Chapter 29

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CANTO THE SIXTEENTH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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