LXXXVIII.

There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman;[691] And General Fireface,[692] famous in the field, A great tactician, and no less a swordsman, Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he killed. There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hardsman, In his grave office so completely skilled, That when a culprit came for condemnation, He had his Judge's joke for consolation.[693]

LXXXIX.

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.

XC.

I had forgotten—but must not forget— An orator, the latest of the session, Who had delivered 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 ranked with what is every day displayed— "The best first speech that ever yet was made."

XCI.

Proud of his "Hear hims!" proud, too, of his vote, And lost virginity of oratory, Proud of his learning (just enough to quote), He revelled 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,[mq] "His country's pride," he came down to the country.

XCII.

There also were two wits by acclamation, Longbow from Ireland,[694] Strongbow from the Tweed[695]—Both lawyers and both men of education— But Strongbow's wit was of more polished 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.

XCIII.

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.

XCIV.

If all these seem an heterogeneous mass 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 smoothed to that excess, That manners hardly differ more than dress.

XCV.

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[mr] Of Folly's fruit; for though your fools abound, They're barren, and not worth the pains to pull. Society is now one polished horde, Formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.

XCVI.

But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning The scanty but right-well threshed ears of Truth; And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning, You may be Boaz, and I—modest Ruth. Further I'd quote, but Scripture intervening Forbids. A great impression in my youth Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries, "That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies."[696]

XCVII.

But what we can we glean in this vile age[ms] Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. I must not quite omit the talking sage, Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist,[697] Who, in his common-place book, had a page Prepared each morn for evenings. "List, oh list!" "Alas, poor ghost!"[698]—What unexpected woes Await those who have studied their bons-mots!

XCVIII.

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,[mt] 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.

XCIX.

Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts; The party we have touched 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.

C.

Witness the lands which "flowed 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!

CI.

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[699] 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.

CII.

The elderly walked through the library, And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, Or sauntered 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.

CIII.

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.

CIV.

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

CV.

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,[mu] When he allured poor Dolon:[700]—you had better Take care what you reply to such a letter.

CVI.

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 destroyed 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.[701]

CVII.

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.

CVIII.

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days, For then the gentlemen were rather tired) Displayed 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.

CIX.

The politicians, in a nook apart, Discussed the World, and settled all the spheres: The wits watched 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.

CX.

But all was gentle and aristocratic In this our party; polished, 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 accomplished blackguards, like Tom Jones, But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones.

CXI.

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.[702]

FOOTNOTES:

[653] Fy. 12^th^ 1823.

{482}[654] [The allusion is to the refrain of Canning's verses on Pitt, "The Pilot that weathered the storm." Compare, too, "The daring pilot in extremity" (i.e. the Earl of Shaftesbury), who "sought the storms" (Dryden's Absalom and Achitophel, lines 159-161).]

[655] [Johnson loved "dear, dear Bathurst," because he was "a very good hater."—See Boswell's Johnson, 1876, p. 78 (Croker's footnote).]

{483}[656] [So, too, Charles Kingsley, in Westward Ho! ii. 299, 300, calls Don Quixote "the saddest of books in spite of all its wit."—Notes and Queries, Second Series, iii. 124.]

[lx] By that great Epic——.—[MS.]

{484}[657] ["Your husband is in his old lunes again." Merry Wives of Windsor, act iv. sc. 2, lines 16, 17.]

[658] ["Davus sum, non Oedipus." Terence, Andria, act i. sc. 2, line 23.]

{485}[659]

["'T is not in mortals to command success, But we'll do more, Sempronius—we'll deserve it."

Addison's Cato, act i. sc. 2, ed. 1777, ii. 77.]

{487}[660] [Compare—"The colt that's backed and burthened being young." Venus and Adonis, lxx. line 5.]

[661] [To "break square," or "squares," is to interrupt the regular order, as in the proverbial phrase, "It breaks no squares," i.e. does no harm—does not matter. Compare Sterne, Tristram Shandy (1802), ii. v. 152, "This fault in Trim broke no squares with them" (N. Engl. Dict., art. "Break," No. 46). The origin of the phrase is uncertain, but it may, perhaps, refer to military tactics. Shakespeare (Henry V., act iv. sc. 2, line 28) speaks of "squares of battle."]

[662]

"With every thing that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise." Cymbeline, act ii. sc. 3, lines, 25, 26.

[So Warburton and Hanmer. The folio reads "that pretty is." See Knight's Shakespeare, Pictorial Edition, Tragedies, i. 203.]

{488}[663] [The house which Byron occupied, 1815-1816, No. 13, Piccadilly Terrace, was the property of Elizabeth, Duchess of Devonshire.]

{489}[ly] The slightest obstacle which may encumber The path downhill is something grand.—[MS. erased.]

[lz] Not even in fools who howsoever blind.—[MS. erased.]

{490}[ma] That anything is new to a Chinese; And such is Europe's fashionable ease.—[MS. erased.]

{491}[mb] A hidden wine beneath an icy presence.—[MS. erased.]

[mc] Though this we hope has been reserved for this age.—[MS. erased.]

[664] ["For the creed of Zoroaster," see Sir Walter Scott, Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft, 1830, pp. 87, 88. (See, too, Cain, act ii. sc. 2, line 404, Poetical Works, 1901, v. 254, note 2.)]

{492}[665] "Arcades ambo." [Virgil, Bucol., Ecl. vii. 4.]

{493}[666] [So travel the rich.]

{494}[md] —the noble host intends.—[MS. erased.]

[667] ["Judicious drank, and greatly-daring dined." Pope, Dunciad, iv. 318.]

{495}[668] [Byron's description of the place of his inheritance, which was to know him no more, is sketched from memory, but it unites the charm of a picture with the accuracy of a ground-plan. Eight years had gone by since he had looked his last on "venerable arch" and "lucid lake" (see "Epistle to Augusta," stanza viii. lines 7, 8), but he had not forgotten, he could not forget, that enchanted and enchanting scene.

Newstead Abbey or Priory was founded by Henry II., by way of deodand or expiation for the murder of Thomas Becket. Lands which bordered the valley of the Leen, and which had formed part of Sherwood Forest, were assigned for the use and endowment of a chapter of "black canons regular of the order of St. Augustine," and on a site, by the river-side to the south of the forest uplands (stanza lv. lines 5-8) the new stede, or place, or station, arose. It was a "Norman Abbey" (stanza lv. line 1) which the Black Canons dedicated to Our Lady, and, here and there, in the cloisters, traces of Norman architecture remain, but the enlargement and completion of the monastery was carried out in successive stages and "transition periods," in a style or styles which, perhaps, more by hap than by cunning, Byron rightly named "mixed Gothic" (stanza lv. line 4). To work their mills, and perhaps to drain the marshy valley, the monks dammed the Leen and excavated a chain of lakes—the largest to the north-west, Byron's "lucid lake;" a second to the south of the Abbey; and a third, now surrounded with woods, and overlooked by the "wicked lord's" "ragged rock" below the Abbey, half a mile to the south-east. The "cascade," which flows over and through a stone-work sluice, and forms a rocky water-fall, issues from the upper lake, and is in full view of the west front of the Abbey. Almost at right angles to these lakes are three ponds: the Forest Pond to the north of the stone wall, which divides the garden from the forest; the square "Eagle" Pond in the Monks' Garden; and the narrow stew-pond, bordered on either side with overhanging yews, which drains into the second or Garden Lake. Byron does not enlarge on this double chain of lakes and ponds, and, perhaps for the sake of pictorial unity, converts the second (if a second then existed) and third lakes into a river.

The Abbey, which, at the dissolution of monasteries in 1539, was handed over by Henry VIII. to Sir John Byron, "steward and warden of the forest of Shirewood," was converted, here and there, more or less, into a baronial "mansion" (stanza lxvi.). It is, roughly speaking, a square block of buildings, flanking the sides of a grassy quadrangle. Surrounding the quadrangle are two-storied cloisters, and in the centre a "Gothic fountain" (stanza lxv. line 1) of composite workmanship. The upper portion of the stonework is hexagonal, and is ornamented with a double row of gargoyles (all "monsters" and no "saints," recalling, perhaps identical with, the "seven deadly sins" gargoyles, still in situ in the quadrangle of Magdalen College, Oxford); the lower half, which belongs to the seventeenth or eighteenth century, is hollowed into niches of a Roman or classical design. (In Byron's time the fountain stood in a courtyard in front of the Abbey, but before he composed this canto it had been restored by Colonel Wildman to its original place within the quadrangle. Byron was acquainted with the change, and writes accordingly.) When the Byrons took possession of the Abbey the upper stories of the cloisters were converted, on three sides of the quadrangle, into galleries, and on the fourth, the north side, into a library. Abutting on the cloisters are the monastic buildings proper, in part transformed, but with "much of the monastic" preserved. On the west, the front of the Abbey, the ground floor consists of the entrance hall and Monks' Parlour, and, above, the Guests' Refectory or Banqueting-hall, and the Prior's Parlour. On the south, the Xenodochium or Guesten Hall, and, above, the Monks' Refectory, or Grand Drawing-room; on the south and east, on the ground floor, the Prior's Lodgings, the Chapter House ("the exquisite small chapel," stanza lxvi. line 5), the "slype" or passage between church and Chapter House; and in the upper story, the state bedrooms, named after the kings, Edward III., Henry VII., etc., who, by the terms of the grant of land to the Prior and Canons, were entitled to free quarters in the Abbey. During Byron's brief tenure of Newstead, and for long years before, these "huge halls, long galleries, and spacious chambers" (stanza lxxvii. line 1) were half dismantled, and in a more or less ruinous condition. A few pictures remained on the walls of the Great Drawing-room, of the Prior's Parlour, and in the apartments of the south-east wing or annexe, which dates from the seventeenth century (see the account of a visit to Newstead in 1812, in Beauties of England and Wales, 1813, xii. 401-405). There are and were portraits, by Lely (stanza lxviii. line 7), of a Lady Byron, of Fanny Jennings, Duchess of Tyrconnel, "loveliness personified," of Mrs. Hughes, and of Nell Gwynne; by Sir Godfrey Kneller, of William and Mary; by unnamed artists, of George I. and George II.; and by Ramsay, of George III. There are portraits of a fat Prior, William Sandall, with a jewelled reliquary; of "Sir John the Little with the Great Beard," who ruled in the Prior's stead; and there is the portrait, a votive tablet of penitence and remorse, "of that Lord Arundel Who struck in heat the child he loved so well" (see "A Picture at Newstead," by Matthew Arnold, Poetical Works, 1890, p. 177); but of portraits of judges or bishops, or of pictures by old masters, there is neither trace nor record.

But the characteristic feature of Newstead Abbey, so familiar that description seems unnecessary, and, yet, never quite accurately described, is the west front of the Priory Church, which is in line with the west front of the Abbey. "Half apart," the southern portion of this front, which abuts on the windows of the Prior's Parlour, and the room above, where Byron slept, flanks and conceals the west end of the north cloisters and library; but, with this exception, it is a screen, and nothing more. In the centre is the "mighty window" (stanza lxii. line 1), shorn of glass and tracery; above are six lancet windows (which Byron seems to have regarded as niches), and, above again, in a "higher niche" (stanza lxi. line 1), is the crowned Virgin with the Babe in her arms, which escaped, as by a miracle, the "fiery darts"—the shot and cannon-balls of the Cromwellian troopers. On either side of the central window are "two blank windows containing tracery ['geometrical decorated'] ... carved [in relief] on the solid ashlar;" on either side of the window, and at the northern and southern extremities of the front, are buttresses with canopied niches, in each of which a saint or apostle must once have stood. Over the west door there is the mutilated figure of (?) the Saviour, but of twelve saints or twelve niches there is no trace. The "grand arch" is an ivy-clad screen, and nothing more. Behind and beyond, in place of vanished nave, of aisle and transept, is the smooth green turf; and at the east end, on the site of the high altar, stands the urn-crowned masonry of Boatswain's tomb.

Newstead Abbey was sold by Lord Byron to his old schoolfellow, Colonel Thomas Wildman, in November, 1817. The house and property were resold in 1861, by his widow, to William Frederick Webb, Esq., a traveller in many lands, the friend and host of David Livingstone. At his death the estate was inherited by his daughter, Miss Geraldine Webb, who was married to General Sir Herbert Charles Chermside, G.C.M.G., etc., Governor of Queensland, in 1899.

For Newstead Abbey, see Beauties of England and Wales, 1813, xii. Part I. 401-405 (often reprinted without acknowledgment); Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey, by Washington Irving, 1835; Journal of the Archaeological Association (papers by T.J. Pettigrew, F.R.S., and Arthur Ashpitel, F.S.A.), 1854, vol. ix. pp. 14-39; and A Souvenir of Newstead Abbey (illustrated by a series of admirable photographs), by Richard Allen, Nottingham, 1874, etc., etc.]

{497}[669] [The woodlands were sacrificed to the needs or fancies of Byron's great-uncle, the "wicked Lord." One splendid oak, known as the "Pilgrim's Oak," which stood and stands near the north lodge of the park, near the "Hut," was bought in by the neighbouring gentry, and made over to the estate. Perhaps by the Druid oak Byron meant to celebrate this "last of the clan," which, in his day, before the woods were replanted, must have stood out in solitary grandeur.]

{498}[670] [Compare "Epistle to Augusta," stanza x. line 1, Poetical Works, 1901, iv. 68.]

[671] [The little wood which Byron planted at the south-east corner of the upper or "Stable" Lake, known as "Poet's Corner," still slopes to the water's brink. Nor have the wild-fowl diminished. The lower of the three lakes is specially reserved as a breeding-place.]

[me] Its shriller echo——.—[MS.]

[mf] Which sympathized with Time's and Tempest's march, In gazing on that high and haughty Arch.—[MS.]

{499}[672] [See lines "On Leaving Newstead Abbey," stanza 5, Poetical Works, 1898, i. 3, note 1.]

[mg] But in the stillness of the moon——.—[MS.]

{500}[673] [Vide ante, The Deformed Transformed, Part I. line 532, Poetical Works, 1901, v. 497.]

[674] This is not a frolic invention: it is useless to specify the spot, or in what county, but I have heard it both alone and in company with those who will never hear it more. It can, of course, be accounted for by some natural or accidental cause, but it was a strange sound, and unlike any other I have ever heard (and I have heard many above and below the surface of the earth produced in ruins, etc., etc., or caverns).—[MS.]

["The unearthly sound" may still be heard at rare intervals, but it is difficult to believe that the "huge arch" can act as an AEolian harp. Perhaps the smaller lancet windows may vocalize the wind.]

{501}[mh] Prouder of such a toy than of their breed.—[MS. erased.]

{502}[675] Salvator Rosa. The wicked necessity of rhyming obliges me to adapt the name to the verse.—[MS.]

[Compare—

"Whate'er Lorraine light touch'd with softening hue, Or savage Rosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew." Thomson's Castle of Indolence, Canto I. stanza xxxviii. lines 8, 9.]

[676] If I err not, "your Dane" is one of Iago's catalogue of nations "exquisite in their drinking."

["Your Dane, your German, and your swag-bellied Hollander—drink hoa! are nothing to your English." "Is your Englishman so exquisite in his drinking?" (So Collier and Knight. The Quarto reads "expert").—Othello, act ii. sc. 3, lines 71-74.]

[mi] His bell-mouthed goblet—and his laughing group Provoke my thirst—what ho! a flask of Rhenish.—[MS. erased.]

{503}[mj] Hath yet at night the very best of wines.—[MS.]

[677] ["Sea-coal" (i.e. Newcastle coal), as distinguished from "charcoal" and "earth-coal." But the qualification must have been unusual and old-fashioned in 1822. "Earth-coal" is found in large quantities on the Newstead estate, and the Abbey, far below its foundations, is tunnelled by a coal-drift.]

[678] [See Gray's omitted stanza—

"'Here scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen, are showers of violets found; The red-breast loves to build and warble here, And little footsteps lightly print the ground.'

As fine ... as any in his Elegy. I wonder that he could have the heart to omit it."—"Extracts from a Diary," February 27, 1821, Letters, 1901, v. 210. The stanza originally preceded the Epitaph.]

{504}[679] In Assyria. [See Daniel iii. 1.]

[mk] —— she hath the tame Preserved within doors—why not make them Game?—[MS.]

[680] [It is difficult, if not impossible, to furnish a clue to the names of all the guests at Norman Abbey. Some who are included in this ghostly "house-party" seem to be, and, perhaps, were meant to be, nomina umbrarum; and others are, undoubtedly, contemporary celebrities, under a more or less transparent disguise. A few of these shadows have been substantiated (vide infra, et post), but the greater part decline to be materialized or verified.]

[ml]—— the Countess Squabby.—[MS.]

[681] [Perhaps Mary, widow of the eighth Earl of Cork and Orrery: "Dowager Cork," "Old Corky," of Joseph Jekyll's Correspondence, 1894, pp. 83, 275.]

[682] [Mrs. Rabbi may be Mrs. Coutts, the Mrs. Million of Vivian Grey (1826, i. 183), who arrived at "Chateau Desir in a crimson silk pelisse, hat and feathers, with diamond ear-rings, and a rope of gold round her neck."]

{505}[683] [Lie, lye, or ley, is a solution of potassium salts obtained by bleaching wood-ashes. Byron seems to have confused "lie" with "lee," i.e. dregs, sediment.]

[684] ["Aroint thee, witch! the rump-fed ronyon cries." Macbeth, act ii. sc. 3, line 6.]

[mm] Or (to come to the point, like my friend Pulci).—[MS. erased.]

[685] [Hor., Epist. Ad Pisones, line 343.]

[mn]—— by fear or flattery.—[MS. erased.]

[686] Siria, i.e. bitch-star.

[mo] I have seen—no matter what—we now shall see.—[MS. erased.]

{506}[687] [Parolles [see All's Well that Ends Well, passim] is Brougham (vide ante, the suppressed stanzas, Canto I. pp. 67-69). It is possible that this stanza was written after the Canto as a whole was finished. But, if not, an incident which took place in the House of Commons, April 17, 1823, during a debate on Catholic Emancipation, may be quoted in corroboration of Brougham's unreadiness with regard to the point of honour. In the course of his speech he accused Canning of "monstrous truckling for the purpose of obtaining office," and Canning, without waiting for Brougham to finish, gave him the lie: "I rise to say that that is false" (Parl. Deb., N.S. vol. 8, p. 1091).

There was a "scene," which ended in an exchange of explanations and quasi-apologies, and henceforth, as a rule, parliamentary insults were given and received without recourse to duelling. Byron was not aware that the "old order" had passed or was passing. Compare Hazlitt, in The Spirit of the Age, 1825, pp. 302, 303: "He [Brougham] is adventurous, but easily panic-struck, and sacrifices the vanity of self-opinion to the necessity of self-preservation ... himself the first to get out of harm's way and escape from the danger;" and Mr. Parthenopex Puff (W. Stewart Rose), in Vivian Grey (1826, i. 186, 187), "Oh! he's a prodigious fellow! What do you think Booby says? he says, that Foaming Fudge [Brougham] can do more than any man in Great Britain; that he had one day to plead in the King's Bench, spout at a tavern, speak in the House, and fight a duel—and that he found time for everything but the last."]

[mp] There was, too, Henry B——.—[MS. erased.]

[688] [In his Journal for December 5, 1813, Byron writes: "The Duke of —— called.... His Grace is a good, noble, ducal person" (Letters, 1898, ii. 361). Possibly the earlier "Duke of Dash" was William Spencer, sixth Duke of Devonshire, an old schoolfellow of Byron's, who was eager to renew the acquaintance (Letters, 1899, iii. 98, note 2); and, if so, he may be reckoned as one of the guests of "Norman Abbey."]

{507}[689] [Gronow (Reminiscences, 1889, i. 234-240) identifies the Chevalier de la Ruse with Casimir Comte de Montrond (1768-1843), back-stairs diplomatist, wit, gambler, and man of fashion. He was the lifelong companion, if not friend, of Talleyrand, who pleaded for him: "Qui est-ce qui ne l'aimerait pas, il est si vicieux!" At one time in the pay of Napoleon, he fell under his displeasure, and, to avoid arrest, spent two years of exile (1812-14) in England. "He was not," says Gronow, "a great talker, nor did he swagger ... or laugh at his own bons-mots. He was demure, sleek, sly, and dangerous.... In the London clubs he went by the name of Old French." He was a constant guest of the Duke of York's at Oatlands, "and won much at his whist-table" (English Whist, by W.P. Courtney, 1894, p. 181). For his second residence in England, and for a sketch by D'Orsay, see A Portion of the Journal, etc., by Thomas Raikes, 1857, frontispiece to vol. iv., et vols. i.-iv. passim. See, for biographical notice, L'Ami de M. de Talleyrand, par Henri Welschinger, La Revue de Paris, 1895, Fev., tom. i. pp. 640-654.]

[690] [Perhaps Sir James Mackintosh—a frequent guest at Holland House.]

{508}[691] [Possibly Colonel (afterwards Sir James) Macdonell [d. 1857], "a man of colossal stature," who occupied and defended the Chateau of Hougoumont on the night before the battle of Waterloo. (See Gronow, Reminiscences, 1889, i. 76, 77.)]

[692] [Sir George Prevost (1767-1816), the Governor-General of British North America, and nominally Commander-in-chief of the Army in the second American War, contributed, by his excess of caution, supineness, and delay, to the humiliation of the British forces. The particular allusion is to his alleged inaction at a critical moment in the engagement of September 11, 1814, between Commodore Macdonough and Captain Downie in Plattsburg Bay. "A letter was sent to Capt. Downie, strongly urging him to come on, as the army had long been waiting for his co-operation.... The brave Downie replied that he required no urging to do his duty.... He was as good as his word. The guns were scaled when he got under way, upon hearing which Sir George issued an order for the troops to cook, instead of that of instant co-operation."—To Editor of the Montreal Herald, May 23, 1815, Letters of Veritas, 1815, pp. 116, 117. See, too, The Quarterly Review, July, 1822, vol. xxvii. p. 446.]

[693] [George Hardinge (1744-1816), who was returned M.P. for Old Sarum in 1784, was appointed, in 1787, Senior Justice of the Counties of Brecon, Glamorgan, and Radnor. According to the Gentleman's Magazine, 1816 (vol. lxxxvi. p. 563), "In conversation he had few equals.... He delighted in pleasantries, and always afforded to his auditors abundance of mirth and entertainment as well as information." Byron seems to have supposed that these "pleasantries" found their way into his addresses to condemned prisoners, but if the charges printed in his Miscellaneous Works, edited by John Nichols in 1818, are reported in full, he was entirely mistaken. They are tedious, but the "waggery" is conspicuous by its absence.]

{509}[mq] With all his laurels growing upon one tree.—[MS. erased.]

[694] [John Philpot Curran (1750-1817). "Did you know Curran?" asked Byron of Lady Blessington (Conversations, 1834, p. 176); "he was the most wonderful person I ever saw. In him was combined an imagination the most brilliant and profound, with a flexibility and wit that would have justified the observation applied to——that his heart was in his head." (See, too, Detached Thoughts, No. 24, Letters, 1901, v. 421.)]

[695] [For Thomas Lord Erskine (1750-1823), see Letters, 1898, ii. 390, note 5. See, too, Detached Thoughts, No. 93, Letters, 1901, v. 455, 456. In his Spirit of the Age, 1825, pp. 297, 298, Hazlitt contrasts "the impassioned appeals and flashes of wit of a Curran ... the golden tide of wisdom, eloquence, and fancy of a Burke," with the "dashing and graceful manner" which concealed the poverty and "deadness" of the matter of Erskine's speeches.]

{510}[mr] —— all classes mostly pull At the same oar——.—[MS. erased.]

{511}[696] ["Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it was blasphemous to talk of Scripture out of church." This dogma was broached to her husband—the best Christian in any book.—See The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews, Bk. IV. chap. xi. ed. 1876, p. 324.]

[ms] —— in the ripe age.—[MS.]

[697] [Probably Richard Sharp (1759-1835), known as "Conversation Sharp." Byron frequently met him in society in 1813-14, and in "Extracts from a Diary," January 9, 1821, Letters, 1901, v. 161, describes him as "the Conversationist." He visited Byron at the Villa Diodati in the autumn of 1816 (Life, p. 323).]

[698] [Hamlet, act i. sc. 5, line 22.]

[mt] Nor bate (read bait)——.—[MS.]

{512}[699] [See letters to the Earl of Blessington, April 5, 1823, Letters, 1891, vi. 187.]

{513}[mu] But full of wisdom——.—[MS.] A sort of rose entwining with a thistle.—[MS. erased.]

[700] [Iliad, x. 341, sq.]

[701] It would have taught him humanity at least. This sentimental savage, whom it is a mode to quote (amongst the novelists) to show their sympathy for innocent sports and old songs, teaches how to sew up frogs, and break their legs by way of experiment, in addition to the art of angling,—the cruelest, the coldest, and the stupidest of pretended sports. They may talk about the beauties of nature, but the angler merely thinks of his dish of fish; he has no leisure to take his eyes from off the streams, and a single bite is worth to him more than all the scenery around. Besides, some fish bite best on a rainy day. The whale, the shark, and the tunny fishery have somewhat of noble and perilous in them; even net fishing, trawling, etc., are more humane and useful. But angling!—no angler can be a good man.

"One of the best men I ever knew,—as humane, delicate-minded, generous, and excellent a creature as any in the world,—was an angler: true, he angled with painted flies, and would have been incapable of the extravagancies of I. Walton."

The above addition was made by a friend in reading over the MS.—"Audi alteram partem."—I leave it to counter-balance my own observation.

{515}[702] B. Fy. 19^th^ 1823.—[MS.]



CANTO THE FOURTEENTH.

I.

IF from great Nature's or our own abyss[703] 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[704] 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.

II.

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?

III.

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 called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of Life is passed in sleep.

IV.

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.

V.

'T is round him—near him—here—there—everywhere— 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.

VI.

'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,[705] 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.

VII.

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.

VIII.

You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, "Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows;"[706] 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.

IX.

The World is all before me[707]—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 knocked it up with rhyme.

X.

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.

XI.

But "why then publish?"[708]—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 pondered, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink—I have had at least my dream.

XII.

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.

XIII.

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 called Glory, With more ease too she'd tell a different story.

XIV.

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.

XV.

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.

XVI.

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.

XVII.

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.

XVIII.

When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, Dressed, 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.

XIX.

'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, filtered through her woman.

XX.

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.

XXI.

"Haud ignara loquor;"[709] 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"—[710] Which means, that vulgar people must not share it.

XXII.

And therefore what I throw off is ideal— Lowered, leavened, 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.

XXIII.

Alas! worlds fall—and Woman, since she felled 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, compelled, Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, Condemned to child-bed, as men for their sins Have shaving too entailed upon their chins,—

XXIV.

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.

XXV.

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?

XXVI.

"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.[mv]

XXVII.

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?

XXVIII.

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 anything is pleasant, To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant.

XXIX.

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.

XXX.

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— Embarrassed somewhat both with fire and water.

XXXI.

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.

XXXII.

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 turned avenger, So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, Knew that he had a rider on his back.

XXXIII.

And now in this new field, with some applause, He cleared hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, And never craned[711] 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.

XXXIV.

But on the whole, to general admiration, He acquitted both himself and horse: the Squires Marvelled 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 recalled their former fires; The Huntsman's self relented to a grin, And rated him almost a whipper-in.[mw]

XXXV.

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. Asked next day, "If men ever hunted twice?"[mx][712]

XXXVI.

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;

XXXVII.

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.

XXXVIII.

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 drilled nymphs, but like a gentleman.

XXXIX.

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, And Elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure; Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimmed the ground,[713] 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;[714]

XL.

Or like a flying Hour before Aurora, In Guido's famous fresco[715] (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.

XLI.

No marvel then he was a favourite; A full-grown Cupid,[716] 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.

XLII.

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, Desirable, distinguished, 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.

XLIII.

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! 'Twill but precipitate a situation Extremely disagreeable, but common To calculators when they count on Woman.

XLIV.

The circle smiled, then whispered, and then sneered; The misses bridled, and the matrons frowned; Some hoped things might not turn out as they feared; Some would not deem such women could be found; Some ne'er believed one half of what they heard; Some looked perplexed, and others looked profound: And several pitied with sincere regret Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

XLV.

But what is odd, none ever named the Duke, Who, one might think, was something in the affair: True, he was absent, and, 'twas rumoured, 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.

XLVI.

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, Looked grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, For which most friends reserve their sensibility.

XLVII.

There's nought in this bad world like sympathy: 'Tis 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 followed my advice!"

XLVIII.

O Job! you had two friends: one's quite enough, Especially when we are ill at ease; They're 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.[717]

XLIX.

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: 'Tis better on the whole to have felt and seen That which Humanity may bear, or bear not: 'Twill teach discernment to the sensitive, And not to pour their Ocean in a sieve.

L.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so," Uttered 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,[my] And solace your slight lapse 'gainst bonos mores, With a long memorandum of old stories.

LI.

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 mixed with pity, pure as e'er was penned His Inexperience moved her gentle ruth, And (as her junior by six weeks) his Youth.

LII.

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.

LIII.

This may be fixed 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.

LIV.

But Adeline was far from that ripe age, Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best: 'Twas 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 guessed By this time;—but strike six from seven-and-twenty, And you will find her sum of years in plenty.

LV.

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, called "The happiest of Men."

LVI.

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 snatched a moment since her marriage To bear a son and heir—and one miscarriage.

LVII.

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

LVIII.

I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, Leaving all-claretless the unmoistened 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."

LIX.

'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.[718]

LX.

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;—)[mz]

LXI.

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.

LXII.

It was not that she feared 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 seemed to fret) With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

LXIII.

Her Grace, too, passed 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:

LXIV.

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.

LXV.

And first, in the overflowing of her heart, Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, She called 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 answered, like a statesman or a prophet, In such guise that she could make nothing of it.

LXVI.

Firstly, he said, "he never interfered In anybody's business but the King's:" Next, that "he never judged from what appeared, 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."

LXVII.

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:[na] 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:

LXVIII.

And being of the council called "the Privy," Lord Henry walked 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.

LXIX.

But ere he went, he added a slight hint, Another gentle common-place or two, Such as are coined 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 he went out, calmly kissed her, Less like a young wife than an aged sister.

LXX.

He was a cold, good, honourable man, Proud of his birth, and proud of everything; A goodly spirit for a state Divan, A figure fit to walk before a King; Tall, stately, formed 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.

LXXI.

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 Proportioned, 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.

LXXII.

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 Menelaues:— But thus it is some women will betray us.

LXXIII.

There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, Unless like wise Tiresias[719] 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.

LXXIV.

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.

LXXV.

There is a flower called "Love in Idleness,"[720] For which see Shakespeare's ever-blooming 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.'"[721]

LXXVI.

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, Conveyed Medea as her supercargo.

LXXVII.

"Beatus ille procul!" from "negotiis,"[722] Saith Horace; the great little poet's wrong; His other maxim, "Noscitur a sociis,"[723] 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!

LXXVIII.

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.

LXXIX.

And hence high life is oft a dreary void, A rack of pleasures, where we must invent A something wherewithal to be annoyed. Bards may sing what they please about Content; Contented, when translated, means but cloyed; And hence arise the woes of Sentiment, Blue-devils—and Blue-stockings—and Romances Reduced to practice, and performed like dances.

LXXX.

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.[nb]

LXXXI.

"An oyster may be crossed in love"[724]—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.

LXXXII.

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 half of Earth to rights; You have freed the blacks—now pray shut up the whites.

LXXXIII.

Shut up the bald-coot[725] 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,[726] Or else 't will cost us all another million.

LXXXIV.

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.

LXXXV.

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 wrecked, Because 't is frailer, doubtless, than a staunch one; But when the latter works its own undoing, Its inner crash is like an Earthquake's ruin.

LXXXVI.

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.

LXXXVII.

There was no great disparity of years, Though much in temper; but they never clashed: They moved like stars united in their spheres, Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters washed, Where mingled and yet separate appears The River from the Lake, all bluely dashed Through the serene and placid glassy deep, Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep.[727]

LXXXVIII.

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

LXXXIX.

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.

XC.

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.

XCI.

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.

XCII.

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.[nc] 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.

XCIII.

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.[nd] 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.

XCIV.

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;[728] 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?

XCV.

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.[ne] 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.[nf]

XCVI.

I've also seen some female friends[729] ('t is odd,[ng] But true—as, if expedient, I could prove) That faithful were through thick and thin, abroad,[nh] 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.

XCVII.

Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline Grew friends in this or any other sense, Will be discussed 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.

XCVIII.

Whether they rode, or walked, or studied Spanish, To read Don Quixote in the original, A pleasure before which all others vanish; Whether their talk was of the kind called "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.

XCIX.

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.

C.

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[730]— It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards.

CI.

'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.

CII.

What "antres vast and deserts idle,"[731] then, Would be discovered 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 called by their right name, Caesar himself would be ashamed of Fame.[732]

FOOTNOTES:

[703] Fry. 23, 1814 (sic).—[MS.]

[704] [Compare—

"Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be."

Tennyson's In Memoriam.]

{517}[705] [With this open mind with regard to the future, compare Charles Kingsley's "reverent curiosity" (Letters and Memoirs, etc., 1883, p. 349).]

{518}[706] ["We usually try which way the wind bloweth, by casting up grass or chaff, or such light things into the air."—Bacon's Natural History, No. 820, Works, 1740, iii. 168.]

[707] ["The World was all before them." Paradise Lost, bk. xii. line 646.]

{519}[708]

["But why then publish?—Granville, the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write."

Pope, Prologue to Satires, lines 135, 136.]

{521}[709] [Virg., Aen., ii. 91 "(Haud ignota);" et ibid., line 6.]

[710] [Hor., Od. iii. 2. 26.]

{522}[mv] And though by no means overpowered with riches, Would gladly place beneath it my last rag of breeches.—[MS. erased.]

{524}[711] Craning.—"To crane" is, or was, an expression used to denote a gentleman's stretching out his neck over a hedge, "to look before he leaped;"—a pause in his "vaulting ambition," which in the field doth occasion some delay and execration in those who may be immediately behind the equestrian sceptic. "Sir, if you don't choose to take the leap, let me!"—was a phrase which generally sent the aspirant on again; and to good purpose: for though "the horse and rider" might fall, they made a gap through which, and over him and his steed, the field might follow.

{525}[mw] The sulky Huntsman grimly said "The Frenchman Was almost worthy to become his henchman."—[MS. erased.]

[mx] And what not—though he had ridden like a Centaur When called next day declined the same adventure.—[MS.]

[712] [Mr. W. Ernst, in his Memoirs of the Life of Lord Chesterfield, 1893 (p. 425, note 2), quotes these lines in connection with a comparison between French and English sport, contained in a letter from Lord Chesterfield to his son, dated June 30, 1751: "The French manner of hunting is gentlemanlike; ours is only for bumpkins and boobies." Elsewhere, however (The World, No. 92, October 3, 1754), commenting on a remark of Pascal's, he admits "that the jolly sportsman ... improves his health, at least, by his exercise."]

{526}[713]

[" ... as she skimm'd along, Her flying feet unbath'd on billows hung."

Dryden's Virgil (Aen., vii. 1101, 1102).]

[714] [See Poetical Works, 1898, i. 492, note 1.]

[715] [Guido's fresco of the Aurora, "scattering flowers before the chariot of the sun" is on a ceiling of the Casino in the Palazzo Rospigliosi, in Rome.]

[716] [Byron described Count Alfred D'Orsay as having "all the airs of a Cupidon dechaine." See letters to Moore and the Earl of Blessington, April 2, 1823, Letters, 1901, vi. 180, 185.]

{528}[717] In Swift's or Horace Walpole's letters I think it is mentioned that somebody, regretting the loss of a friend, was answered by an universal Pylades: "When I lose one, I go to the Saint James's Coffee-house, and take another." I recollect having heard an anecdote of the same kind.—Sir W.D. was a great gamester. Coming in one day to the Club of which he was a member, he was observed to look melancholy.—"What is the matter, Sir William?" cried Hare, of facetious memory.—"Ah!" replied Sir W., "I have just lost poor Lady D."—"Lost! What at? Quinze or Hazard?" was the consolatory rejoinder of the querist.

[The dramatis personae are probably Sir William Drummond (1770—1828), author of the Academical Questions, etc., and Francis Hare, the wit, known as the "'Silent Hare,' from his extreme loquacity."—Gronow's Reminiscences, 1889, ii. 98-101.]

{529}[my] They own that you are fairly dished at last.—[MS. erased.]

{531}[718] The famous Chancellor [Axel Oxenstiern (1583-1654)] said to his son, on the latter expressing his surprise upon the great effects arising from petty causes in the presumed mystery of politics: "You see by this, my son, with how little wisdom the kingdoms of the world are governed."

[The story is that his son John, who had been sent to represent him at the Congress of Westphalia, 1648, wrote home to complain that the task was beyond him, and that he could not cope with the difficulties which he was encountering, and that the Chancellor replied, "Nescis, mi fili, quantilla prudentia homines regantur."—Biographie Universelle, art. "Oxenstierna."]

{532}[mz] Who are our sureties that our moral pure is.—[MS. erased.]

{533}[na] And not to encourage whispering in the house.—[MS. erased.]

{535}[719] [Once upon a time, Tiresias, who was shepherding on Mount Cyllene, wantonly stamped with his heel on a pair of snakes, and was straightway turned into a woman. Seven years later he was led to treat another pair of snakes in like fashion, and, happily or otherwise, was turned back into a man. Hence, when Jupiter and Juno fell to wrangling on the comparative enjoyments of men and women, the question was referred to Tiresias, as a person of unusual experience and authority. He gave it in favour of the woman, and Juno, who was displeased at his answer, struck him with blindness. But Jupiter, to make amends, gave him the "liberty of prophesying" for seven, some say nine, generations. (See Ovid, Metam., iii. 320; and Thomas Muncker's notes on the Fabulae of Hyginus, No. lxxv. ed. 1681, pp. 126-128.)]

[720] [Midsummer Night's Dream, act ii. sc. i, line 168.]

{536}[721] See La Nouvelle Heloise.

[722] Hor., Epod., II. line 1.

[723] [The Latin proverb, Noscitur ex sociis, is not an Horatian maxim.]

{537}[nb] I, therefore, deal in generals—which is wise.—[MS. erased.]

[724] [See Sheridan's Critic ("Tilburina" loq.), act iii. s.f.]

{538}[725] [For "the coxcomb Czar ... the somewhat aged youth," see The Age of Bronze, lines 434-483, Poetical Works, 1901, v. 563, note 1.]

[726] [Compare Sardanapalus, act i. sc. 2, line 1, ibid., p. 15, note 1.]

{539}[727] [Compare Childe Harold, Canto III. stanza lxxi. line 3, Poetical Works, 1899, ii. 261, 300. note 17.]

{540}[nc] Or Germany—she knew nought of all this Impracticable, novel-reading trance.—[MS. erased.]

[nd] Even there—as in relationship will hold, And make the feeling of a finer mood.—[MS. erased.]

[728]

["These violent delights have violent ends, And in their triumph die."

Romeo and Juliet, act ii. sc. 6, lines 9, 10.]

{541}[ne] Alas! I quote experience—seldom yet I had a paramour—and I've had many— Whom I had not some reason to regret— For whom I did not make myself a Zany.—[MS.]

[nf] I also had a wife—not to forget The marriage state—the best or worst of any, Who was the very paragon of wives / many Yet made the misery of lives.—[MS. erased.] several /

[729] [Lady Holland, Lady Jersey, Madame de Stael, and before and above all, his sister, Mrs. Leigh.]

[ng] I also had some female friends—by G—d! Or if the oath seem strong—I swear by Jove!—[MS.]

[nh] Who stuck to me——.—[MS. erased.]

{542}[730] [Byron must have been among the first to naturalize the French milliard (a thousand millions), which was used by Voltaire.]

{543}[731] [Othello, act i. sc. 3, line 140.]

[732] B. March 4^th^ 1823.—[MS.]



CANTO THE FIFTEENTH.

I.

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 followed 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.

II.

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.[733]

III.

But all are better than the sigh suppressed, Corroding in the cavern of the heart, Making the countenance a masque of rest[ni] 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.

IV.

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 tremours or his terrors; The ruby glass that shakes within his hand Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand.

V.

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.

VI.

The Lady Adeline, Right Honourable, And honoured, 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.

VII.

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—[nj] Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 't The luck of finding everybody solvent.

VIII.

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."[734]

IX.

Whate'er thou takest, spare awhile 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,—[nk] You should be civil in a modest way: Suppress, then, some slight feminine diseases, And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases.

X.

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 seemed innocent, For objects worthy of the sentiment.

XI.

Some parts of Juan's history, which Rumour, That live Gazette, had scattered 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.[735]

XII.

His manner was perhaps the more seductive, Because he ne'er seemed anxious to seduce; Nothing affected, studied, or constructive Of coxcombry or conquest: no abuse Of his attractions marred the fair perspective, To indicate a Cupidon broke loose,[736] And seem to say, "Resist us if you can"— Which makes a Dandy while it spoils a Man.

XIII.

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.

XIV.

By nature soft, his whole address held off Suspicion: though not timid, his regard Was such as rather seemed 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.

XV.

Serene, accomplished, 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 brooked nor claimed superiority—

XVI.

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."[737] If once their phantasies be brought to bear Upon an object, whether sad or playful, They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael.[738]

XVII.

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.

XVIII.

Was it not so, great Locke? and greater Bacon? Great Socrates? And thou, Diviner still,[739] Whose lot it is by Man to be mistaken,[nl] And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill? Redeeming Worlds to be by bigots shaken,[nm] How was thy toil rewarded? We might fill Volumes with similar sad illustrations, But leave them to the conscience of the nations.

XIX.

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 anybody in a ride or walk.

XX.

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,[nn] Just as I feel the Improvvisatore.

XXI.

"Omnia vult belle Matho dicere—dic aliquando Et bene, dic neutrum, dic aliquando male."[740] 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.