southey can afford to give. Perhaps he long'd in bitter frosts for climes In which the Neva's ice would cease to live Before May-day: perhaps, despite his duty, In royalty's vast arms he sigh d for beauty:

Perhaps—but, sans perhaps, we need not seek For causes young or old: the canker-worm Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek, As well as further drain the wither'd form: Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week His bills in, and however we may storm, They must be paid: though six days smoothly run, The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun.

I don't know how it was, but he grew sick: The empress was alarm'd, and her physician (The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition Which augur'd of the dead, however quick Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition; At which the whole court was extremely troubled, The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled.

Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours: Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin; Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumours, Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin; Some said 't was a concoction of the humours, Which with the blood too readily will claim kin; Others again were ready to maintain, ''T was only the fatigue of last campaign.'

But here is one prescription out of many: 'Sodae sulphat. 3vj. 3fs. Mannae optim. Aq. fervent. f. 3ifs. 3ij. tinct. Sennae Haustus' (And here the surgeon came and cupp'd him) 'Rx Pulv Com gr. iij. Ipecacuanhae' (With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 'em). 'Bolus Potassae Sulphuret. sumendus, Et haustus ter in die capiendus.'

This is the way physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem: but although we sneer In health—when ill, we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer: While that 'hiatus maxime deflendus' To be fill'd up by spade or mattock's near, Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy.

Juan demurr'd at this first notice to Quit; and though death had threaten'd an ejection, His youth and constitution bore him through, And sent the doctors in a new direction. But still his state was delicate: the hue Of health but flicker'd with a faint reflection Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel The faculty—who said that he must travel.

The climate was too cold, they said, for him, Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, Who did not like at first to lose her minion: But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim, And drooping like an eagle's with clipt pinion, She then resolved to send him on a mission, But in a style becoming his condition.

There was just then a kind of a discussion, A sort of treaty or negotiation Between the British cabinet and Russian, Maintain'd with all the due prevarication With which great states such things are apt to push on; Something about the Baltic's navigation, Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, Which Britons deem their 'uti possidetis.'

So Catherine, who had a handsome way Of fitting out her favourites, conferr'd This secret charge on Juan, to display At once her royal splendour, and reward His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, Received instructions how to play his card, Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours, Which show'd what great discernment was the donor's.

But she was lucky, and luck 's all. Your queens Are generally prosperous in reigning; Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means. But to continue: though her years were waning Her climacteric teased her like her teens; And though her dignity brook'd no complaining, So much did Juan's setting off distress her, She could not find at first a fit successor.

But time, the comforter, will come at last; And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number Of candidates requesting to be placed, Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber:— Not that she meant to fix again in haste, Nor did she find the quantity encumber, But always choosing with deliberation, Kept the place open for their emulation.

While this high post of honour 's in abeyance, For one or two days, reader, we request You 'll mount with our young hero the conveyance Which wafted him from Petersburgh: the best Barouche, which had the glory to display once The fair czarina's autocratic crest, When, a new lphigene, she went to Tauris, Was given to her favourite, and now bore his.

A bull-dog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine, All private favourites of Don Juan;—for (Let deeper sages the true cause determine) He had a kind of inclination, or Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin, Live animals: an old maid of threescore For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, Although he was not old, nor even a maid;—

The animals aforesaid occupied Their station: there were valets, secretaries, In other vehicles; but at his side Sat little Leila, who survived the parries He made 'gainst Cossacque sabres, in the wide Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies Her note, she don't forget the infant girl Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl

Poor little thing! She was as fair as docile, And with that gentle, serious character, As rare in living beings as a fossile Man, 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, 'grand Cuvier!' Ill fitted was her ignorance to jostle With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err: But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore.

Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. I cannot tell exactly what it was; He was not yet quite old enough to prove Parental feelings, and the other class, Call'd brotherly affection, could not move His bosom,—for he never had a sister: Ah! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her!

And still less was it sensual; for besides That he was not an ancient debauchee (Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins' salt tides, As acids rouse a dormant alkali), Although ('t will happen as our planet guides) His youth was not the chastest that might be, There was the purest Platonism at bottom Of all his feelings—only he forgot 'em.

Just now there was no peril of temptation; He loved the infant orphan he had saved, As patriots (now and then) may love a nation; His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved Owing to him;—as also her salvation Through his means and the church's might be paved. But one thing 's odd, which here must be inserted, The little Turk refused to be converted.

'T was strange enough she should retain the impression Through such a scene of change, and dread, and slaughter; But though three bishops told her the transgression, She show'd a great dislike to holy water: She also had no passion for confession; Perhaps she had nothing to confess:—no matter, Whate'er the cause, the church made little of it— She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet.

In fact, the only Christian she could bear Was Juan; whom she seem'd to have selected In place of what her home and friends once were. He naturally loved what he protected: And thus they form'd a rather curious pair, A guardian green in years, a ward connected In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender; And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender.

They journey'd on through Poland and through Warsaw, Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron: Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw Which gave her dukes the graceless name of 'Biron.' 'T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw, Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren! To lose by one month's frost some twenty years Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers.

Let this not seem an anti-climax:—'Oh! My guard! my old guard exclaim'd!' exclaim'd that god of day. Think of the Thunderer's falling down below Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh! Alas, that glory should be chill'd by snow! But should we wish to warm us on our way Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame.

From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt, Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, Has lately been the great Professor Kant. Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper About philosophy, pursued his jaunt To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions Have princes who spur more than their postilions.

And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine:— Ye glorious Gothic scenes! how much ye strike All phantasies, not even excepting mine; A grey wall, a green ruin, rusty pike, Make my soul pass the equinoctial line Between the present and past worlds, and hover Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over.

But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre Of the good feudal times forever gone, On which I have not time just now to lecture. From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, A city which presents to the inspector Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, The greatest number flesh hath ever known.

From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches, Where juniper expresses its best juice, The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. Senates and sages have condemn'd its use— But to deny the mob a cordial, which is Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel, Good government has left them, seems but cruel.

Here he embark'd, and with a flowing sail Went bounding for the island of the free, Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale; High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea, And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale; But Juan, season'd, as he well might be, By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs.

At length they rose, like a white wall along The blue sea's border; and I Don Juan felt— What even young strangers feel a little strong At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt— A kind of pride that he should be among Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole, And made the very billows pay them toll.

I 've no great cause to love that spot of earth, Which holds what might have been the noblest nation; But though I owe it little but my birth, I feel a mix'd regret and veneration For its decaying fame and former worth. Seven years (the usual term of transportation) Of absence lay one's old resentments level, When a man's country 's going to the devil.

Alas! could she but fully, truly, know How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd: How eager all the earth is for the blow Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword; How all the nations deem her their worst foe, That worse than worst of foes, the once adored False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, And now would chain them, to the very mind:—

Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, Who is but first of slaves? The nations are In prison,—but the gaoler, what is he? No less a victim to the bolt and bar. Is the poor privilege to turn the key Upon the captive, freedom? He 's as far From the enjoyment of the earth and air Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear.

Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties, Thy cliffs, dear Dover! harbour, and hotel; Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties; Thy waiters running mucks at every bell; Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties To those who upon land or water dwell; And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed, Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted.

Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique, And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, Who did not limit much his bills per week, Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it (His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek, Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it); But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, Is free, the respiration's worth the money.

On with the horses! Off to Canterbury! Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through puddle; Hurrah! how swiftly speeds the post so merry! Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle Along the road, as if they went to bury Their fare; and also pause besides, to fuddle With 'schnapps'—sad dogs! whom 'Hundsfot,' or 'Verflucter,' Affect no more than lightning a conductor.

Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits, Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry, As going at full speed—no matter where its Direction be, so 't is but in a hurry, And merely for the sake of its own merits; For the less cause there is for all this flurry, The greater is the pleasure in arriving At the great end of travel—which is driving.

They saw at Canterbury the cathedral; Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody stone, Were pointed out as usual by the bedral, In the same quaint, uninterested tone:— There 's glory again for you, gentle reader! All Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias; Which form that bitter draught, the human species.

The effect on Juan was of course sublime: He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time. Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, Who died in the then great attempt to climb O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, And ask'd why such a structure had been raised:

And being told it was 'God's house,' she said He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how He suffer'd Infidels in his homestead, The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low His holy temples in the lands which bred The True Believers:—and her infant brow Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine.

O! oh! through meadows managed like a garden, A paradise of hops and high production; For after years of travel by a bard in Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction, A green field is a sight which makes him pardon The absence of that more sublime construction, Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices, Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ices.

And when I think upon a pot of beer— But I won't weep!—and so drive on, postilions! As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, Juan admired these highways of free millions; A country in all senses the most dear To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, Who 'kick against the pricks' just at this juncture, And for their pains get only a fresh puncture.

What a delightful thing 's a turnpike road! So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god Had told his son to satisfy his craving With the York mail;—but onward as we roll, 'Surgit amari aliquid'—the toll

Alas, how deeply painful is all payment! Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's purses: As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, Such is the shortest way to general curses. They hate a murderer much less than a claimant On that sweet ore which every body nurses;— Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.

So said the Florentine: ye monarchs, hearken To your instructor. Juan now was borne, Just as the day began to wane and darken, O'er the high hill, which looks with pride or scorn Toward the great city.—Ye who have a spark in Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn According as you take things well or ill;— Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill!

The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space Which well beseem'd the 'Devil's drawing-room,' As some have qualified that wondrous place: But Juan felt, though not approaching home, As one who, though he were not of the race, Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other.

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head—and there is London Town!

But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper): The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, Were nothing but the natural atmosphere, Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear.

He paused—and so will I; as doth a crew Before they give their broadside. By and by, My gentle countrymen, we will renew Our old acquaintance; and at least I 'll try To tell you truths you will not take as true, Because they are so;—a male Mrs. Fry, With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, And brush a web or two from off the walls.

O Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin With Carlton, or with other houses? Try Your head at harden'd and imperial sin. To mend the people 's an absurdity, A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, Unless you make their betters better:—Fy! I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry.

Teach them the decencies of good threescore; Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses; Tell them that youth once gone returns no more, That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses; Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore, Too dull even for the dullest of excesses, The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all.

Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late, On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, To set up vain pretence of being great, 'T is not so to be good; and be it stated, The worthiest kings have ever loved least state; And tell them—But you won't, and I have prated Just now enough; but by and by I 'll prattle Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle.



CANTO THE ELEVENTH.

When Bishop Berkeley said 'there was no matter,' And proved it—'t was no matter what he said: They say his system 't is in vain to batter, Too subtle for the airiest human head; And yet who can believe it? I would shatter Gladly all matters down to stone or lead, Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, And wear my head, denying that I wear it.

What a sublime discovery 't was to make the Universe universal egotism, That all 's ideal—all ourselves: I 'll stake the World (be it what you will) that that 's no schism. O Doubt!—if thou be'st Doubt, for which some take thee; But which I doubt extremely—thou sole prism Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit! Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it.

For ever and anon comes Indigestion, (Not the most 'dainty Ariel') and perplexes Our soarings with another sort of question: And that which after all my spirit vexes, Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on, Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, The world, which at the worst 's a glorious blunder—

If it be chance; or if it be according To the old text, still better:—lest it should Turn out so, we 'll say nothing 'gainst the wording, As several people think such hazards rude. They 're right; our days are too brief for affording Space to dispute what no one ever could Decide, and every body one day will Know very clearly—or at least lie still.

And therefore will I leave off metaphysical Discussion, which is neither here nor there: If I agree that what is, is; then this I call Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair; The truth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical: I don't know what the reason is—the air Perhaps; but as I suffer from the shocks Of illness, I grow much more orthodox.

The first attack at once proved the Divinity (But that I never doubted, nor the Devil); The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity; The third, the usual Origin of Evil; The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity On so uncontrovertible a level, That I devoutly wish'd the three were four, On purpose to believe so much the more.

To our Theme.—The man who has stood on the Acropolis, And look'd down over Attica; or he Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is, Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis, Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, May not think much of London's first appearance— But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence?

Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill; Sunset the time, the place the same declivity Which looks along that vale of good and ill Where London streets ferment in full activity; While every thing around was calm and still, Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he Heard,—and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum Of cities, that boil over with their scum:—

I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit, And lost in wonder of so great a nation, Gave way to 't, since he could not overcome it. 'And here,' he cried, 'is Freedom's chosen station; Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it Racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection Awaits it, each new meeting or election.

'Here are chaste wives, pure lives; here people pay But what they please; and if that things be dear, 'T is only that they love to throw away Their cash, to show how much they have a-year. Here laws are all inviolate; none lay Traps for the traveller; every highway 's clear: Here-' he was interrupted by a knife, With,—'Damn your eyes! your money or your life!'

These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pads In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads, Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, In which the heedless gentleman who gads Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, May find himself within that isle of riches Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches.

Juan, who did not understand a word Of English, save their shibboleth, 'God damn!' And even that he had so rarely heard, He sometimes thought 't was only their 'Salam,' Or 'God be with you!'—and 't is not absurd To think so: for half English as I am (To my misfortune), never can I say I heard them wish 'God with you,' save that way;—

Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, And being somewhat choleric and sudden, Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture, And fired it into one assailant's pudding— Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture, And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in, Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 'Oh Jack! I 'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody Frenchman!'

On which Jack and his train set off at speed, And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance, Came up, all marvelling at such a deed, And offering, as usual, late assistance. Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed As if his veins would pour out his existence, Stood calling out for bandages and lint, And wish'd he had been less hasty with his flint.

'Perhaps,' thought he, 'it is the country's wont To welcome foreigners in this way: now I recollect some innkeepers who don't Differ, except in robbing with a bow, In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. But what is to be done? I can't allow The fellow to lie groaning on the road: So take him up; I 'll help you with the load.'

But ere they could perform this pious duty, The dying man cried, 'Hold! I 've got my gruel! O for a glass of max! We 've miss'd our booty; Let me die where I am!' And as the fuel Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill His breath,—he from his swelling throat untied A kerchief, crying, 'Give Sal that!'—and died.

The cravat stain'd with bloody drops fell down Before Don Juan's feet: he could not tell Exactly why it was before him thrown, Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell. Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, A thorough varmint, and a real swell, Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled, His pockets first and then his body riddled.

Don Juan, having done the best he could In all the circumstances of the case, As soon as 'Crowner's quest' allow'd, pursued His travels to the capital apace;— Esteeming it a little hard he should In twelve hours' time, and very little space, Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native In self-defence: this made him meditative.

He from the world had cut off a great man, Who in his time had made heroic bustle. Who in a row like Tom could lead the van, Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle? Who queer a flat? Who (spite of Bow Street's ban) On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle? Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing), So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing?

But Tom's no more—and so no more of Tom. Heroes must die; and by God's blessing 't is Not long before the most of them go home. Hail! Thamis, Hail! Upon thy verge it is That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, Through Kennington and all the other 'tons,' Which makes us wish ourselves in town at once;—

Through Groves, so call'd as being void of trees (Like lucus from no light); through prospects named Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please, Nor much to climb; through little boxes framed Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, With 'To be let' upon their doors proclaim'd; Through 'Rows' most modestly call'd 'Paradise,' Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice;—

Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion; Here taverns wooing to a pint of 'purl,' There mails fast flying off like a delusion; There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl In windows; here the lamplighter's infusion Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass (For in those days we had not got to gas);—

Through this, and much, and more, is the approach Of travellers to mighty Babylon: Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach, With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. I could say more, but do not choose to encroach Upon the Guide-book's privilege. The sun Had set some time, and night was on the ridge Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge,—

That 's rather fine. The gentle sound of Thamis— Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream, Though hardly heard through multifarious 'damme's'- The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam, The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where fame is A spectral resident—whose pallid beam In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile— Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle.

The Druids' groves are gone—so much the better: Stone-Henge is not—but what the devil is it?- But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter, That madmen may not bite you on a visit; The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor; The Mansion House too (though some people quiz it) To me appears a stiff yet grand erection; But then the Abbey 's worth the whole collection.

The line of lights, too, up to Charing Cross, Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation Like gold as in comparison to dross, Match'd with the Continent's illumination, Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss. The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation, And when they grew so—on their new-found lantern, Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn.

A row of gentlemen along the streets Suspended may illuminate mankind, As also bonfires made of country seats; But the old way is best for the purblind: The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind, Which, though 't is certain to perplex and frighten, Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten.

But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes Could recommence to hunt his honest man, And found him not amidst the various progenies Of this enormous city's spreading span, 'T were not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his Yet undiscover'd treasure. What I can, I 've done to find the same throughout life's journey, But see the world is only one attorney.

Over the stones still rattling up Pall Mall, Through crowds and carriages, but waxing thinner As thunder'd knockers broke the long seal'd spell Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner Admitted a small party as night fell,— Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner, Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, St. James's Palace and St. James's 'Hells.'

They reach'd the hotel: forth stream'd from the front door A tide of well-clad waiters, and around The mob stood, and as usual several score Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound In decent London when the daylight 's o'er; Commodious but immoral, they are found Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage.- But Juan now is stepping from his carriage

Into one of the sweetest of hotels, Especially for foreigners—and mostly For those whom favour or whom fortune swells, And cannot find a bill's small items costly. There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells (The den of many a diplomatic lost lie), Until to some conspicuous square they pass, And blazon o'er the door their names in brass.

Juan, whose was a delicate commission, Private, though publicly important, bore No title to point out with due precision The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 'T was merely known, that on a secret mission A foreigner of rank had graced our shore, Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who was said (In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head.

Some rumour also of some strange adventures Had gone before him, and his wars and loves; And as romantic heads are pretty painters, And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves Into the excursive, breaking the indentures Of sober reason wheresoe'er it moves, He found himself extremely in the fashion, Which serves our thinking people for a passion.

I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite The contrary; but then 't is in the head; Yet as the consequences are as bright As if they acted with the heart instead, What after all can signify the site Of ladies' lucubrations? So they lead In safety to the place for which you start, What matters if the road be head or heart?

Juan presented in the proper place, To proper placemen, every Russ credential; And was received with all the due grimace By those who govern in the mood potential, Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face, Thought (what in state affairs is most essential) That they as easily might do the youngster, As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster.

They err'd, as aged men will do; but by And by we 'll talk of that; and if we don't, 'T will be because our notion is not high Of politicians and their double front, Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie:— Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.

And, after all, what is a lie? 'T is but The truth in masquerade; and I defy Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put A fact without some leaven of a lie. The very shadow of true Truth would shut Up annals, revelations, poesy, And prophecy—except it should be dated Some years before the incidents related.

Praised be all liars and all lies! Who now Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy? She rings the world's 'Te Deum,' and her brow Blushes for those who will not:—but to sigh Is idle; let us like most others bow, Kiss hands, feet, any part of majesty, After the good example of 'Green Erin,' Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wearing.

Don Juan was presented, and his dress And mien excited general admiration— I don't know which was more admired or less: One monstrous diamond drew much observation, Which Catherine in a moment of 'ivresse' (In love or brandy's fervent fermentation) Bestow'd upon him, as the public learn'd; And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd.

Besides the ministers and underlings, Who must be courteous to the accredited Diplomatists of rather wavering kings, Until their royal riddle 's fully read, The very clerks,—those somewhat dirty springs Of office, or the house of office, fed By foul corruption into streams,—even they Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay:

And insolence no doubt is what they are Employ'd for, since it is their daily labour, In the dear offices of peace or war; And should you doubt, pray ask of your next neighbour, When for a passport, or some other bar To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore), If he found not his spawn of taxborn riches,

But Juan was received with much 'empressement:'- These phrases of refinement I must borrow From our next neighbours' land, where, like a chessman, There is a move set down for joy or sorrow Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough, More than on continents—as if the sea (See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free.

And yet the British 'Damme' 's rather Attic: Your continental oaths are but incontinent, And turn on things which no aristocratic Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anent This subject quote; as it would be schismatic In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't:— But 'Damme' 's quite ethereal, though too daring— Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing.

For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home; For true or false politeness (and scarce that Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam— The first the emblem (rarely though) of what You leave behind, the next of much you come To meet. However, 't is no time to chat On general topics: poems must confine Themselves to unity, like this of mine.

In the great world,—which, being interpreted, Meaneth the west or worst end of a city, And about twice two thousand people bred By no means to be very wise or witty, But to sit up while others lie in bed, And look down on the universe with pity,— Juan, as an inveterate patrician, Was well received by persons of condition.

He was a bachelor, which is a matter Of import both to virgin and to bride, The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter; And (should she not hold fast by love or pride) 'T is also of some moment to the latter: A rib 's a thorn in a wed gallant's side, Requires decorum, and is apt to double The horrid sin—and what 's still worse, the trouble.

But Juan was a bachelor—of arts, And parts, and hearts: he danced and sung, and had An air as sentimental as Mozart's Softest of melodies; and could be sad Or cheerful, without any 'flaws or starts,' Just at the proper time; and though a lad, Had seen the world—which is a curious sight, And very much unlike what people write.

Fair virgins blush'd upon him; wedded dames Bloom'd also in less transitory hues; For both commodities dwell by the Thames, The painting and the painted; youth, ceruse, Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims, Such as no gentleman can quite refuse: Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers Inquired his income, and if he had brothers.

The milliners who furnish 'drapery Misses' Throughout the season, upon speculation Of payment ere the honey-moon's last kisses Have waned into a crescent's coruscation, Thought such an opportunity as this is, Of a rich foreigner's initiation, Not to be overlook'd—and gave such credit, That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it.

The Blues, that tender tribe who sigh o'er sonnets, And with the pages of the last Review Line the interior of their heads or bonnets, Advanced in all their azure's highest hue: They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two; And which was softest, Russian or Castilian? And whether in his travels he saw Ilion?

Juan, who was a little superficial, And not in literature a great Drawcansir, Examined by this learned and especial Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer: His duties warlike, loving or official, His steady application as a dancer, Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, Which now he found was blue instead of green.

However, he replied at hazard, with A modest confidence and calm assurance, Which lent his learned lucubrations pith, And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith (Who at sixteen translated 'Hercules Furens' Into as furious English), with her best look, Set down his sayings in her common-place book.

Juan knew several languages—as well He might—and brought them up with skill, in time To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle, Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. There wanted but this requisite to swell His qualities (with them) into sublime: Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Maevia Mannish, Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish.

However, he did pretty well, and was Admitted as an aspirant to all The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass, At great assemblies or in parties small, He saw ten thousand living authors pass, That being about their average numeral; Also the eighty 'greatest living poets,' As every paltry magazine can show its.

In twice five years the 'greatest living poet,' Like to the champion in the fisty ring, Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it, Although 't is an imaginary thing. Even I—albeit I 'm sure I did not know it, Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king— Was reckon'd a considerable time, The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme.

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero My Leipsic, and my Mount Saint Jean seems Cain: 'La Belle Alliance' of dunces down at zero, Now that the Lion 's fall'n, may rise again: But I will fall at least as fell my hero; Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign; Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go, With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe.

Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and Campbell Before and after; but now grown more holy, The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble With poets almost clergymen, or wholly; And Pegasus hath a psalmodic amble Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, A modern Ancient Pistol—by the hilts?

Then there 's my gentle Euphues, who, they say, Sets up for being a sort of moral me; He 'll find it rather difficult some day To turn out both, or either, it may be. Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway; And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three; And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian 'Savage Landor' Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander.

John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique, Just as he really promised something great, If not intelligible, without Greek Contrived to talk about the gods of late, Much as they might have been supposed to speak. Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate; 'T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.

The list grows long of live and dead pretenders To that which none will gain—or none will know The conqueror at least; who, ere Time renders His last award, will have the long grass grow Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders. If I might augur, I should rate but low Their chances; they 're too numerous, like the thirty Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty.

This is the literary lower empire, Where the praetorian bands take up the matter;— A 'dreadful trade,' like his who 'gathers samphire,' The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter, With the same feelings as you 'd coax a vampire. Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, I 'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, And show them what an intellectual war is.

I think I know a trick or two, would turn Their flanks;—but it is hardly worth my while With such small gear to give myself concern: Indeed I 've not the necessary bile; My natural temper 's really aught but stern, And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a smile; And then she drops a brief and modern curtsy, And glides away, assured she never hurts ye.

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril Amongst live poets and blue ladies, past With some small profit through that field so sterile, Being tired in time, and, neither least nor last, Left it before he had been treated very ill; And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd Amongst the higher spirits of the day, The sun's true son, no vapour, but a ray.

His morns he pass'd in business—which, dissected, Was like all business a laborious nothing That leads to lassitude, the most infected And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing, And on our sofas makes us lie dejected, And talk in tender horrors of our loathing All kinds of toil, save for our country's good— Which grows no better, though 't is time it should.

His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons, Lounging and boxing; and the twilight hour In riding round those vegetable puncheons Call'd 'Parks,' where there is neither fruit nor flower Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings; But after all it is the only 'bower' (In Moore's phrase), where the fashionable fair Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air.

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world! Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar Through street and square fast flashing chariots hurl'd Like harness'd meteors; then along the floor Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd; Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, Which opens to the thousand happy few An earthly paradise of 'Or Molu.'

There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the waltz, The only dance which teaches girls to think, Makes one in love even with its very faults. Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink, And long the latest of arrivals halts, 'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb, And gain an inch of staircase at a time.

Thrice happy he who, after a survey Of the good company, can win a corner, A door that's in or boudoir out of the way, Where he may fix himself like small 'Jack Horner,' And let the Babel round run as it may, And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, Or an approver, or a mere spectator, Yawning a little as the night grows later.

But this won't do, save by and by; and he Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share, Must steer with care through all that glittering sea Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, to where He deems it is his proper place to be; Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air, Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille.

Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride, Let him take care that that which he pursues Is not at once too palpably descried. Full many an eager gentleman oft rues His haste: impatience is a blundering guide, Amongst a people famous for reflection, Who like to play the fool with circumspection.

But, if you can contrive, get next at supper; Or, if forestalled, get opposite and ogle:— O, ye ambrosial moments! always upper In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper, The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue! Ill Can tender souls relate the rise and fall Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball.

But these precautionary hints can touch Only the common run, who must pursue, And watch, and ward; whose plans a word too much Or little overturns; and not the few Or many (for the number's sometimes such) Whom a good mien, especially if new, Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense, Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since.

Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom, Before he can escape from so much danger As will environ a conspicuous man. Some Talk about poetry, and 'rack and manger,' And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble;— I wish they knew the life of a young noble.

They are young, but know not youth—it is anticipated; Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou; Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated; Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to a Jew; Both senates see their nightly votes participated Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew; And having voted, dined, drunk, gamed, and whored, The family vault receives another lord.

'Where is the world?' cries Young, at eighty—'Where The world in which a man was born? 'Alas! Where is the world of eight years past? 'T was there— I look for it—'t is gone, a globe of glass! Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings.

Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knows. Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell: Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those Who bound the bar or senate in their spell? Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes? And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved well? Where are those martyr'd saints the Five per Cents? And where—oh, where the devil are the rents?

Where 's Brummel? Dish'd. Where 's Long Pole Wellesley? Diddled. Where 's Whitbread? Romilly? Where 's George the Third? Where is his will? (That 's not so soon unriddled.) And where is 'Fum' the Fourth, our 'royal bird?' Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard: 'Caw me, caw thee'—for six months hath been hatching This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching.

Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That? The Honourable Mistresses and Misses? Some laid aside like an old Opera hat, Married, unmarried, and remarried (this is An evolution oft performed of late). Where are the Dublin shouts—and London hisses? Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd as usual. Where My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were.

Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses? Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is,— Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies Of fashion,—say what streams now fill those channels? Some die, some fly, some languish on the Continent, Because the times have hardly left them one tenant.

Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes, Have taken up at length with younger brothers: Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks: Some maids have been made wives, some merely mothers; Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks: In short, the list of alterations bothers. There 's little strange in this, but something strange is The unusual quickness of these common changes.

Talk not of seventy years as age; in seven I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to The humblest individual under heaven, Than might suffice a moderate century through. I knew that nought was lasting, but now even Change grows too changeable, without being new: Nought 's permanent among the human race, Except the Whigs not getting into place.

I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter, Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke (No matter which) turn politician stupider, If that can well be, than his wooden look. But it is time that I should hoist my 'blue Peter,' And sail for a new theme:—I have seen—and shook To see it—the king hiss'd, and then caress'd; But don't pretend to settle which was best.

I have seen the Landholders without a rap— I have seen Joanna Southcote—I have seen— The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap— I have seen that sad affair of the late Queen— I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's cap— I have seen a Congress doing all that 's mean— I have seen some nations like o'erloaded asses Kick off their burthens, meaning the high classes.

I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and Interminable—not eternal—speakers— I have seen the funds at war with house and land— I have seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers— I have seen the people ridden o'er like sand By slaves on horseback—I have seen malt liquors Exchanged for 'thin potations' by John Bull— I have seen john half detect himself a fool.-

But 'carpe diem,' Juan, 'carpe, carpe!' To-morrow sees another race as gay And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy. 'Life 's a poor player,'—then 'play out the play, Ye villains!' above all keep a sharp eye Much less on what you do than what you say: Be hypocritical, be cautious, be Not what you seem, but always what you see.

But how shall I relate in other cantos Of what befell our hero in the land, Which 't is the common cry and lie to vaunt as A moral country? But I hold my hand— For I disdain to write an Atalantis; But 't is as well at once to understand, You are not a moral people, and you know it Without the aid of too sincere a poet.

What Juan saw and underwent shall be My topic, with of course the due restriction Which is required by proper courtesy; And recollect the work is only fiction, And that I sing of neither mine nor me, Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt This—when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out.

Whether he married with the third or fourth Offspring of some sage husband-hunting countess, Or whether with some virgin of more worth (I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties) He took to regularly peopling Earth, Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is,— Or whether he was taken in for damages, For being too excursive in his homages,—

Is yet within the unread events of time. Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back Against the same given quantity of rhyme, For being as much the subject of attack As ever yet was any work sublime, By those who love to say that white is black. So much the better!—I may stand alone, But would not change my free thoughts for a throne.



CANTO THE TWELTH.

Of all the barbarous middle ages, that Which is most barbarous is the middle age Of man; it is—I really scarce know what; But when we hover between fool and sage, And don't know justly what we would be at— A period something like a printed page, Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were;—

Too old for youth,—too young, at thirty-five, To herd with boys, or hoard with good threescore,— I wonder people should be left alive; But since they are, that epoch is a bore: Love lingers still, although 't were late to wive; And as for other love, the illusion 's o'er; And money, that most pure imagination, Gleams only through the dawn of its creation.

O Gold! Why call we misers miserable? Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall; Theirs is the best bower anchor, the chain cable Which holds fast other pleasures great and small. Ye who but see the saving man at table, And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring.

Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker; Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss; But making money, slowly first, then quicker, And adding still a little through each cross (Which will come over things), beats love or liquor, The gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross. O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, Which makes bank credit like a bank of vapour.

Who hold the balance of the world? Who reign O'er congress, whether royalist or liberal? Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain? (That make old Europe's journals squeak and gibber all.) Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber all? The shade of Buonaparte's noble daring?- Jew Rothschild, and his fellow-Christian, Baring.

Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan Is not a merely speculative hit, But seats a nation or upsets a throne. Republics also get involved a bit; Columbia's stock hath holders not unknown On 'Change; and even thy silver soil, Peru, Must get itself discounted by a Jew.

Why call the miser miserable? as I said before: the frugal life is his, Which in a saint or cynic ever was The theme of praise: a hermit would not miss Canonization for the self-same cause, And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities? Because, you 'll say, nought calls for such a trial;— Then there 's more merit in his self-denial.

He is your only poet;—passion, pure And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays, Possess'd, the ore, of which mere hopes allure Nations athwart the deep: the golden rays Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure; On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze, While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dies Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes.

The lands on either side are his; the ship From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads For him the fragrant produce of each trip; Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip; His very cellars might be kings' abodes; While he, despising every sensual call, Commands—the intellectual lord of all.

Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, To build a college, or to found a race, A hospital, a church,—and leave behind Some dome surmounted by his meagre face: Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind Even with the very ore which makes them base; Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation, Or revel in the joys of calculation.

But whether all, or each, or none of these May be the hoarder's principle of action, The fool will call such mania a disease:— What is his own? Go—look at each transaction, Wars, revels, loves—do these bring men more ease Than the mere plodding through each 'vulgar fraction'? Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser! Let spendthrifts' heirs enquire of yours—who 's wiser?

How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming chests Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins (Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines, But) of fine unclipt gold, where dully rests Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confines, Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp:— Yes! ready money is Aladdin's lamp.

'Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,'—'for love Is heaven, and heaven is love:'—so sings the bard; Which it were rather difficult to prove (A thing with poetry in general hard). Perhaps there may be something in 'the grove,' At least it rhymes to 'love;' but I 'm prepared To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental) If 'courts' and 'camps' be quite so sentimental.

But if Love don't, Cash does, and Cash alone: Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides; Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were none; Without cash, Malthus tells you—'take no brides.' So Cash rules Love the ruler, on his own High ground, as virgin Cynthia sways the tides: And as for Heaven 'Heaven being Love,' why not say honey Is wax? Heaven is not Love, 't is Matrimony.

Is not all love prohibited whatever, Excepting marriage? which is love, no doubt, After a sort; but somehow people never With the same thought the two words have help'd out: Love may exist with marriage, and should ever, And marriage also may exist without; But love sans bans is both a sin and shame, And ought to go by quite another name.

Now if the 'court,' and 'camp,' and 'grove,' be not Recruited all with constant married men, Who never coveted their neighbour's lot, I say that line 's a lapsus of the pen;— Strange too in my 'buon camerado' Scott, So celebrated for his morals, when My Jeffrey held him up as an example To me;—of whom these morals are a sample.

Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded, And that 's enough; succeeded in my youth, The only time when much success is needed: And my success produced what I, in sooth, Cared most about; it need not now be pleaded— Whate'er it was, 't was mine; I 've paid, in truth, Of late the penalty of such success, But have not learn'd to wish it any less.

That suit in Chancery,—which some persons plead In an appeal to the unborn, whom they, In the faith of their procreative creed, Baptize posterity, or future clay,— To me seems but a dubious kind of reed To lean on for support in any way; Since odds are that posterity will know No more of them, than they of her, I trow.

Why, I 'm posterity—and so are you; And whom do we remember? Not a hundred. Were every memory written down all true, The tenth or twentieth name would be but blunder'd; Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few, And 'gainst those few your annalists have thunder'd; And Mitford in the nineteenth century Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie.

Good people all, of every degree, Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers, In this twelfth Canto 't is my wish to be As serious as if I had for inditers Malthus and Wilberforce:—the last set free The Negroes and is worth a million fighters; While Wellington has but enslaved the Whites, And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writes.

I 'm serious—so are all men upon paper; And why should I not form my speculation, And hold up to the sun my little taper? Mankind just now seem wrapt in mediation On constitutions and steam-boats of vapour; While sages write against all procreation, Unless a man can calculate his means Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans.

That 's noble! That 's romantic! For my part, I think that 'Philo-genitiveness' is (Now here 's a word quite after my own heart, Though there 's a shorter a good deal than this, If that politeness set it not apart; But I 'm resolved to say nought that 's amiss)— I say, methinks that 'Philo-genitiveness' Might meet from men a little more forgiveness.

And now to business.—O my gentle Juan, Thou art in London—in that pleasant place, Where every kind of mischief 's daily brewing, Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 'T is true, that thy career is not a new one; Thou art no novice in the headlong chase Of early life; but this is a new land, Which foreigners can never understand.

What with a small diversity of climate, Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, I could send forth my mandate like a primate Upon the rest of Europe's social state; But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at, Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate. All countries have their 'Lions,' but in the There is but one superb menagerie.

But I am sick of politics. Begin, 'Paulo Majora.' Juan, undecided Amongst the paths of being 'taken in,' Above the ice had like a skater glided: When tired of play, he flirted without sin With some of those fair creatures who have prided Themselves on innocent tantalisation, And hate all vice except its reputation.

But these are few, and in the end they make Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows That even the purest people may mistake Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snows; And then men stare, as if a new ass spake To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows Quicksilver small talk, ending (if you note it) With the kind world's amen—'Who would have thought it?'

The little Leila, with her orient eyes, And taciturn Asiatic disposition (Which saw all western things with small surprise, To the surprise of people of condition, Who think that novelties are butterflies To be pursued as food for inanition), Her charming figure and romantic history Became a kind of fashionable mystery.

The women much divided—as is usual Amongst the sex in little things or great. Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you all— I have always liked you better than I state: Since I 've grown moral, still I must accuse you all Of being apt to talk at a great rate; And now there was a general sensation Amongst you, about Leila's education.

In one point only were you settled—and You had reason; 't was that a young child of grace, As beautiful as her own native land, And far away, the last bud of her race, Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space, Would be much better taught beneath the eye Of peeresses whose follies had run dry.

So first there was a generous emulation, And then there was a general competition, To undertake the orphan's education. As Juan was a person of condition, It had been an affront on this occasion To talk of a subscription or petition; But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages, Whose tale belongs to 'Hallam's Middle Ages,'

And one or two sad, separate wives, without A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough— Begg'd to bring up the little girl and 'out,'- For that 's the phrase that settles all things now, Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, And all her points as thorough-bred to show: And I assure you, that like virgin honey Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money).

How all the needy honourable misters, Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy, The watchful mothers, and the careful sisters (Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy At making matches, where ''t is gold that glisters,' Than their he relatives), like flies o'er candy Buzz round 'the Fortune' with their busy battery, To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery!

Each aunt, each cousin, hath her speculation; Nay, married dames will now and then discover Such pure disinterestedness of passion, I 've known them court an heiress for their lover. 'Tantaene!' Such the virtues of high station, Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet 's 'Dover!' While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares, Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs.

Some are soon bagg'd, and some reject three dozen. 'T is fine to see them scattering refusals And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin (Friends of the party), who begin accusals, Such as—'Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals To his billets? Why waltz with him? Why, I pray, Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day?

'Why?—Why?—Besides, Fred really was attach'd; 'T was not her fortune—he has enough without: The time will come she 'll wish that she had snatch'd So good an opportunity, no doubt:— But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd, As I 'll tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout: And after all poor Frederick may do better— Pray did you see her answer to his letter?'

Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets Upon the sweepstakes for substantial wives; And when at last the pretty creature gets Some gentleman, who fights, or writes, or drives, It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected To find how very badly she selected.

For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, Worn out with importunity; or fall (But here perhaps the instances are fewer) To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure (If 't is not vain examples to recall) To draw a high prize: now, howe'er he got her, I See nought more strange in this than t' other lottery.

I, for my part (one 'modern instance' more, 'True, 't is a pity—pity 't is, 't is true'), Was chosen from out an amatory score, Albeit my years were less discreet than few; But though I also had reform'd before Those became one who soon were to be two, I 'll not gainsay the generous public's voice, That the young lady made a monstrous choice.

O, pardon my digression—or at least Peruse! 'T is always with a moral end That I dissert, like grace before a feast: For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend, A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest, My Muse by exhortation means to mend All people, at all times, and in most places, Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces.

But now I 'm going to be immoral; now I mean to show things really as they are, Not as they ought to be: for I avow, That till we see what 's what in fact, we 're far From much improvement with that virtuous plough Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar Upon the black loam long manured by Vice, Only to keep its corn at the old price.

But first of little Leila we 'll dispose; For like a day-dawn she was young and pure, Or like the old comparison of snows, Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure. Like many people everybody knows, Don Juan was delighted to secure A goodly guardian for his infant charge, Who might not profit much by being at large.

Besides, he had found out he was no tutor (I wish that others would find out the same); And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter, For silly wards will bring their guardians blame: So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor To make his little wild Asiatic tame, Consulting 'the Society for Vice Suppression,' Lady Pinchbeck was his choice.

Olden she was—but had been very young; Virtuous she was—and had been, I believe; Although the world has such an evil tongue That—but my chaster ear will not receive An echo of a syllable that 's wrong: In fact, there 's nothing makes me so much grieve, As that abominable tittle-tattle, Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle.

Moreover I 've remark'd (and I was once A slight observer in a modest way), And so may every one except a dunce, That ladies in their youth a little gay, Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense Of the sad consequence of going astray, Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the woe Which the mere passionless can never know.

While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue By railing at the unknown and envied passion, Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you, Or, what 's still worse, to put you out of fashion,— The kinder veteran with calm words will court you, Entreating you to pause before you dash on; Expounding and illustrating the riddle Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle.

Now whether it be thus, or that they are stricter, As better knowing why they should be so, I think you 'll find from many a family picture, That daughters of such mothers as may know The world by experience rather than by lecture, Turn out much better for the Smithfield Show Of vestals brought into the marriage mart, Than those bred up by prudes without a heart.

I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about— As who has not, if female, young, and pretty? But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk'd about; She merely was deem'd amiable and witty, And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd about: Then she was given to charity and pity, And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) For being a most exemplary wife.

High in high circles, gentle in her own, She was the mild reprover of the young, Whenever—which means every day—they 'd shown An awkward inclination to go wrong. The quantity of good she did 's unknown, Or at the least would lengthen out my song: In brief, the little orphan of the East Had raised an interest in her, which increased.

Juan, too, was a sort of favourite with her, Because she thought him a good heart at bottom, A little spoil'd, but not so altogether; Which was a wonder, if you think who got him, And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither: Though this might ruin others, it did not him, At least entirely—for he had seen too many Changes in youth, to be surprised at any.

And these vicissitudes tell best in youth; For when they happen at a riper age, People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, And wonder Providence is not more sage. Adversity is the first path to truth: He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty.

How far it profits is another matter.- Our hero gladly saw his little charge Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter Being long married, and thus set at large, Had left all the accomplishments she taught her To be transmitted, like the Lord Mayor's barge, To the next comer; or—as it will tell More Muse-like—like to Cytherea's shell.

I call such things transmission; for there is A floating balance of accomplishment Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, According as their minds or backs are bent. Some waltz; some draw; some fathom the abyss Of metaphysics; others are content With music; the most moderate shine as wits; While others have a genius turn'd for fits.

But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, Theology, fine arts, or finer stays, May be the baits for gentlemen or lords With regular descent, in these our days, The last year to the new transfers its hoards; New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise Of 'elegant' et caetera, in fresh batches— All matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches.

But now I will begin my poem. 'T is Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new, That from the first of Cantos up to this I 've not begun what we have to go through. These first twelve books are merely flourishes, Preludios, trying just a string or two Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure; And when so, you shall have the overture.

My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin About what 's call'd success, or not succeeding: Such thoughts are quite below the strain they have chosen; 'T is a 'great moral lesson' they are reading. I thought, at setting off, about two dozen Cantos would do; but at Apollo's pleading, If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd, I think to canter gently through a hundred.

Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, Yclept the Great World; for it is the least, Although the highest: but as swords have hilts By which their power of mischief is increased, When man in battle or in quarrel tilts, Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east, Must still obey the high—which is their handle, Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle.

He had many friends who had many wives, and was Well look'd upon by both, to that extent Of friendship which you may accept or pass, It does nor good nor harm being merely meant To keep the wheels going of the higher class, And draw them nightly when a ticket 's sent: And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls, For the first season such a life scarce palls.

A young unmarried man, with a good name And fortune, has an awkward part to play; For good society is but a game, 'The royal game of Goose,' as I may say, Where every body has some separate aim, An end to answer, or a plan to lay— The single ladies wishing to be double, The married ones to save the virgins trouble.

I don't mean this as general, but particular Examples may be found of such pursuits: Though several also keep their perpendicular Like poplars, with good principles for roots; Yet many have a method more reticular— 'Fishers for men,' like sirens with soft lutes: For talk six times with the same single lady, And you may get the wedding dresses ready.

Perhaps you 'll have a letter from the mother, To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd; Perhaps you 'll have a visit from the brother, All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand What 'your intentions are?'—One way or other It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand: And between pity for her case and yours, You 'll add to Matrimony's list of cures.

I 've known a dozen weddings made even thus, And some of them high names: I have also known Young men who—though they hated to discuss Pretensions which they never dream'd to have shown— Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss, Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone, And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair, In happier plight than if they form'd a pair.

There 's also nightly, to the uninitiated, A peril—not indeed like love or marriage, But not the less for this to be depreciated: It is—I meant and mean not to disparage The show of virtue even in the vitiated— It adds an outward grace unto their carriage— But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot, 'Couleur de rose,' who 's neither white nor scarlet.

Such is your cold coquette, who can't say 'No,' And won't say 'Yes,' and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow— Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing. This works a world of sentimental woe, And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin; But yet is merely innocent flirtation, Not quite adultery, but adulteration.

'Ye gods, I grow a talker!' Let us prate. The next of perils, though I place it sternest, Is when, without regard to 'church or state,' A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. Abroad, such things decide few women's fate— (Such, early traveller! is the truth thou learnest)— But in old England, when a young bride errs, Poor thing! Eve's was a trifling case to hers.

For 't is a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit Country, where a young couple of the same ages Can't form a friendship, but the world o'erawes it. A verdict—grievous foe to those who cause it!- Forms a sad climax to romantic homages; Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders, And evidences which regale all readers.

But they who blunder thus are raw beginners; A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners, The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy; You may see such at all the balls and dinners, Among the proudest of our aristocracy, So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste— And all by having tact as well as taste.

Juan, who did not stand in the predicament Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more; For he was sick—no, 't was not the word sick I meant— But he had seen so much love before, That he was not in heart so very weak;—I meant But thus much, and no sneer against the shore Of white cliffs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stockings, Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockings.

But coming young from lands and scenes romantic, Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for Passion, And Passion's self must have a spice of frantic, Into a country where 't is half a fashion, Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation: Besides (alas! his taste—forgive and pity!) At first he did not think the women pretty.

I say at first—for he found out at last, But by degrees, that they were fairer far Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast Beneath the influence of the eastern star. A further proof we should not judge in haste; Yet inexperience could not be his bar To taste:—the truth is, if men would confess, That novelties please less than they impress.

Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger, To that impracticable place, Timbuctoo, Where Geography finds no one to oblige her With such a chart as may be safely stuck to— For Europe ploughs in Afric like 'bos piger:' But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there No doubt I should be told that black is fair.

It is. I will not swear that black is white; But I suspect in fact that white is black, And the whole matter rests upon eyesight. Ask a blind man, the best judge. You 'll attack Perhaps this new position—but I 'm right; Or if I 'm wrong, I 'll not be ta'en aback:— He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark Within; and what seest thou? A dubious spark.

But I 'm relapsing into metaphysics, That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics, Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame; And this reflection brings me to plain physics, And to the beauties of a foreign dame, Compared with those of our pure pearls of price, Those polar summers, all sun, and some ice.

Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes;— Not that there 's not a quantity of those Who have a due respect for their own wishes. Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious: They warm into a scrape, but keep of course, As a reserve, a plunge into remorse.

But this has nought to do with their outsides. I said that Juan did not think them pretty At the first blush; for a fair Briton hides Half her attractions—probably from pity— And rather calmly into the heart glides, Than storms it as a foe would take a city; But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try) She keeps it for you like a true ally.

She cannot step as does an Arab barb, Or Andalusian girl from mass returning, Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb, Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning; Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb— le those bravuras (which I still am learning To like, though I have been seven years in Italy, And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily);—

She cannot do these things, nor one or two Others, in that off-hand and dashing style Which takes so much—to give the devil his due; Nor is she quite so ready with her smile, Nor settles all things in one interview (A thing approved as saving time and toil);— But though the soil may give you time and trouble, Well cultivated, it will render double.

And if in fact she takes to a 'grande passion,' It is a very serious thing indeed: Nine times in ten 't is but caprice or fashion, Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead, The pride of a mere child with a new sash on, Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed: But the tenth instance will be a tornado, For there 's no saying what they will or may do.

The reason 's obvious; if there 's an eclat, They lose their caste at once, as do the Parias; And when the delicacies of the law Have fill'd their papers with their comments various, Society, that china without flaw (The hypocrite!), will banish them like Marius, To sit amidst the ruins of their guilt: For Fame 's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt.

Perhaps this is as it should be;—it is A comment on the Gospel's 'Sin no more, And be thy sins forgiven:'—but upon this I leave the saints to settle their own score. Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss, An erring woman finds an opener door For her return to Virtue—as they cal That lady, who should be at home to all.

For me, I leave the matter where I find it, Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads People some ten times less in fact to mind it, And care but for discoveries and not deeds. And as for chastity, you 'll never bind it By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads, But aggravate the crime you have not prevented, By rendering desperate those who had else repented.

But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd Upon the moral lessons of mankind: Besides, he had not seen of several hundred A lady altogether to his mind. A little 'blase'—'t is not to be wonder'd At, that his heart had got a tougher rind: And though not vainer from his past success, No doubt his sensibilities were less.

He also had been busy seeing sights— The Parliament and all the other houses; Had sat beneath the gallery at nights, To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses) The world to gaze upon those northern lights Which flash'd as far as where the musk-bull browses; He had also stood at times behind the throne— But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone.

He saw, however, at the closing session, That noble sight, when really free the nation, A king in constitutional possession Of such a throne as is the proudest station, Though despots know it not—till the progression Of freedom shall complete their education. 'T is not mere splendour makes the show august To eye or heart—it is the people's trust.

There, too, he saw (whate'er he may be now) A Prince, the prince of princes at the time, With fascination in his very bow, And full of promise, as the spring of prime. Though royalty was written on his brow, He had then the grace, too, rare in every clime, Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, A finish'd gentleman from top to toe.

And Juan was received, as hath been said, Into the best society: and there Occurr'd what often happens, I 'm afraid, However disciplined and debonnaire:— The talent and good humour he display'd, Besides the mark'd distinction of his air, Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, Even though himself avoided the occasion.

But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why, Is not to be put hastily together; And as my object is morality (Whatever people say), I don't know whether I 'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry, But harrow up his feelings till they wither, And hew out a huge monument of pathos, As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos.

Here the twelfth Canto of our introduction Ends. When the body of the book 's begun, You 'll find it of a different construction From what some people say 't will be when done: The plan at present 's simply in concoction, I can't oblige you, reader, to read on; That 's your affair, not mine: a real spirit Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear it.

And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, Remember, reader! you have had before The worst of tempests and the best of battles That e'er were brew'd from elements or gore, Besides the most sublime of—Heaven knows what else: An usurer could scarce expect much more— But my best canto, save one on astronomy, Will turn upon 'political economy.'

That is your present theme for popularity: Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake, It grows an act of patriotic charity, To show the people the best way to break. My plan (but I, if but for singularity, Reserve it) will be very sure to take. Meantime, read all the national debt-sinkers, And tell me what you think of your great thinkers.



CANTO THE THIRTEENTH.

I now mean to be serious;—it is time, Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious. A jest at Vice by Virtue 's call'd a crime, And critically held as deleterious: Besides, the sad 's a source of the sublime, Although when long a little apt to weary us; And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn, As an old temple dwindled to a column.

The Lady Adeline Amundeville ('Tis an old Norman name, and to be found In pedigrees, by those who wander still Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will, And beauteous, even where beauties most abound, In Britain—which of course true patriots find The goodliest soil of body and of mind.

I 'll not gainsay them; it is not my cue; I 'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the best: An eye 's an eye, and whether black or blue, Is no great matter, so 't is in request, 'T is nonsense to dispute about a hue— The kindest may be taken as a test. The fair sex should be always fair; and no man, Till thirty, should perceive there 's a plain woman.

And after that serene and somewhat dull Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days More quiet, when our moon 's no more at full, We may presume to criticise or praise; Because indifference begins to lull Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways; Also because the figure and the face Hint, that 't is time to give the younger place.

I know that some would fain postpone this era, Reluctant as all placemen to resign Their post; but theirs is merely a chimera, For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line: But then they have their claret and Madeira To irrigate the dryness of decline; And county meetings, and the parliament, And debt, and what not, for their solace sent.

And is there not religion, and reform, Peace, war, the taxes, and what 's call'd the 'Nation'? The struggle to be pilots in a storm? The landed and the monied speculation? The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, Instead of love, that mere hallucination? Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.

Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd, Right honestly, 'he liked an honest hater!'- The only truth that yet has been confest Within these latest thousand years or later. Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest:— For my part, I am but a mere spectator, And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles;

But neither love nor hate in much excess; Though 't was not once so. If I sneer sometimes, It is because I cannot well do less, And now and then it also suits my rhymes. I should be very willing to redress Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail.

Of all tales 't is the saddest—and more sad, Because it makes us smile: his hero 's right, And still pursues the right;—to curb the bad His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight His guerdon: 't is his virtue makes him mad! But his adventures form a sorry sight; A sorrier still is the great moral taught By that real epic unto all who have thought.

Redressing injury, revenging wrong, To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; Opposing singly the united strong, From foreign yoke to free the helpless native:— Alas! must noblest views, like an old song, Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative, A jest, a riddle, Fame through thin and thick sought! And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote?

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; A single laugh demolish'd the right arm Of his own country;—seldom since that day Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could charm, The world gave ground before her bright array; And therefore have his volumes done such harm, That all their glory, as a composition, Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition.

I 'm 'at my old lunes'—digression, and forget The Lady Adeline Amundeville; The fair most fatal Juan ever met, Although she was not evil nor meant ill; But Destiny and Passion spread the net (Fate is a good excuse for our own will), And caught them;—what do they not catch, methinks? But I 'm not OEdipus, and life 's a Sphinx.

I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare To venture a solution: 'Davus sum!' And now I will proceed upon the pair. Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay world's hum, Was the Queen-Bee, the glass of all that 's fair; Whose charms made all men speak, and women dumb. The last 's a miracle, and such was reckon'd, And since that time there has not been a second.

Chaste was she, to detraction's desperation, And wedded unto one she had loved well— A man known in the councils of the nation, Cool, and quite English, imperturbable, Though apt to act with fire upon occasion, Proud of himself and her: the world could tell Nought against either, and both seem'd secure— She in her virtue, he in his hauteur.