It chanced some diplomatical relations, Arising out of business, often brought Himself and Juan in their mutual stations Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience, And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought, And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends In making men what courtesy calls friends.

And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow In judging men—when once his judgment was Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, Had all the pertinacity pride has, Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, Because its own good pleasure hath decided.

His friendships, therefore, and no less aversions, Though oft well founded, which confirm'd but more His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians And Medes, would ne'er revoke what went before. His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians, Of common likings, which make some deplore What they should laugh at—the mere ague still Of men's regard, the fever or the chill.

''T is not in mortals to command success: But do you more, Sempronius—don't deserve it,' And take my word, you won't have any less. Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it; Give gently way, when there 's too great a press; And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it, For, like a racer, or a boxer training, 'T will make, if proved, vast efforts without paining.

Lord Henry also liked to be superior, As most men do, the little or the great; The very lowest find out an inferior, At least they think so, to exert their state Upon: for there are very few things wearier Than solitary Pride's oppressive weight, Which mortals generously would divide, By bidding others carry while they ride.

In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal, O'er Juan he could no distinction claim; In years he had the advantage of time's sequel; And, as he thought, in country much the same— Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill, At which all modern nations vainly aim; And the Lord Henry was a great debater, So that few members kept the house up later.

These were advantages: and then he thought— It was his foible, but by no means sinister— That few or none more than himself had caught Court mysteries, having been himself a minister: He liked to teach that which he had been taught, And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir; And reconciled all qualities which grace man, Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman.

He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity; He almost honour'd him for his docility; Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavity, Or contradicted but with proud humility. He knew the world, and would not see depravity In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility, If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop— For then they are very difficult to stop.

And then he talk'd with him about Madrid, Constantinople, and such distant places; Where people always did as they were bid, Or did what they should not with foreign graces. Of coursers also spake they: Henry rid Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races; And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian, Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian.

And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, And diplomatic dinners, or at other— For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, As in freemasonry a higher brother. Upon his talent Henry had no doubts; His manner show'd him sprung from a high mother; And all men like to show their hospitality To him whose breeding matches with his quality.

At Blank-Blank Square;—for we will break no squares By naming streets: since men are so censorious, And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares, Reaping allusions private and inglorious, Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs, Which were, or are, or are to be notorious, That therefore do I previously declare, Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Square.

Also there bin another pious reason For making squares and streets anonymous; Which is, that there is scarce a single season Which doth not shake some very splendid house With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason— A topic scandal doth delight to rouse: Such I might stumble over unawares, Unless I knew the very chastest squares.

'T is true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, A place where peccadillos are unknown; But I have motives, whether wise or silly, For letting that pure sanctuary alone. Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I Find one where nothing naughty can be shown, A vestal shrine of innocence of heart:

At Henry's mansion then, in Blank-Blank Square, Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest, As many other noble scions were; And some who had but talent for their crest; Or wealth, which is a passport every where; Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the best Recommendation; and to be well drest Will very often supersede the rest.

And since 'there 's safety in a multitude Of counsellors,' as Solomon has said, Or some one for him, in some sage, grave mood;— Indeed we see the daily proof display'd In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud, Where'er collective wisdom can parade, Which is the only cause that we can guess Of Britain's present wealth and happiness;—

But as 'there 's safety' grafted in the number 'Of counsellors' for men, thus for the sex A large acquaintance lets not Virtue slumber; Or should it shake, the choice will more perplex— Variety itself will more encumber. 'Midst many rocks we guard more against wrecks; And thus with women: howsoe'er it shocks some's Self-love, there 's safety in a crowd of coxcombs.

But Adeline had not the least occasion For such a shield, which leaves but little merit To virtue proper, or good education. Her chief resource was in her own high spirit, Which judged mankind at their due estimation; And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it: Secure of admiration, its impression Was faint, as of an every-day possession.

To all she was polite without parade; To some she show'd attention of that kind Which flatters, but is flattery convey'd In such a sort as cannot leave behind A trace unworthy either wife or maid;— A gentle, genial courtesy of mind, To those who were, or pass'd for meritorious, Just to console sad glory for being glorious;

Which is in all respects, save now and then, A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze Upon the shades of those distinguish'd men Who were or are the puppet-shows of praise, The praise of persecution; gaze again On the most favour'd; and amidst the blaze Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow'd, What can ye recognise?—a gilded cloud.

There also was of course in Adeline That calm patrician polish in the address, Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line Of any thing which nature would express; Just as a mandarin finds nothing fine,— At least his manner suffers not to guess That any thing he views can greatly please. Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chinese—

Perhaps from Horace: his 'Nil admirari' Was what he call'd the 'Art of Happiness;' An art on which the artists greatly vary, And have not yet attain'd to much success. However, 't is expedient to be wary: Indifference certes don't produce distress; And rash enthusiasm in good society Were nothing but a moral inebriety.

But Adeline was not indifferent: for (Now for a common-place!) beneath the snow, As a volcano holds the lava more Within—et caetera. Shall I go on?—No! I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor, So let the often-used volcano go. Poor thing! How frequently, by me and others, It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite smothers!

I 'll have another figure in a trice:— What say you to a bottle of champagne? Frozen into a very vinous ice, Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain, Yet in the very centre, past all price, About a liquid glassful will remain; And this is stronger than the strongest grape Could e'er express in its expanded shape:

'T is the whole spirit brought to a quintessence; And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre A hidden nectar under a cold presence. And such are many—though I only meant her From whom I now deduce these moral lessons, On which the Muse has always sought to enter. And your cold people are beyond all price, When once you have broken their confounded ice.

But after all they are a North-West Passage Unto the glowing India of the soul; And as the good ships sent upon that message Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole (Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage), Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal; For if the Pole 's not open, but all frost (A chance still), 't is a voyage or vessel lost.

And young beginners may as well commence With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman; While those who are not beginners should have sense Enough to make for port, ere time shall summon With his grey signal-flag; and the past tense, The dreary 'Fuimus' of all things human, Must be declined, while life's thin thread 's spun out Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout.

But heaven must be diverted; its diversion Is sometimes truculent—but never mind: The world upon the whole is worth the assertion (If but for comfort) that all things are kind: And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, Of the two principles, but leaves behind As many doubts as any other doctrine Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in.

The English winter—ending in July, To recommence in August—now was done. 'T is the postilion's paradise: wheels fly; On roads, east, south, north, west, there is a run. But for post-horses who finds sympathy? Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son, Always premising that said son at college Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge.

The London winter 's ended in July— Sometimes a little later. I don't err In this: whatever other blunders lie Upon my shoulders, here I must aver My Muse a glass of weatherology; For parliament is our barometer: Let radicals its other acts attack, Its sessions form our only almanack.

When its quicksilver 's down at zero,—lo Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage! Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Soho, And happiest they who horses can engage; The turnpikes glow with dust; and Rotten Row Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age; And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces, Sigh—as the postboys fasten on the traces.

They and their bills, 'Arcadians both,' are left To the Greek kalends of another session. Alas! to them of ready cash bereft, What hope remains? Of hope the full possession, Or generous draft, conceded as a gift, At a long date—till they can get a fresh one— Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large; Also the solace of an overcharge.

But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord, Nodding beside my lady in his carriage. Away! away! 'Fresh horses!' are the word, And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage; The obsequious landlord hath the change restored; The postboys have no reason to disparage Their fee; but ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence, The ostler pleads too for a reminiscence.

'T is granted; and the valet mounts the dickey— That gentleman of lords and gentlemen; Also my lady's gentlewoman, tricky, Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen Can paint,—'Cosi viaggino i Ricchi!' (Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, If but to show I 've travell'd; and what 's travel, Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?)

The London winter and the country summer Were well nigh over. 'T is perhaps a pity, When nature wears the gown that doth become her, To lose those best months in a sweaty city, And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, Listening debates not very wise or witty, Ere patriots their true country can remember;— But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till September.

I 've done with my tirade. The world was gone; The twice two thousand, for whom earth was made, Were vanish'd to be what they call alone— That is, with thirty servants for parade, As many guests, or more; before whom groan As many covers, duly, daily, laid. Let none accuse Old England's hospitality— Its quantity is but condensed to quality.

Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline Departed like the rest of their compeers, The peerage, to a mansion very fine; The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. None than themselves could boast a longer line, Where time through heroes and through beauties steers; And oaks as olden as their pedigree Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree.

A paragraph in every paper told Of their departure: such is modern fame: 'T is pity that it takes no farther hold Than an advertisement, or much the same; When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim— 'Departure, for his country seat, to-day, Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A.

'We understand the splendid host intends To entertain, this autumn, a select And numerous party of his noble friends; 'Midst whom we have heard, from sources quite correct, With many more by rank and fashion deck'd; Also a foreigner of high condition, The envoy of the secret Russian mission.'

And thus we see—who doubts the Morning Post? (Whose articles are like the 'Thirty-nine,' Which those most swear to who believe them most)— Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to shine, Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host, With those who, Pope says, 'greatly daring dine.' 'T is odd, but true,—last war the News abounded More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded;—

As thus: 'On Thursday there was a grand dinner; Present, Lords A. B. C.'—Earls, dukes, by name Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner: Then underneath, and in the very same Column; date, 'Falmouth. There has lately been here The Slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame, Whose loss in the late action we regret: The vacancies are fill'd up—see Gazette.'

To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair,— An old, old monastery once, and now Still older mansion; of a rich and rare Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow Few specimens yet left us can compare Withal: it lies perhaps a little low, Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind, To shelter their devotion from the wind.

It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak Stood like Caractacus in act to rally His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunderstroke; And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally The dappled foresters—as day awoke, The branching stag swept down with all his herd, To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird.

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed By a river, which its soften'd way did take In currents through the calmer water spread Around: the wildfowl nestled in the brake And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood With their green faces fix'd upon the flood.

Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade, Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding, Its shriller echoes—like an infant made Quiet—sank into softer ripples, gliding Into a rivulet; and thus allay'd, Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, According as the skies their shadows threw.

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile (While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. These last had disappear'd—a loss to art: The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil, And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march, In gazing on that venerable arch.

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, When each house was a fortalice, as tell The annals of full many a line undone,— The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign.

But in a higher niche, alone, but crowned, The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child, With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round, Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd; She made the earth below seem holy ground. This may be superstition, weak or wild, But even the faintest relics of a shrine Of any worship wake some thoughts divine.

A mighty window, hollow in the centre, Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter, Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings, Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter, The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire.

But in the noontide of the moon, and when The wind is winged from one point of heaven, There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then Is musical—a dying accent driven Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. Some deem it but the distant echo given Back to the night wind by the waterfall, And harmonised by the old choral wall:

Others, that some original shape, or form Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power (Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm. Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower; The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such The fact:—I 've heard it—once perhaps too much.

Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint— Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, And here perhaps a monster, there a saint: The spring gush'd through grim mouths of granite made, And sparkled into basins, where it spent Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles.

The mansion's self was vast and venerable, With more of the monastic than has been Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were stable, The cells, too, and refectory, I ween: An exquisite small chapel had been able, Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene; The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, And spoke more of the baron than the monk.

Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, Might shock a connoisseur; but when combined, Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, Yet left a grand impression on the mind, At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts: We gaze upon a giant for his stature, Nor judge at first if all be true to nature.

Steel barons, molten the next generation To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls, Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation; And Lady Marys blooming into girls, With fair long locks, had also kept their station; And countesses mature in robes and pearls: Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely.

Judges in very formidable ermine Were there, with brows that did not much invite The accused to think their lordships would determine His cause by leaning much from might to right: Bishops, who had not left a single sermon: Attorneys-general, awful to the sight, As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us) Of the 'Star Chamber' than of 'Habeas Corpus.'

Generals, some all in armour, of the old And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead; Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed: Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold: Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain'd the steed; And here and there some stern high patriot stood, Who could not get the place for which he sued.

But ever and anon, to soothe your vision, Fatigued with these hereditary glories, There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's; Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone In Vernet's ocean lights; and there the stories Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted His brush with all the blood of all the sainted.

Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine; There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light, Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite:— But, lo! a Teniers woos, and not in vain, Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight: His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish Or Dutch with thirst—What, ho! a flask of Rhenish.

O reader! if that thou canst read,—and know, 'T is not enough to spell, or even to read, To constitute a reader; there must go Virtues of which both you and I have need;— Firstly, begin with the beginning (though That clause is hard); and secondly, proceed; Thirdly, commence not with the end—or, sinning In this sort, end at least with the beginning.

But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. That poets were so from their earliest date, By Homer's 'Catalogue of ships' is clear; But a mere modern must be moderate— I spare you then the furniture and plate.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket:—lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!—'T is no sport for peasants.

An English autumn, though it hath no vines, Blushing with Bacchant coronals along The paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines The red grape in the sunny lands of song, Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines; The claret light, and the Madeira strong. If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, The very best of vineyards is the cellar.

Then, if she hath not that serene decline Which makes the southern autumn's day appear As if 't would to a second spring resign The season, rather than to winter drear, Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine,— The sea-coal fires the 'earliest of the year;' Without doors, too, she may compete in mellow, As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow.

And for the effeminate villeggiatura— Rife with more horns than hounds—she hath the chase, So animated that it might allure Saint from his beads to join the jocund race; Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura, And wear the Melton jacket for a space: If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game.

The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey, Consisted of—we give the sex the pas— The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke; the Countess Crabby; The Ladies Scilly, Busey;—Miss Eclat, Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabby, And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw; Also the honourable Mrs. Sleep, Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep:

With other Countesses of Blank—but rank; At once the 'lie' and the 'elite' of crowds; Who pass like water filter'd in a tank, All purged and pious from their native clouds; Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank: No matter how or why, the passport shrouds The 'passee' and the past; for good society Is no less famed for tolerance than piety,—

That is, up to a certain point; which point Forms the most difficult in punctuation. Appearances appear to form the joint On which it hinges in a higher station; And so that no explosion cry 'Aroint Thee, witch!' or each Medea has her Jason; Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci) 'Omne tulit punctum, quae miscuit utile dulci.'

I can't exactly trace their rule of right, Which hath a little leaning to a lottery. I 've seen a virtuous woman put down quite By the mere combination of a coterie; Also a so-so matron boldly fight Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, And shine the very Siria of the spheres, Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers.

I have seen more than I 'll say:—but we will see How our villeggiatura will get on. The party might consist of thirty-three Of highest caste—the Brahmins of the ton. I have named a few, not foremost in degree, But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these, There also were some Irish absentees.

There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, Who limits all his battles to the bar And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly, He shows more appetite for words than war. There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly Come out and glimmer'd as a six weeks' star. There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great freethinker; And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker.

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a—duke, 'Ay, every inch a' duke; there were twelve peers Like Charlemagne's—and all such peers in look And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears For commoners had ever them mistook. There were the six Miss Rawbolds—pretty dears! All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set Less on a convent than a coronet.

There were four Honourable Misters, whose Honour was more before their names than after; There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft here, Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse; But the clubs found it rather serious laughter, Because—such was his magic power to please— The dice seem'd charm'd, too, with his repartees.

There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; Angle, the soi-disant mathematician; Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner. There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian, Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner; And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, Good at all things, but better at a bet.

There was jack jargon, the gigantic guardsman; And General Fireface, famous in the field, A great tactician, and no less a swordsman, Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd. There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hardsman, In his grave office so completely skill'd, That when a culprit came far condemnation, He had his judge's joke for consolation.

Good company 's a chess-board—there are kings, Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world 's a game; Save that the puppets pull at their own strings, Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings, Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, Alighting rarely:—were she but a hornet, Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it.

I had forgotten—but must not forget— An orator, the latest of the session, Who had deliver'd well a very set Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression Upon debate: the papers echoed yet With his debut, which made a strong impression, And rank'd with what is every day display'd— 'The best first speech that ever yet was made.'

Proud of his 'Hear hims!' proud, too, of his vote And lost virginity of oratory, Proud of his learning (just enough to quote), He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory: With memory excellent to get by rote, With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story, Graced with some merit, and with more effrontery, 'His country's pride,' he came down to the country.

There also were two wits by acclamation, Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed, Both lawyers and both men of education; But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed: Longbow was rich in an imagination As beautiful and bounding as a steed, But sometimes stumbling over a potato,— While Strongbow's best things might have come from Cato.

Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord; But Longbow wild as an AEolian harp, With which the winds of heaven can claim accord, And make a music, whether flat or sharp. Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word: At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp: Both wits—one born so, and the other bred— This by his heart, his rival by his head.

If all these seem a heterogeneous mas To be assembled at a country seat, Yet think, a specimen of every class Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete. The days of Comedy are gone, alas! When Congreve's fool could vie with Moliere's bete: Society is smooth'd to that excess, That manners hardly differ more than dress.

Our ridicules are kept in the back-ground— Ridiculous enough, but also dull; Professions, too, are no more to be found Professional; and there is nought to cull Of folly's fruit; for though your fools abound, They're barren, and not worth the pains to pull. Society is now one polish'd horde, Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.

But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning The scanty but right-well thresh'd ears of truth; And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning, You may be Boaz, and I—modest Ruth. Farther I 'd quote, but Scripture intervening Forbids. Its great impression in my youth Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries, 'That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies.'

But what we can we glean in this vile age Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. I must not quite omit the talking sage, Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist, Who, in his common-place book, had a page Prepared each morn for evenings. 'List, oh, list!'- 'Alas, poor ghost!'—What unexpected woes Await those who have studied their bon-mots!

Firstly, they must allure the conversation By many windings to their clever clinch; And secondly, must let slip no occasion, Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, But take an ell—and make a great sensation, If possible; and thirdly, never flinch When some smart talker puts them to the test, But seize the last word, which no doubt 's the best.

Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts; The party we have touch'd on were the guests: Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, Albeit all human history attests That happiness for man—the hungry sinner!- Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.

Witness the lands which 'flow'd with milk and honey,' Held out unto the hungry Israelites; To this we have added since, the love of money, The only sort of pleasure which requites. Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny; We tire of mistresses and parasites; But oh, ambrosial cash! Ah! who would lose thee? When we no more can use, or even abuse thee!

The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport— The first thing boys like after play and fruit; The middle-aged to make the day more short; For ennui is a growth of English root, Though nameless in our language:—we retort The fact for words, and let the French translate That awful yawn which sleep can not abate.

The elderly walk'd through the library, And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously, And made upon the hot-house several strictures, Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, Or on the morning papers read their lectures, Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, Longing at sixty for the hour of six.

But none were 'gene:' the great hour of union Was rung by dinner's knell; till then all were Masters of their own time—or in communion, Or solitary, as they chose to bear The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. Each rose up at his own, and had to spare What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast When, where, and how he chose for that repast.

The ladies—some rouged, some a little pale— Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, Or walk'd; if foul, they read, or told a tale, Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad; Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail, And settled bonnets by the newest code, Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter, To make each correspondent a new debtor.

For some had absent lovers, all had friends. The earth has nothing like a she epistle, And hardly heaven—because it never ends. I love the mystery of a female missal, Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends, But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, When he allured poor Dolon:—you had better Take care what you reply to such a letter.

Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice;— Save in the clubs no man of honour plays;— Boats when 't was water, skating when 't was ice, And the hard frost destroy'd the scenting days: And angling, too, that solitary vice, Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says; The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

With evening came the banquet and the wine; The conversazione; the duet, Attuned by voices more or less divine (My heart or head aches with the memory yet). The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine; But the two youngest loved more to be set Down to the harp—because to music's charms They added graceful necks, white hands and arms.

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days, For then the gentlemen were rather tired) Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze; Then there was small-talk ready when required; Flirtation—but decorous; the mere praise Of charms that should or should not be admired. The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again, And then retreated soberly—at ten.

The politicians, in a nook apart, Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres; The wits watch'd every loophole for their art, To introduce a bon-mot head and ears; Small is the rest of those who would be smart, A moment's good thing may have cost them years Before they find an hour to introduce it; And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it.

But all was gentle and aristocratic In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and cold, As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic. There now are no Squire Westerns as of old; And our Sophias are not so emphatic, But fair as then, or fairer to behold. We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones, But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones.

They separated at an early hour; That is, ere midnight—which is London's noon: But in the country ladies seek their bower A little earlier than the waning moon. Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower— May the rose call back its true colour soon! Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, And lower the price of rouge—at least some winters.



CANTO THE FOURTEENTH.

If from great nature's or our own abyss Of thought we could but snatch a certainty, Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss— But then 't would spoil much good philosophy. One system eats another up, and this Much as old Saturn ate his progeny; For when his pious consort gave him stones In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.

But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, And eats her parents, albeit the digestion Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast, After due search, your faith to any question? Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. Nothing more true than not to trust your senses; And yet what are your other evidences?

For me, I know nought; nothing I deny, Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you, Except perhaps that you were born to die? And both may after all turn out untrue. An age may come, Font of Eternity, When nothing shall be either old or new. Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.

A sleep without dreams, after a rough day Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay! The very Suicide that pays his debt At once without instalments (an old way Of paying debts, which creditors regret) Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, Less from disgust of life than dread of death.

'T is round him, near him, here, there, every where; And there 's a courage which grows out of fear, Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare The worst to know it:—when the mountains rear Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there You look down o'er the precipice, and drear The gulf of rock yawns,—you can't gaze a minute Without an awful wish to plunge within it.

'T is true, you don't—but, pale and struck with terror, Retire: but look into your past impression! And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession, The lurking bias, be it truth or error, To the unknown; a secret prepossession, To plunge with all your fears—but where? You know not, And that's the reason why you do—or do not.

But what 's this to the purpose? you will say. Gent. reader, nothing; a mere speculation, For which my sole excuse is—'t is my way; Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion I write what 's uppermost, without delay: This narrative is not meant for narration, But a mere airy and fantastic basis, To build up common things with common places.

You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 'Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows;' And such a straw, borne on by human breath, Is poesy, according as the mind glows; A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, A shadow which the onward soul behind throws: And mine 's a bubble, not blown up for praise, But just to play with, as an infant plays.

The world is all before me—or behind; For I have seen a portion of that same, And quite enough for me to keep in mind;— Of passions, too, I have proved enough to blame, To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame; For I was rather famous in my time, Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme.

I have brought this world about my ears, and eke The other; that 's to say, the clergy, who Upon my head have bid their thunders break In pious libels by no means a few. And yet I can't help scribbling once a week, Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. In youth I wrote because my mind was full, And now because I feel it growing dull.

But 'why then publish?'—There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn,—Why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read?—To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink—I have had at least my dream.

I think that were I certain of success, I hardly could compose another line: So long I 've battled either more or less, That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. This feeling 't is not easy to express, And yet 't is not affected, I opine. In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing— The one is winning, and the other losing.

Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: She gathers a repertory of facts, Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, But mostly sings of human things and acts— And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction; For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts; And were her object only what 's call'd glory, With more ease too she 'd tell a different story.

Love, war, a tempest—surely there 's variety; Also a seasoning slight of lucubration; A bird's-eye view, too, of that wild, Society; A slight glance thrown on men of every station. If you have nought else, here 's at least satiety Both in performance and in preparation; And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, Trade will be all the better for these Cantos.

The portion of this world which I at present Have taken up to fill the following sermon, Is one of which there 's no description recent. The reason why is easy to determine: Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, A dull and family likeness through all ages, Of no great promise for poetic pages.

With much to excite, there 's little to exalt; Nothing that speaks to all men and all times; A sort of varnish over every fault; A kind of common-place, even in their crimes; Factitious passions, wit without much salt, A want of that true nature which sublimes Whate'er it shows with truth; a smooth monotony Of character, in those at least who have got any.

Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill; But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, And they must be or seem what they were: still Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade; But when of the first sight you have had your fill, It palls—at least it did so upon me, This paradise of pleasure and ennui.

When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, Drest, voted, shone, and, may be, something more; With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming; Seen beauties brought to market by the score, Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming; There 's little left but to be bored or bore. Witness those 'ci-devant jeunes hommes' who stem The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them.

'T is said—indeed a general complaint— That no one has succeeded in describing The monde, exactly as they ought to paint: Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, To furnish matter for their moral gibing; And that their books have but one style in common— My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman.

But this can't well be true, just now; for writers Are grown of the beau monde a part potential: I 've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, Especially when young, for that 's essential. Why do their sketches fail them as inditers Of what they deem themselves most consequential, The real portrait of the highest tribe? 'T is that, in fact, there 's little to describe.

'Haud ignara loquor;' these are Nugae, 'quarum Pars parva fui,' but still art and part. Now I could much more easily sketch a harem, A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, Than these things; and besides, I wish to spare 'em, For reasons which I choose to keep apart. 'Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit—' Which means that vulgar people must not share it.

And therefore what I throw off is ideal— Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of freemasons; Which bears the same relation to the real, As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. The grand arcanum 's not for men to see all; My music has some mystic diapasons; And there is much which could not be appreciated In any manner by the uninitiated.

Alas! worlds fall—and woman, since she fell'd The world (as, since that history less polite Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held) Has not yet given up the practice quite. Poor thing of usages! coerced, compell'd, Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, Condemn'd to child-bed, as men for their sins Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins,—

A daily plague, which in the aggregate May average on the whole with parturition. But as to women, who can penetrate The real sufferings of their she condition? Man's very sympathy with their estate Has much of selfishness, and more suspicion. Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.

All this were very well, and can't be better; But even this is difficult, Heaven knows, So many troubles from her birth beset her, Such small distinction between friends and foes, The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter, That—but ask any woman if she'd choose (Take her at thirty, that is) to have been Female or male? a schoolboy or a queen?

'Petticoat influence' is a great reproach, Which even those who obey would fain be thought To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach; But since beneath it upon earth we are brought, By various joltings of life's hackney coach, I for one venerate a petticoat— A garment of a mystical sublimity, No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity.

Much I respect, and much I have adored, In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard, And more attracts by all it doth conceal— A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, A loving letter with a mystic seal, A cure for grief—for what can ever rankle Before a petticoat and peeping ankle?

And when upon a silent, sullen day, With a sirocco, for example, blowing, When even the sea looks dim with all its spray, And sulkily the river's ripple 's flowing, And the sky shows that very ancient gray, The sober, sad antithesis to glowing,— 'T is pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant, To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant.

We left our heroes and our heroines In that fair clime which don't depend on climate, Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs, Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, Because the sun, and stars, and aught that shines, Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun— Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one.

An in-door life is less poetical; And out of door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, With which I could not brew a pastoral. But be it as it may, a bard must meet All difficulties, whether great or small, To spoil his undertaking or complete, And work away like spirit upon matter, Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water.

Juan—in this respect, at least, like saints— Was all things unto people of all sorts, And lived contentedly, without complaints, In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts— Born with that happy soul which seldom faints, And mingling modestly in toils or sports. He likewise could be most things to all women, Without the coxcombry of certain she men.

A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange; 'T is also subject to the double danger Of tumbling first, and having in exchange Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger: But Juan had been early taught to range The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger, So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, Knew that he had a rider on his back.

And now in this new field, with some applause, He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, And never craned, and made but few 'faux pas,' And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws Of hunting—for the sagest youth is frail; Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then, And once o'er several country gentlemen.

But on the whole, to general admiration He acquitted both himself and horse: the squires Marvell'd at merit of another nation; The boors cried 'Dang it? who 'd have thought it?'—Sires, The Nestors of the sporting generation, Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires; The huntsman's self relented to a grin, And rated him almost a whipper-in.

Such were his trophies—not of spear and shield, But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes; Yet I must own,—although in this I yield To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes,— He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price, Ask'd next day, 'If men ever hunted twice?'

He also had a quality uncommon To early risers after a long chase, Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon December's drowsy day to his dull race,— A quality agreeable to woman, When her soft, liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,— He did not fall asleep just after dinner;

But, light and airy, stood on the alert, And shone in the best part of dialogue, By humouring always what they might assert, And listening to the topics most in vogue; Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert; And smiling but in secret—cunning rogue! He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer;— In short, there never was a better hearer.

And then he danced;—all foreigners excel The serious Angles in the eloquence Of pantomime;—he danced, I say, right well, With emphasis, and also with good sense— A thing in footing indispensable; He danced without theatrical pretence, Not like a ballet-master in the van Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure; Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground, And rather held in than put forth his vigour; And then he had an ear for music's sound, Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigour. Such classic pas—sans flaws—set off our hero, He glanced like a personified Bolero;

Or, like a flying Hour before Aurora, In Guido's famous fresco which alone Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. The 'tout ensemble' of his movements wore a Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, And ne'er to be described; for to the dolour Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour.

No marvel then he was a favourite; A full-grown Cupid, very much admired; A little spoilt, but by no means so quite; At least he kept his vanity retired. Such was his tact, he could alike delight The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved 'tracasserie,' Began to treat him with some small 'agacerie.'

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated For several winters in the grand, grand monde. I 'd rather not say what might be related Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground; Besides there might be falsehood in what 's stated: Her late performance had been a dead set At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

This noble personage began to look A little black upon this new flirtation; But such small licences must lovers brook, Mere freedoms of the female corporation. Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke! 'T will but precipitate a situation Extremely disagreeable, but common To calculators when they count on woman.

The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd; The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd; Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd; Some would not deem such women could be found; Some ne'er believed one half of what they heard; Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound; And several pitied with sincere regret Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

But what is odd, none ever named the duke, Who, one might think, was something in the affair; True, he was absent, and, 't was rumour'd, took But small concern about the when, or where, Or what his consort did: if he could brook Her gaieties, none had a right to stare: Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out.

But, oh! that I should ever pen so sad a line! Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she, My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, Began to think the duchess' conduct free; Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line, And waxing chiller in her courtesy, Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, For which most friends reserve their sensibility.

There 's nought in this bad world like sympathy: 'T is so becoming to the soul and face, Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh, And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. Without a friend, what were humanity, To hunt our errors up with a good grace? Consoling us with—'Would you had thought twice! Ah, if you had but follow'd my advice!'

O job! you had two friends: one 's quite enough, Especially when we are ill at ease; They are but bad pilots when the weather 's rough, Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze: When your affairs come round, one way or t' other, Go to the coffee-house, and take another.

But this is not my maxim: had it been, Some heart-aches had been spared me: yet I care not— I would not be a tortoise in his screen Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not. 'T is better on the whole to have felt and seen That which humanity may bear, or bear not: 'T will teach discernment to the sensitive, And not to pour their ocean in a sieve.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, 'I told you so,' Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past, Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do, Own they foresaw that you would fall at last, And solace your slight lapse 'gainst 'bonos mores,' With a long memorandum of old stories.

The Lady Adeline's serene severity Was not confined to feeling for her friend, Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity, Unless her habits should begin to mend: But Juan also shared in her austerity, But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd: His inexperience moved her gentle ruth, And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth.

These forty days' advantage of her years— And hers were those which can face calculation, Boldly referring to the list of peers And noble births, nor dread the enumeration— Gave her a right to have maternal fears For a young gentleman's fit education, Though she was far from that leap year, whose leap, In female dates, strikes Time all of a heap.

This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty— Say seven-and-twenty; for I never knew The strictest in chronology and virtue Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. O Time! why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower, If but to keep thy credit as a mower.

But Adeline was far from that ripe age, Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best: 'T was rather her experience made her sage, For she had seen the world and stood its test, As I have said in—I forget what page; My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd By this time;—but strike six from seven-and-twenty, And you will find her sum of years in plenty.

At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted, She put all coronets into commotion: At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean: At eighteen, though below her feet still panted A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, She had consented to create again That Adam, call'd 'The happiest of men.'

Since then she had sparkled through three glowing winters, Admired, adored; but also so correct, That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, Without the apparel of being circumspect: They could not even glean the slightest splinters From off the marble, which had no defect. She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage To bear a son and heir—and one miscarriage.

Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, Those little glitterers of the London night; But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her— She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder; But whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right; And whether coldness, pride, or virtue dignify A woman, so she 's good, what does it signify?

I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, Leaving all-claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, Especially with politics on hand; I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand; I hate it, as I hate an argument, A laureate's ode, or servile peer's 'content.'

'T is sad to hack into the roots of things, They are so much intertwisted with the earth; So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. To trace all actions to their secret springs Would make indeed some melancholy mirth; But this is not at present my concern, And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern.

With the kind view of saving an eclat, Both to the duchess and diplomatist, The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw That Juan was unlikely to resist (For foreigners don't know that a faux pas In England ranks quite on a different list From those of other lands unblest with juries, Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is);—

The Lady Adeline resolved to take Such measures as she thought might best impede The farther progress of this sad mistake. She thought with some simplicity indeed; But innocence is bold even at the stake, And simple in the world, and doth not need Nor use those palisades by dames erected, Whose virtue lies in never being detected.

It was not that she fear'd the very worst: His Grace was an enduring, married man, And was not likely all at once to burst Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan Of Doctors' Commons: but she dreaded first The magic of her Grace's talisman, And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

Her Grace, too, pass'd for being an intrigante, And somewhat mechante in her amorous sphere; One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt A lover with caprices soft and dear, That like to make a quarrel, when they can't Find one, each day of the delightful year; Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, And—what is worst of all—won't let you go:

The sort of thing to turn a young man's head, Or make a Werter of him in the end. No wonder then a purer soul should dread This sort of chaste liaison for a friend; It were much better to be wed or dead, Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 'T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, If that a 'bonne fortune' be really 'bonne.'

And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart, Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, She call'd her husband now and then apart, And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile; And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet, In such guise that she could make nothing of it.

Firstly, he said, 'he never interfered In any body's business but the king's:' Next, that 'he never judged from what appear'd, Without strong reason, of those sort of things:' Thirdly, that 'Juan had more brain than beard, And was not to be held in leading strings;' And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, 'That good but rarely came from good advice.'

And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth— At least as far as bienseance allows: That time would temper Juan's faults of youth; That young men rarely made monastic vows; That opposition only more attaches— But here a messenger brought in despatches:

And being of the council call'd 'the Privy,' Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet, To furnish matter for some future Livy To tell how he reduced the nation's debt; And if their full contents I do not give ye, It is because I do not know them yet; But I shall add them in a brief appendix, To come between mine epic and its index.

But ere he went, he added a slight hint, Another gentle common-place or two, Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint, And pass, for want of better, though not new: Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't, And having casually glanced it through, Retired; and, as went out, calmly kiss'd her, Less like a young wife than an aged sister.

He was a cold, good, honourable man, Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing; A goodly spirit for a state divan, A figure fit to walk before a king; Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van On birthdays, glorious with a star and string; The very model of a chamberlain— And such I mean to make him when I reign.

But there was something wanting on the whole— I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell— Which pretty women—the sweet souls!—call soul. Certes it was not body; he was well Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, A handsome man, that human miracle; And in each circumstance of love or war Had still preserved his perpendicular.

Still there was something wanting, as I 've said— That undefinable 'Je ne scais quoi,' Which, for what I know, may of yore have led To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed; Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy Was much inferior to King Menelaus:— But thus it is some women will betray us.

There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved By turns the difference of the several sexes; Neither can show quite how they would be loved. The sensual for a short time but connects us, The sentimental boasts to be unmoved; But both together form a kind of centaur, Upon whose back 't is better not to venture.

A something all-sufficient for the heart Is that for which the sex are always seeking: But how to fill up that same vacant part? There lies the rub—and this they are but weak in. Frail mariners afloat without a chart, They run before the wind through high seas breaking; And when they have made the shore through every shock, 'T is odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock.

There is a flower call'd 'Love in Idleness,' For which see Shakspeare's everblooming garden;— I will not make his great description less, And beg his British godship's humble pardon, If in my extremity of rhyme's distress, I touch a single leaf where he is warden;— But though the flower is different, with the French Or Swiss Rousseau, cry 'Voila la Pervenche!'

Eureka! I have found it! What I mean To say is, not that love is idleness, But that in love such idleness has been An accessory, as I have cause to guess. Hard labour's an indifferent go-between; Your men of business are not apt to express Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo, Convey'd Medea as her supercargo.

'Beatus ille procul!' from 'negotiis,' Saith Horace; the great little poet 's wrong; His other maxim, 'Noscitur a sociis,' Is much more to the purpose of his song; Though even that were sometimes too ferocious, Unless good company be kept too long; But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station, Thrice happy they who have an occupation!

Adam exchanged his Paradise for ploughing, Eve made up millinery with fig leaves— The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing, As far as I know, that the church receives: And since that time it need not cost much showing, That many of the ills o'er which man grieves, And still more women, spring from not employing Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying.

And hence high life is oft a dreary void, A rack of pleasures, where we must invent A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. Bards may sing what they please about Content; Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd; And hence arise the woes of sentiment, Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances.

I do declare, upon an affidavit, Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen; Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it, Would some believe that such a tale had been: But such intent I never had, nor have it; Some truths are better kept behind a screen, Especially when they would look like lies; I therefore deal in generalities.

'An oyster may be cross'd in love,'—and why? Because he mopeth idly in his shell, And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, Much as a monk may do within his cell: And a-propos of monks, their piety With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell; Those vegetables of the Catholic creed Are apt exceedingly to run to seed.

O Wilberforce! thou man of black renown, Whose merit none enough can sing or say, Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down, Thou moral Washington of Africa! But there 's another little thing, I own, Which you should perpetrate some summer's day, And set the other halt of earth to rights; You have freed the blacks—now pray shut up the whites.

Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander! Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal; Teach them that 'sauce for goose is sauce for gander,' And ask them how they like to be in thrall? Shut up each high heroic salamander, Who eats fire gratis (since the pay 's but small); Shut up—no, not the King, but the Pavilion, Or else 't will cost us all another million.

Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out; And you will be perhaps surprised to find All things pursue exactly the same route, As now with those of soi-disant sound mind. This I could prove beyond a single doubt, Were there a jot of sense among mankind; But till that point d'appui is found, alas! Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 't was.

Our gentle Adeline had one defect— Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion; Her conduct had been perfectly correct, As she had seen nought claiming its expansion. A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd, Because 't is frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one; But when the latter works its own undoing, Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin.

She loved her lord, or thought so; but that love Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, The stone of Sisyphus, if once we move Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, No bickerings, no connubial turmoil: Their union was a model to behold, Serene and noble,—conjugal, but cold.

There was no great disparity of years, Though much in temper; but they never clash'd: They moved like stars united in their spheres, Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd, Where mingled and yet separate appears The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd Through the serene and placid glassy deep, Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep.

Now when she once had ta'en an interest In any thing, however she might flatter Herself that her intentions were the best, Intense intentions are a dangerous matter: Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd, And gather'd as they run like growing water Upon her mind; the more so, as her breast Was not at first too readily impress'd.

But when it was, she had that lurking demon Of double nature, and thus doubly named— Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen, That is, when they succeed; but greatly blamed As obstinacy, both in men and women, Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tamed:— And 't will perplex the casuist in morality To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality.

Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo, It had been firmness; now 't is pertinacity: Must the event decide between the two? I leave it to your people of sagacity To draw the line between the false and true, If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity: My business is with Lady Adeline, Who in her way too was a heroine.

She knew not her own heart; then how should I? I think not she was then in love with Juan: If so, she would have had the strength to fly The wild sensation, unto her a new one: She merely felt a common sympathy (I will not say it was a false or true one) In him, because she thought he was in danger,— Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a stranger,

She was, or thought she was, his friend—and this Without the farce of friendship, or romance Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss Ladies who have studied friendship but in France, Or Germany, where people purely kiss. To thus much Adeline would not advance; But of such friendship as man's may to man be She was as capable as woman can be.

No doubt the secret influence of the sex Will there, as also in the ties of blood, An innocent predominance annex, And tune the concord to a finer mood. If free from passion, which all friendship checks, And your true feelings fully understood, No friend like to a woman earth discovers, So that you have not been nor will be lovers.

Love bears within its breast the very germ Of change; and how should this be otherwise? That violent things more quickly find a term Is shown through nature's whole analogies; And how should the most fierce of all be firm? Would you have endless lightning in the skies? Methinks Love's very title says enough: How should 'the tender passion' e'er be tough?

Alas! by all experience, seldom yet (I merely quote what I have heard from many) Had lovers not some reason to regret The passion which made Solomon a zany. I 've also seen some wives (not to forget The marriage state, the best or worst of any) Who were the very paragons of wives, Yet made the misery of at least two lives.

I 've also seen some female friends ( 't is odd, But true—as, if expedient, I could prove) That faithful were through thick and thin, abroad, At home, far more than ever yet was Love— Who did not quit me when Oppression trod Upon me; whom no scandal could remove; Who fought, and fight, in absence, too, my battles, Despite the snake Society's loud rattles.

Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline Grew friends in this or any other sense, Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine: At present I am glad of a pretence To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine, And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense; The surest way for ladies and for books To bait their tender, or their tenter, hooks.

Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish To read Don Quixote in the original, A pleasure before which all others vanish; Whether their talk was of the kind call'd 'small,' Or serious, are the topics I must banish To the next Canto; where perhaps I shall Say something to the purpose, and display Considerable talent in my way.

Above all, I beg all men to forbear Anticipating aught about the matter: They 'll only make mistakes about the fair, And Juan too, especially the latter. And I shall take a much more serious air Than I have yet done, in this epic satire. It is not clear that Adeline and Juan Will fall; but if they do, 't will be their ruin.

But great things spring from little:—Would you think, That in our youth, as dangerous a passion As e'er brought man and woman to the brink Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion, As few would ever dream could form the link Of such a sentimental situation? You 'll never guess, I 'll bet you millions, milliards— It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards.

'T is strange,—but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction; if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold! How oft would vice and virtue places change! The new world would be nothing to the old, If some Columbus of the moral seas Would show mankind their souls' antipodes.

What 'antres vast and deserts idle' then Would be discover'd in the human soul! What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men, With self-love in the centre as their pole! What Anthropophagi are nine of ten Of those who hold the kingdoms in control Were things but only call'd by their right name, Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame.



CANTO THE FIFTEENTH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adeline, no deep judge of character, Was apt to add a colouring from her own: 'T is thus the good will amiably err, And eke the wise, as has been often shown. Experience is the chief philosopher, But saddest when his science is well known: And persecuted sages teach the schools Their folly in forgetting there are fools.

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

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

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

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

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

But then 't is mostly on the weaker side; So that I verily believe if they Who now are basking in their full-blown pride Were shaken down, and 'dogs had had their day,' Though at the first I might perchance deride Their tumble, I should turn the other way, And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, Because I hate even democratic royalty.

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

But 'laissez aller'—knights and dames I sing, Such as the times may furnish. 'T is a flight Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite: The difficultly lies in colouring (Keeping the due proportions still in sight) With nature manners which are artificial, And rend'ring general that which is especial.

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

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

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

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

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

Next to the making matches for herself, And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, Arranging them like books on the same shelf, There 's nothing women love to dabble in More (like a stock-holder in growing pelf) Than match-making in general: 't is no sin Certes, but a preventative, and therefore That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Adeline, who probably presumed That Juan had enough of maintenance, Or separate maintenance, in case 't was doom'd— As on the whole it is an even chance That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom'd, May retrograde a little in the dance Of marriage (which might form a painter's fame, Like Holbein's 'Dance of Death'—but 't is the same);—

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere, As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear Perhaps because 't was fallen: her sires were proud Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the ear Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd To novel power; and as she was the last, She held their old faith and old feelings fast.

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

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

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

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

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