Chapter 30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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