Chapter 7

[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 Æolian 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 "Château 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 Château 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 _éclat_, 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 _méchante_ 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 _bienséance_ 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 agéd 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 sçais 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 Menelaüs:-- 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 _"Voilà 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 à 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 _à-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, Cæsar 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 déchaîné_." 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, quantillâ prudentiâ 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 Héloïse_.

[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 agéd 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 < both our > lives_.--[MS. erased.] \ several /

[729] [Lady Holland, Lady Jersey, Madame de Staël, 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 à-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 Syncopé 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.

XXII.

A modest hope--but Modesty's my forte, And Pride my feeble:[741]--let us ramble on. I meant to make this poem very short, But now I can't tell where it may not run.[no] No doubt, if I had wished to pay my court To critics, or to hail the _setting_ sun Of Tyranny of all kinds, my concision[742] Were more;--but I was born for opposition.

XXIII.

But then 't is mostly on the weaker side; So that I verily believe if they Who now are basking in their full-blown pride[np] Were shaken down, and "dogs had had their day,"[743] Though at the first I might perchance deride Their tumble, I should turn the other way, And wax an ultra-royalist in Loyalty, Because I hate even democratic Royalty.[nq]

XXIV.

I think I should have made a decent spouse, If I had never proved the soft condition; I think I should have made monastic vows But for my own peculiar superstition: 'Gainst rhyme I never should have knocked my brows, Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian,[744] Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, If some one had not told me to forego it.[745]

XXV.

But _laissez aller_--Knights and Dames I sing, Such as the times may furnish. 'T is a flight Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite:[nr] The difficulty lies in colouring (Keeping the due proportions still in sight) With Nature manners which are artificial, And rend'ring general that which is especial.

XXVI.

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

XXVII.

We'll do our best to make the best on 't:--March! March, my Muse! If you cannot fly, yet flutter; And when you may not be sublime, be arch, Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. We surely may find something worth research: Columbus found a new world in a cutter, Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage, While yet America was in her non-age.[746]

XXVIII.

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

XXIX.

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

XXX.

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

XXXI.

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

XXXII.

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

XXXIII.

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

XXXIV.

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

XXXV.

When Rapp the Harmonist embargoed Marriage[747] In his harmonious settlement--(which flourishes Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage, Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, Without those sad expenses which disparage What Nature naturally most encourages)-- Why called he "Harmony" a state sans wedlock? Now here I've got the preacher at a dead lock.

XXXVI.

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

XXXVII.

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

XXXVIII.

Had Adeline read Malthus? I can't tell; I wish she had: his book's the eleventh commandment, Which says, "Thou shall not marry," unless _well_: This he (as far as I can understand) meant. 'T is not my purpose on his views to dwell, Nor canvass what "so eminent a hand" meant;[748] But, certes, it conducts to lives ascetic, Or turning Marriage into Arithmetic.

XXXIX.

But Adeline, who probably presumed That Juan had enough of maintenance, Or _separate_ maintenance, in case 't was doomed-- As on the whole it is an even chance That bridegrooms, after they are fairly _groomed_, May retrograde a little in the Dance Of Marriage--(which might form a painter's fame, Like Holbein's "Dance of Death"[749]--but 't is the same)--

XL.

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

XLI.

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

XLII.

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

XLIII.

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

XLIV.

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

XLV.

Early in years, and yet more infantine In figure, she had something of Sublime In eyes which sadly shone, as Seraphs' shine. All Youth--but with an aspect beyond Time; Radiant and grave--as pitying Man's decline; Mournful--but mournful of another's crime, She looked as if she sat by Eden's door, And grieved for those who could return no more.

XLVI.

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

XLVII.

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

XLVIII.

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

XLIX.

And this omission, like that of the bust Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius,[750] Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. This he expressed half smiling and half serious; When Adeline replied with some disgust, And with an air, to say the least, imperious, She marvelled "what he saw in such a baby As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby?"

L.

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

LI.

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

LII.

_Why_ Adeline had this slight prejudice-- For prejudice it was--against a creature As pure, as Sanctity itself, from Vice,-- With all the added charm of form and feature,-- For me appears a question far too nice, Since Adeline was liberal by nature; But Nature's Nature, and has more caprices Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces.

LIII.

Perhaps she did not like the quiet way With which Aurora on those baubles looked, Which charm most people in their earlier day: For there are few things by Mankind less brooked, And Womankind too, if we so may say, Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, Like "Antony's by Cæsar,"[751] by the few Who look upon them as they ought to do.

LIV.

It was not envy--Adeline had none; Her place was far beyond it, and her mind: It was not scorn--which could not light on one Whose greatest _fault_ was leaving few to find: It was not jealousy, I think--but shun Following the _ignes fatui_ of Mankind: It was not----but 't is easier far, alas! To say what it was _not_ than what it was.

LV.

Little Aurora deemed she was the theme Of such discussion. She was there a guest; A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream Of Rank and Youth, though purer than the rest, Which flowed on for a moment in the beam Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled-- She had so much, or little, of the child.

LVI.

The dashing and proud air of Adeline Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, Then turned unto the stars for loftier rays. Juan was something she could not divine, Being no Sibyl in the new world's ways; Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, Because she did not pin her faith on feature.

LVII.

His fame too,--for he had that kind of fame Which sometimes plays the deuce with Womankind, A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame, Half virtues and whole vices being combined; Faults which attract because they are not tame; Follies tricked out so brightly that they blind:-- These seals upon her wax made no impression, Such was her coldness or her self-possession.

LVIII.

Juan knew nought of such a character-- High, yet resembling not his lost Haidée; Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere: The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, Was Nature's all: Aurora could not be, Nor would be thus:--the difference in them Was such as lies between a flower and gem.

LIX.

Having wound up with this sublime comparison, Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, And, as my friend Scott says, "I sound my warison;"[752] Scott, the superlative of my comparative-- Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen, Serf--Lord--Man, with such skill as none would share it, if There had not been one Shakespeare and Voltaire, Of one or both of whom he seems the heir.[nw]

LX.

I say, in my slight way I may proceed To play upon the surface of Humanity. I write the World, nor care if the World read, At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I Thought that it might turn out so--_now I know it_,[753] But still I am, or was, a pretty poet.

LXI.

The conference or congress (for it ended As Congresses of late do) of the Lady Adeline and Don Juan rather blended Some acids with the sweets--for she was heady; But, ere the matter could be marred or mended, The silvery bell rang, not for "dinner ready," But for that hour, called half-hour, given to dress, Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less.

LXII.

Great things were now to be achieved at table, With massy plate for armour, knives and forks For weapons; but what Muse since Homer's able (His feasts are not the worst part of his works) To draw up in array a single day-bill Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks, In soups or sauces, or a sole _ragoút_, Than witches, b--ches, or physicians, brew.

LXIII.

There was a goodly "soupe à la _bonne femme_"[754] Though God knows whence it came from; there was, too, A turbot for relief of those who cram, Relieved with "dindon à la Périgeux;" There also was----the sinner that I am! How shall I get this gourmand stanza through?-- "Soupe à la Beauveau," whose relief was dory, Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory.

LXIV.

But I must crowd all into one grand mess Or mass; for should I stretch into detail, My Muse would run much more into excess, Than when some squeamish people deem her frail; But though a _bonne vivante_, I must confess Her stomach's not her peccant part; this tale However doth require some slight refection, Just to relieve her spirits from dejection.

LXV.

Fowls "à la Condé," slices eke of salmon, With "sauces Génevoises," and haunch of venison; Wines too, which might again have slain young Ammon--[755] A man like whom I hope we sha'n't see many soon; They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on, Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison; And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls.

LXVI.

Then there was God knows what "à l'Allemande," "A l'Espagnole," "timballe," and "salpicon"-- With things I can't withstand or understand, Though swallowed with much zest upon the whole; And _"entremets"_ to piddle with at hand, Gently to lull down the subsiding soul; While great Lucullus' _Robe triumphal_ muffles-- (_There's fame_)--young partridge fillets, decked with truffles.[756]

LXVII.

What are the _fillets_ on the Victor's brow To these? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch Which nodded to the nation's spoils below? Where the triumphal chariots' haughty march? Gone to where Victories must like dinners go. Farther I shall not follow the research: But oh! ye modern Heroes with your cartridges, When will your names lend lustre e'en to partridges?

LXVIII.

Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, Followed by "petits puits d'amour"--a dish Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, So every one may dress it to his wish, According to the best of dictionaries, Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish; But even, sans _confitures_, it no less true is, There's pretty picking in those _petits puits_.[757]

LXIX.

The mind is lost in mighty contemplation Of intellect expanded on two courses; And Indigestion's grand multiplication Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration, That cookery could have called forth such resources, As form a science and a nomenclature From out the commonest demands of Nature?

LXX.

The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled; The diners of celebrity dined well; The ladies with more moderation mingled In the feast, pecking less than I can tell; Also the younger men too: for a springald Can't, like ripe Age, in _gourmandise_ excel, But thinks less of good eating than the whisper (When seated next him) of some pretty lisper.

LXXI.

Alas! I must leave undescribed the _gibier_, The _salmi_, the _consommé_, the _purée_, All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way: I must not introduce even a spare rib here, "Bubble and squeak" would spoil my liquid lay: But I have dined, and must forego, alas! The chaste description even of a "bécasse;"

LXXII.

And fruits, and ice, and all that Art refines From Nature for the service of the _goût_-- _Taste_ or the _gout_,--pronounce it as inclines Your stomach! Ere you dine, the French will do; But _after_, there are sometimes certain signs Which prove plain English truer of the two. Hast ever _had_ the _gout_? I have not had it-- But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it.

LXXIII.

The simple olives, best allies of wine, Must I pass over in my bill of fare? I must, although a favourite _plat_ of mine In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, everywhere: On them and bread 'twas oft my luck to dine-- The grass my table-cloth, in open air, On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is.[758]

LXXIV.

Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl, And vegetables, all in masquerade, The guests were placed according to their roll, But various as the various meats displayed: Don Juan sat next an "à l'Espagnole"-- No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said;[nx] But so far like a lady, that 'twas drest Superbly, and contained a world of zest.

LXXV.

By some odd chance too, he was placed between Aurora and the Lady Adeline-- A situation difficult, I ween, For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. Also the conference which we have seen Was not such as to encourage him to shine, For Adeline, addressing few words to him, With two transcendent eyes seemed to look through him.

LXXVI.

I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears: This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears, Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge springs. Like that same mystic music of the spheres, Which no one hears, so loudly though it rings, 'Tis wonderful how oft the sex have heard Long dialogues--which passed without a word!

LXXVII.

Aurora sat with that indifference Which piques a _preux chevalier_--as it ought: Of all offences that's the worst offence, Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought. Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence, Was not exactly pleased to be so caught; Like a good ship entangled among ice-- And after so much excellent advice.

LXXVIII.

To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, Or something which was nothing, as Urbanity Required. Aurora scarcely looked aside, Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. The Devil was in the girl! Could it be pride? Or modesty, or absence, or inanity? Heaven knows! But Adeline's malicious eyes Sparkled with her successful prophecies,

LXXIX.

And looked as much as if to say, "I said it;" A kind of triumph I'll not recommend, Because it sometimes, as I have seen or read it, Both in the case of lover and of friend, Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit, To bring what was a jest to a serious end: For all men prophesy what _is_ or _was_, And hate those who won't let them come to pass.

LXXX.

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, Slight but select, and just enough to express, To females of perspicuous comprehensions, That he would rather make them more than less. Aurora at the last (so history mentions, Though probably much less a fact than guess) So far relaxed her thoughts from their sweet prison, As once or twice to smile, if not to listen.

LXXXI.

From answering she began to question: this With her was rare; and Adeline, who as yet Thought her predictions went not much amiss, Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette-- So very difficult, they say, it is To keep extremes from meeting, when once set In motion; but she here too much refined-- Aurora's spirit was not of that kind.

LXXXII.

But Juan had a sort of winning way, A proud humility, if such there be, Which showed such deference to what females say, As if each charming word were a decree. His tact, too, tempered 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.

LXXXIII.

Aurora, who in her indifference Confounded him in common with the crowd Of flatterers, though she deemed he had more sense Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud-- Commenced[759] (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.[ny]

LXXXIV.

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.

LXXXV.

Aurora, who looked 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, Owned to a _penchant_, though discreet, for beauty.

LXXXVI.

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 quâ_.[760]

LXXXVII.

Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke (See Littleton), whene'er I have expressed 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?

LXXXVIII.

If people contradict themselves, can I Help contradicting them, and everybody, 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.

LXXXIX.

Apologue, Fable, Poesy, and Parable, Are false, but may be rendered 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?

XC.

Some millions must be wrong, that's pretty clear; 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.

XCI.

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.

XCII.

But though I am a temperate theologian, And also meek as a metaphysician, Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, As Eldon[761] 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,[762] To see men let these scoundrel Sovereigns break law.

XCIII.

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.

XCIV.

And now I will give up all argument; And positively, henceforth, no temptation Shall "fool me to the top up of my bent:"--[763] 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.

XCV.

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.

XCVI.

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"[764] may appal. In short, upon that subject I've some qualms very Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury.[765]

XCVII.

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 sat up too late:

XCVIII.

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.

XCIX.

Between two worlds Life hovers like a star, 'Twixt Night and Morn, upon the horizon's verge. How little do we know that which we are! How less what we may be![766] The eternal surge Of Time and Tide rolls on and bears afar Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge, Lashed from the foam of ages; while the graves Of Empires heave but like some passing waves.[767]

FOOTNOTES:

{544}[733] [It is impossible to persuade the metaphor to march "on all-fours," but, to drag it home, by a kind of "frog's march," the unfulfilled wants of the soul, the "lurking thoughts" are as it were bubbles, which we would fain "break on the invisible Ocean" of Passion or Emotion the begetter of bubbles--Passion which, like the visible Ocean, images Eternity and portrays, but not to the sensual eye, the beatific vision of the things which are not seen, and, even so, "ministers to the Soul's delight"! But "who can tell"?]

{545}[ni] _While all without's indicative of rest_.--[MS. erased.]

{546}[nj] _A thing on which dull Time should never print age_, _For whom stern Nature should forego her debt_.--[MS.]

[734] [Ransom and Morland were Byron's bankers. Douglas Kinnaird was a partner in the firm. (See _Letters_, 1898, ii. 85, note 2.)]

[nk] _Old Skeleton with ages for your booty_.--[MS. erased.]

{547}[735] ["He turned himself into all manner of forms with more ease than the chameleon changes his colour.... Thus at Sparta he was all for exercise, frugal in his diet, and severe in his manners. In Asia he was as much for mirth and pleasure, luxury and ease."--Plutarch, _Alcibiades_, Langhorne's translation, 1838, p. 150.]

[736] [For the phrase "Cupidon Déchaîné," applied to Count D'Orsay, _vide ante_, p. 526, note 4.]

[737] [Plautus, _Truculentus_, act ii. sc. 8, line 14.]

[738] [Raphael's "Transfiguration" is in the Vatican.]

[739] As it is necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity, I say that I mean, by "Diviner still," CHRIST. If ever God was man--or man God--he was _both_. I never arraigned his creed, but the use--or abuse made of it. Mr. Canning one day quoted Christianity to sanction negro slavery, and Mr. Wilberforce had little to say in reply. And was Christ crucified, that black men might be scourged? If so, He had better been born a Mulatto, to give both colours an equal chance of freedom, or at least salvation.

[In a debate in the House of Commons, May 15, 1823 (_Parl. Deb._, N.S. vol. ix. pp. 278, 279), Canning, replying to Fowell Buxton's motion for the Abolition of Slavery, said, "God forbid that I should contend that the Christian religion is favourable to slavery ... but if it be meant that in the Christian religion there is a special denunciation against slavery, that slavery and Christianity cannot exist together,--I think that the honourable gentleman himself must admit that the proposition is historically false."]

{549}[nl] ---- _and One Name Greater still_ _Whose lot it was to be the most mistaken_.--[MS, erased.]

[nm] _To leave the world by bigot fashions shaken_.--[MS. erased.]

[nn] _Which never flatters either Whig or Tory_.--[MS. erased.]

{550}[740] [Martial, _Epig._, x. 46.]

[741] ["Feeble" for "foible" is found in the writings of Mrs. Behn and Sir R. L'Estrange (_N. Engl. Dict._).]

[no] _But now I can't tell when it will be done_.--[MS. erased.]

[742] [The _N. Engl. Dict._ quotes W. Hooper's _Rational Recreations_ (1794) as an earlier authority for the use of "concision" in the sense of conciseness.]

[np] _Who now are weltering_----.--[MS. erased.]

[743] ["The cat will mew and dog will have his day." _Hamlet_, act v. sc. 1, line 280.]

[nq] _I should not be the foremost to deride_ _Their fault--but quickly take a sword the other way,_ _And wax an Ultra-royalist, where Royalty_ _Had nothing left it but a desperate Loyalty_.--[MS. erased.]

{551}[744]

["And hold no sin so deeply red As that of breaking Priscian's head."

Butler's _Hudibras_, Part II. Canto II. lines 223, 224.]

[745] [Brougham, in the famous critique of _Hours of Idleness_ (_Edinburgh Review_, January, 1808, vol. xi. pp. 285-289), was pleased "to counsel him that he do forthwith abandon poetry and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportunities, which are great, to better account." Others, however, gave him encouragement. See, for instance, a review by J.H. Markland, who afterwards made his name as editor of the Roxburgh Club issue of the Chester Mysteries (whence, perhaps, Byron derived his knowledge of "Mysteries and Moralities"), which concludes thus: "Heartily hoping that the 'illness and depression of spirits,' which evidently pervade the greater part of these effusions, are entirely dispelled; confident that 'George Gordon, Lord Byron' will have a conspicuous niche in the future editions of 'Royal and Noble Authors,' etc."--_Gent. Mag._, 1807, vol. lxxvii. p. 1217.]

[nr] _To marshal onwards to the Delphian Height._--[MS.]

{552}[746] ["Three small vessels were apparently all that Columbus had requested. Two of them were light barques, called caravels, not superior to river and coasting craft of more modern days.... That such long and perilous expeditions into unknown seas, should be undertaken in vessels without decks, and that they should live through the violent tempests by which they were frequently assailed, remain among the singular circumstances of those daring voyages."--_History of the Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus_, by Washington Irving, 1831, i. 78.]

[ns] _As Women seldom think by halves_----.--[MS. erased.]

{554}[747] This extraordinary and flourishing German colony in America does not entirely exclude matrimony, as the "Shakers" do; but lays such restrictions upon it as prevents more than a certain quantum of births within a certain number of years; which births (as Mr. Hulme [perhaps Thomas Hulme, whose _Journal_ is quoted in _Hints to Emigrants_, 1817, pp. 5-18] observes) generally arrive "in a little flock like those of a farmer's lambs, all within the same month perhaps." These Harmonists (so called from the name of their settlement) are represented as a remarkably flourishing, pious, and quiet people. See the various recent writers on America.

[The Harmonists were emigrants from Würtemburg, who settled (1803-1805) under the auspices of George Rapp, in a township 120 miles north of Philadelphia. This they sold, and "trekked" westwards to Indiana. One of their customs was to keep watch by nights and to cry the hours to this tune: "Again a day is past and a step made nearer to our end. Our time runs away, and the joys of Heaven are our reward." (See _The Philanthropist_, No. xx., 1815, vol. v, pp. 277-288.)]

[nt] _Which test I leave unto the Lords spiritual_.--[MS. erased.]

{555}[748] Jacob Tonson, according to Mr. Pope, was accustomed to call his writers "able pens," "persons of honour," and, especially, "eminent hands." _Vide_ Correspondence, etc., etc.

["Perhaps I should myself be much better pleased, if I were told you called me your little friend, than if you complimented me with the title of a 'great genius,' or an eminent hand, as Jacob does all his authors."--_Pope to Steele_, November 29, 1712, _Works of Alexander Pope_, 1871, vi. 396.]

[749] [See D'Israeli's _Curiosities of Literature_, 1841, pp. 450-452, and the Dissertation prefixed to Francis Douce's edition of Holbein's _Dance of Death_, 1858, pp. 1-218.]

{556}[nu] ---- _Miss Allman and Miss Noman_.--[MS. erased.]

[nv] ---- _that smooth placid sea_ _Which did not show and yet concealed a storm_.--[MS. erased.]

{558}[750] [Compare _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. stanza lix. line 3, _Poetical Works_, 1899, ii. 374, note 2.]

{559}[751]

[" ... And, under him, My Genius is rebuked; as it is said Mark Antony's was by Cæsar."

_Macbeth_, act iii, sc. 1, lines 54-56.]

{560}[752] [_Warison_--cri-de-guerre--note of assault:--

"Either receive within these towers Two hundred of my master's powers, Or straight they sound their _warrison_, And storm and spoil this garrison."

_Lay of the Last Minstrel_, Canto IV. stanza xxiv, lines 17-20.]

{561}[nw] _And adds a third to what was late a pair_.--[MS. erased.]

[753] [Compare:

"Life's a jest, and all things show it; I thought so once, and _now I know it_."

Gay's Epitaph.]

[754] [For "Potage à la bonne femme," "Dindon à la Périgueux," "Soupe à la Beauveau," "Le dorey garni d'éperlans frits," "Le cuisseau de pore à demi sel, garni de choux," "Le salmi de perdreaux à l'Espagnole," "Les bécasses," see "Bill of Fare for November," _The French Cook_, by Louis Eustache Ude, 1813, p. viii. For "Les poulardes à la Condé," "Le jambon de Westphalie à l'Espagnole," "Les petites timballes d'un salpicon à la Monglas" (?Montglat), "Les filets de perdreaux sautés à la Lucullus," _vide ibid._, p. ix., and for "Petits puits d'amour garnis de confitures," _vide_ Plate of Second Course (to face) p. vi.]

{562}[755] [Alexander the Great.]

{563}[756] A dish "à la Lucullus." This hero, who conquered the East, has left his more extended celebrity to the transplantation of cherries (which he first brought into Europe), and the nomenclature of some very good dishes;--and I am not sure that (barring indigestion) he has not done more service to mankind by his cookery than by his conquests. A cherry tree may weigh against a bloody laurel; besides, he has contrived to earn celebrity from both.

[According to Pliny (_Nat, Hist._, lib. xv. cap. xxv. ed. 1593, ii. 131), there were no cherry trees in Italy until L. Lucullus brought them home with him from Pontus after the Mithridatic War (B.C. 74), and it was not for another hundred and twenty years that the cherry tree crossed the Channel and was introduced into Britain.]

[757] "Petits puits d'amour garnis de confitures,"--a classical and well-known dish for part of the flank of a second course [_vide ante_, p. 562].

{564}[758] ["To-day in a palace, to-morrow in a cow-house--this day with a Pacha, the next with a shepherd."--Letter to his mother, July 30, 1810, _Letters_, 1898, i. 295.]

[nx] _No lady but a dish_----.--[MS.]

{567}[759] ["This construction ('commence' with the infinitive) has been objected to by stylists," says the _New English Dictionary_ (see art. "Commence"). Its use is sanctioned by the authority of Pope, Landor, Helps, and Lytton; but even so, it is questionable, if not objectionable.]

[ny] _Sweet Lord! she was so sagely innocent_.--[MS.]

{568}[760] Subauditur "_non_;" omitted for the sake of euphony.

{569}[761] [John Scott, Earl of Eldon, Lord Chancellor, 1801 to 1827, sat as judge (November 7, 1822) to hear the petition of Henry Wallop Fellowes, that a commission of inquiry should be issued to ascertain whether his uncle, Lord Portsmouth (who married Mary Anne Hanson, the daughter of Byron's solicitor), was of sound mind, "and capable of managing his own person and property." The Chancellor gave judgment that a commission be issued, and the jury, February, 1823, returned a verdict that Lord Portsmouth had been a lunatic since 1809. (See _Letters_, 1898, ii. 393, note 3, _et ibid._, 1901, vi. 170, note i.)]

[762] Hecla is a famous hot-spring in Iceland. [Byron seems to mistake the volcano for the Geysers.]

{570}[763] [_Hamlet_, act iii. sc. 2, line 367.]

[764]

["By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers," etc.

_Richard III._, act v. sc. 3, lines 216-218.]

[765] Hobbes: who, doubting of his own soul, paid that compliment to the souls of other people as to decline their visits, of which he had some apprehension.

[Bayle (see art. "Hobbes" [_Dict. Crit. and Hist._, 1736, iii. 471, note N.]) quotes from _Vita Hobb._, p. 106: "He was as falsely accused by some of being unwilling to be alone, because he was afraid of spectres and apparitions, vain bugbears of fools, which he had chased away by the light of his Philosophy," and proceeds to argue that, perhaps, after all, Hobbes was afraid of the dark. "He was timorous to the last degree, and consequently he had reason to distrust his imagination when he was alone in a chamber in the night; for in spite of him the memory of what he had read and heard concerning apparitions would revive, though he was not persuaded of the reality of these things." See, however, for his own testimony that he was "not afrayd of sprights," _Letters and Lives of Eminent Persons_, by John Aubrey, 1813, vol. ii. pt. ii. p. 624.]

{571}[766] [_Hamlet_, act iv. sc. 5, lines 41, 42.]

[767] End of Canto 15^th^. M^ch^. 25, 1823. B.--[MS.]

CANTO THE SIXTEENTH.[768]

I.

The antique Persians taught three useful things, To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth,[769] 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.

II.

The cause of this effect, or this defect,-- "For this effect defective comes by cause,"--[770] 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.

III.

And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats From anything, 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 mixed so slightly, that you can't complain, But wonder they so few are, since my tale is "_De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis._"[771]

IV.

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.

V.

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._"[772]

VI.

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:

VII.

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:[773] 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.

VIII.

The dinner and the _soirée_ too were done, The supper too discussed, the dames admired, The banqueteers had dropped off one by one-- The song was silent, and the dance expired: The last thin petticoats were vanished, gone Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired, And nothing brighter gleamed through the saloon Than dying tapers--and the peeping moon.

IX.

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;

X.

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.[774] So perish every Tyrant's robe piece-meal!

XI.

But next to dressing for a rout or ball, Undressing is a woe; our _robe de chambre_ May sit like that of Nessus,[775] and recall Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber. Titus exclaimed, "I've lost a day!"[776] Of all The nights and days most people can remember, (I have had of both, some not to be disdained,) I wish they'd state how many they have gained.

XII.

And Juan, on retiring for the night, Felt restless, and perplexed, 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 sighed.

XIII.

He sighed;--the next resource is the full moon, Where all sighs are deposited; and now It happened 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_,[777] Which further to explain would be a truism.

XIV.

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.

XV.

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) willow; And he stood gazing out on the cascade That flashed and after darkened in the shade.

XVI.

Upon his table or his toilet,[778]--_which_ Of these is not exactly ascertained,-- (I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch Of nicety, where a fact is to be gained,) A lamp burned high, while he leant from a niche, Where many a Gothic ornament remained, In chiselled stone and painted glass, and all That Time has left our fathers of their Hall.

XVII.

Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw His chamber door wide open[779]--and went forth Into a gallery of a sombre hue, Long, furnished 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.

XVIII.

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.

XIX.

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,[780] 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.

XX.

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.

XXI.

It was no mouse--but lo! a monk, arrayed[781] In cowl and beads, and dusky garb, appeared, 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,[782] But slowly; and as he passed Juan by, Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye.

XXII.

Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint Of such a Spirit in these halls of old, But thought, like most men, that there was nothing in 't Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, Coined 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?

XXIII.

Once, twice, thrice passed, repassed--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 taxed his tongue for words, which were not granted, To ask the reverend person what he wanted.

XXIV.

The third time, after a still longer pause, The shadow passed 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 seemed to evaporate.

XXV.

He stood--how long he knew not, but it seemed An age--expectant, powerless, with his eyes Strained on the spot where first the figure gleamed Then by degrees recalled his energies, And would have passed the whole off as a dream, But could not wake; he was, he did surmise, Waking already, and returned at length Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.

XXVI.

All there was as he left it: still his taper Burned, and not _blue_, as modest tapers use, Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour; He rubbed 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."

XXVII.

This savoured of this world; but his hand shook: He shut his door, and after having read A paragraph, I think about Horne Tooke, Undressed, and rather slowly went to bed. There, couched 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.

XXVIII.

He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed, Pondered upon his visitant or vision, And whether it ought not to be disclosed, At risk of being quizzed 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 brooked no less, Knocked to inform him it was time to dress.

XXIX.

He dressed; 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 curbed to their usual cut, His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied Almost an hair's breadth too much on one side.

XXX.

And when he walked down into the Saloon, He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea, Which he perhaps had not discovered soon, Had it not happened 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.

XXXI.

She looked, and saw him pale, and turned as pale Herself; then hastily looked down, and muttered Something, but what's not stated in my tale. Lord Henry said, his muffin was ill buttered; The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke played with her veil, And looked at Juan hard, but nothing uttered. Aurora Raby with her large dark eyes Surveyed him with a kind of calm surprise.

XXXII.

But seeing him all cold and silent still, And everybody wondering more or less, Fair Adeline inquired, "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."

XXXIII.

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

XXXIV.

Lord Henry, who had now discussed his chocolate, Also the muffin whereof he complained, Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, At which he marvelled, since it had not rained; Then asked her Grace what news were of the Duke of late? _Her_ Grace replied, _his_ Grace was rather pained With some slight, light, hereditary twinges Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges.

XXXV.

Then Henry turned to Juan, and addressed 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.

XXXVI.

"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.

XXXVII.

"The last time was----"--"I pray," said Adeline-- (Who watched the changes of Don Juan's brow, And from its context thought she could divine Connections stronger than 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."

XXXVIII.

"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 touched, and plaintively began to play The air of "'Twas a Friar of Orders Gray."[nz]

XXXIX.

"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 displayed 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.

XL.

After some fascinating hesitation,-- The charming of these charmers, who seem bound, I can't tell why, to this dissimulation,-- Fair Adeline, with eyes fixed 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.

1.

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 expelled the friars, one friar still Would not be driven away.

2.

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 remained, unchased, unchained, And he did not seem formed of clay, For he's seen in the porch, and he's seen in the church, Though he is not seen by day.

3.

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[oa] He comes--but not to grieve.

4.

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 shadowed by his cowl; But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, And they seem of a parted soul.

5.

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.

6.

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.

XLI.

The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires Died from the touch that kindled them to sound; And the pause followed, 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.

XLII.

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.

XLIII.

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 spoilt carpet--but the "Attic Bee" Was much consoled by his own repartee.[783]

XLIV.

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 displayed; 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.

XLV.

Oh! 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,[784] To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail.[785]

XLVI.

In Babylon's _bravuras_--as the Home- Heart-Ballads of Green Erin or Grey Highlands, That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, The calentures[786] 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.

XLVII.

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,[787] 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.

XLVIII.

Aurora--since we are touching upon taste, Which now-a-days is the thermometer By whose degrees all characters are classed-- Was more Shakespearian, 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.

XLIX.

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.

L.

I have not heard she was at all poetic, Though once she was seen reading the _Bath Guide_,[788] And Hayley's _Triumphs_,[789] which she deemed 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 rimés_.

LI.

'Twere difficult to say what was the object Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay To bear on what appeared 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.

LII.

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.[790]

LIII.

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 wished for a still more detailed narration Of this same mystic friar's curious doings, About the present family's deaths and wooings.

LIV.

Of these few could say more than has been said; They passed 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 talked on all sides on that head: But Juan, when cross-questioned on the vision, Which some supposed (though he had not avowed it) Had stirred him, answered in a way to cloud it.

LV.

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, Matched for the spring, whom several went to see.

LVI.

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 cheapened 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.

LVII.

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 deemed his patronage an honour, Had brought the _capo d'opera_, not for sale, But for his judgment--never known to fail.

LVIII.

There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic Bricklayer of Babel, called an architect,[ob] 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 called _restoration_.[791]

LIX.

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.[792]

LX.

There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage Lord Henry wished to raise for a new purchase; Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage,[793] And one on tithes, which sure as Discord's torches, Kindling Religion till she throws down _her_ gage, "Untying" squires "to fight against the churches;"[794] There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughman, For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman.

LXI.

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):[795] That scarlet cloak, alas! unclosed with rigour, Presents the problem of a double figure.

LXII.

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 bagged this poacher upon Nature's manor.

LXIII.

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 licence 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.

LXIV.

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.

LXV.

Her black, bright, downcast, yet _espiègle_ eye, Had gathered a large tear into its corner, Which the poor thing at times essayed 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 called up for her examination.

LXVI.

Of course these groups were scattered here and there, Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent.[796] 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.

LXVII.

But this poor girl was left in the great hall, While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, Discussed (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[oc] Perplexing for most virgins--a child's father.

LXVIII.

You see here was enough of occupation For the Lord Henry, linked 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 called "open house."

LXIX.

But once a week or fortnight, _un_invited (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.

LXX.

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).

LXXI.

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.

LXXII.

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 compelled, Such was his Sovereign's pleasure, (though unfit, He added modestly, when rebels railed,) To hold some sinecures he wished abolished, But that with them all Law would be demolished.

LXXIII.

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.

LXXIV.

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 threatened the whole country with perdition? When demagogues would with a butcher's knife Cut through and through (oh! damnable incision!) The Gordian or the G_e_ordi-an knot, whose strings Have tied together Commons, Lords, and Kings.

LXXV.

Sooner "come Place into the Civil List And champion him to the utmost[797]--" he would keep it, Till duly disappointed or dismissed: Profit he cared 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.

LXXVI.

He was as independent--aye, 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.

LXXVII.

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_--

LXXVIII.

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 everybody out of their own sphere.

LXXIX.

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_.

LXXX.

There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, Whose hounds ne'er erred, nor greyhounds deigned to lurch; Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers,[798] 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.

LXXXI.

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,[799] The loudest wit I e'er was deafened with.

LXXXII.

I knew him in his livelier London days, A brilliant diner-out, though but a curate, And not a joke he cut but earned 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,[800] A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on.

LXXXIII.

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.[od] No longer ready ears and short-hand pens Imbibed the gay _bon-mot_, or happy hoax:[oe] The poor priest was reduced to common sense, Or to coarse efforts very loud and long, To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick throng.[of]

LXXXIV.

There _is_ a difference, says the song, "between A beggar and a Queen,"[801] 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.

LXXXV.

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.

LXXXVI.

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,[802] who doth owe To these the invention of champagne and truffles: Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles.

LXXXVII.

Dully passed 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 nailed upon his chair: Though knives and forks clanked round as in a fray, He seemed unconscious of all passing there, Till some one, with a groan, expressed a wish (Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish.

LXXXVIII.

On which, at the _third_ asking of the banns, He started; and perceiving smiles around Broadening to grins, he coloured 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.

LXXXIX.

This was no bad mistake, as it occurred, The supplicator being an amateur; But others, who were left with scarce a third, Were angry--as they well might, to be sure, They wondered 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.

XC.

They little knew, or might have sympathized, That he the night before had seen a ghost, A prologue which but slightly harmonized With the substantial company engrossed 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!

XCI.

But what confused him more than smile or stare From all the 'squires and 'squiresses around, Who wondered at the abstraction of his air, Especially as he had been renowned 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)--

XCII.

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 smile bespeaks 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.

XCIII.

'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 gained 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.

XCIV.

But what was bad, she did not blush in turn, Nor seem embarrassed--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 flushed--and always clear, As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere.

XCV.

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.

XCVI.

Though this was most expedient on the whole And usual--Juan, when he cast a glance On Adeline while playing her grand _rôle_, 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_;

XCVII.

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 called mobility,[803] 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.

XCVIII.

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,[804] And grow quite figurative with their figures.

XCIX.

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.

C.

While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, The fair Fitz-Fulke seemed 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.

CI.

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.

CII.

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![805]

CIII.

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

CIV.

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,"[806] 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.

CV.

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.

CVI.

'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 it 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.

CVII.

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 gained esteem where it was worth the most; And, certainly, Aurora had renewed In him some feelings he had lately lost, Or hardened; feelings which, perhaps ideal, Are so divine, that I must deem them real:--

CVIII.

The love of higher things and better days; The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance Of what is called 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.

CIX.

Who would not sigh Αἴ αἴ τὰν Κυθέρειαν [Greek: Ai)/ ai)/ ta\n Kythe/reian][807] 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 played us many tricks, Still we respect thee, "_Alma Venus Genetrix!_"[808]

CX.

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.

CXI.

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.

CXII.

And not in vain he listened;--Hush! what's that? I see--I see--Ah, no!--'t is not--yet 't is-- Ye powers! it is the--the--the--Pooh! the cat! The Devil may take that stealthy pace of his! So like a spiritual pit-a-pat, Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, Gliding the first time to a _rendezvous_, And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe.

CXIII.

Again--what is 't? The wind? No, no,--this time It is the sable Friar as before, With awful footsteps regular as rhyme, Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. Again through shadows of the night sublime, When deep sleep fell on men,[809] and the World wore The starry darkness round her like a girdle Spangled with gems--the Monk made his blood curdle.

CXIV.

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,[810] Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter, Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass, Sounding like very supernatural water, Came over Juan's ear, which throbbed, alas! For Immaterialism's a serious matter; So that even those whose faith is the most great In Souls immortal, shun them _tête-à-tête_.

CXV.

Were his eyes open?--Yes! and his mouth too. Surprise has this effect--to make one dumb, Yet leave the gate which Eloquence slips through As wide as if a long speech were to come. Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, Tremendous to a mortal tympanum: His eyes were open, and (as was before Stated) his mouth. What opened next?--the door.

CXVI.

It opened with a most infernal creak, Like that of Hell. "Lasciate ogni speranza, Voi, ch' entrate!"[811] The hinge seemed to speak, Dreadful as Dante's _rima_, or this stanza; Or--but all words upon such themes are weak: A single shade's sufficient to entrance a Hero--for what is Substance to a Spirit? Or how is 't _Matter_ trembles to come near it?[og]

CXVII.

The door flew wide, not swiftly,--but, as fly The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight-- And then swung back; nor close--but stood awry, Half letting in long shadows on the light, Which still in Juan's candlesticks burned high, For he had two, both tolerably bright, And in the doorway, darkening darkness, stood The sable Friar in his solemn hood.

CXVIII.

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken The night before; but being sick of shaking, He first inclined to think he had been mistaken; And then to be ashamed of such mistaking; His own internal ghost began to awaken Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking-- Hinting that Soul and Body on the whole Were odds against a disembodied Soul.

CXIX.

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce, And he arose, advanced--the Shade retreated; But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, Followed, his veins no longer cold, but heated, Resolved to thrust the mystery _carte_ and _tierce_, At whatsoever risk of being defeated: The Ghost stopped, menaced, then retired, until He reached the ancient wall, then stood stone still.

CXX.

Juan put forth one arm--Eternal powers! It touched no soul, nor body, but the wall, On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers, Chequered with all the tracery of the Hall; He shuddered, as no doubt the bravest cowers When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal. How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity!

CXXI.

But still the Shade remained: the blue eyes glared, And rather variably for stony death; Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared, The Ghost had a remarkably sweet breath: A straggling curl showed he had been fair-haired; A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, Gleamed forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud The Moon peeped, just escaped from a grey cloud.

CXXII.

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust His other arm forth--Wonder upon wonder! It pressed upon a hard but glowing bust, Which beat as if there was a warm heart under. He found, as people on most trials must, That he had made at first a silly blunder, And that in his confusion he had caught Only the wall, instead of what he sought.

CXXIII.

The Ghost, if Ghost it were, seemed a sweet soul As ever lurked beneath a holy hood: A dimpled chin,[oh] a neck of ivory, stole Forth into something much like flesh and blood; Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, And they revealed--alas! that e'er they should! In full, voluptuous, but _not o'er_grown bulk, The phantom of her frolic Grace--Fitz-Fulke![812]

FOOTNOTES:

{572}[768] March 29, 1823.

[769] [Herodotus, _Hist._, i. 136.]

[770] [_Hamlet_, act ii. sc. 2, line 103.]

{573}[771] [The story is told of St. Thomas Aquinas, that he wrote a work _De Omnibus Rebus_, which was followed by a second treatise, _De Quibusdam Aliis._]

[772] [Not St. Augustine, but Tertullian. See his treatise, _De Carne Christi_, cap. V. c. (_Opera_, 1744, p. 310): "Crucifixus est Dei filius: non pudet, quia pudendum est: et mortuus est Dei filius: prorsus credibile est, quia ineptum est: et sepultus resurrexit: certum est quia impossibile est."]

{574}[773] ["That the dead are seen no more," said Imlac, "I will not undertake to maintain, against the concurrent and unvaried testimony of all ages, and of all nations. There is no people, rude or unlearned, among whom apparitions of the dead are not related and believed. This opinion, which perhaps prevails as far as human nature is diffused, could become universal only by its truth; those that never heard of one another would not have agreed in a tale which nothing but experience can make credible. That it is doubted by single cavillers, can very little weaken the general evidence; and some, who deny it with their tongues, confess it with their fears."--_Rasselas_, chap. xxx., _Works_, ed. 1806, iii. 372, 373.]

{575}[774] The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whether from a shell-fish, or from cochineal, or from kermes, is still an article of dispute; and even its colour--some say purple, others scarlet: I say nothing.

[Kermes is cochineal, the Greek κόκκινον. [Greek: ko/kkinon.] The shell-fish (_murex_) is the _Purpura patula_. Both substances were used as dyes.]

[775] [See Ovid, _Heroid_, Epist. ix. line 161.]

[776] [Titus used to promise to "bear in mind," "to keep on his list," the petitions of all his supplicants, and once, at dinner-time, his conscience smote him, that he had let a day go by without a single grant, or pardon, or promotion. Hence his confession. "Amici, diem perdidi!" _Vide_ Suetonius, _De XII. Cæs._, "Titus," lib. viii. cap. 8.]

[777] [_Tuism_ is not in Johnson's _Dictionary_. Coleridge has a note dated 1800 (_Literary Remains_, i. 292), on "egotizing in _tuism_" but it was not included in Southey's _Omniana_ of 1812, and must have been unknown to Byron.]

{576}[778] [Sc. _toilette_, a Gallicism.]

[779] [Byron loved to make fact and fancy walk together, but, here, his memory played him false, or his art kept him true. The Black Friar walked and walks in the Guests' Refectory (or Banqueting Hall, or "Gallery" of this stanza), which adjoins the Prior's Parlour, but the room where Byron slept (in a four-post bed--a coronet, at each corner, atop) is on the floor above the Prior's Parlour, and can only be approached by a spiral staircase. Both rooms look west, and command a view of the "lake's billow" and the "cascade." Moreover, the Guests' Refectory was never hung with "old pictures." It would seem that Don Juan (perhaps Byron on an emergency) slept in the Prior's Parlour, and that in the visionary Newstead the pictures forsook the Grand Drawing-Room for the Hall. Hence the scene! _El Libertado_ steps out of the Gothic Chamber "forth" into the "gallery," and lo! "a monk in cowl and beads." But, _Quien sabe?_ The Psalmist's caution with regard to princes is not inapplicable to poets.]

{577}[780] [Compare Mariner's description of the cave in Hoonga Island (_Poetical Works_, 1901, v. 629, note 1).]

{578}[781] ["The place," wrote Byron to Moore, August 13, 1814, "is worth seeing as a ruin, and I can assure you there _was_ some fun there, even in my time; but that is past. The ghosts, however, and the Gothics, and the waters, and the desolation, make it very lively still." "It was," comments Moore (_Life_, p. 262, note 1), "if I mistake not, during his recent visit to Newstead, that he himself actually fancied he saw the ghost of the Black Friar, which was supposed to have haunted the Abbey from the time of the dissolution of the monasteries, and which he thus describes from the recollection, perhaps, of his own fantasy, in _Don Juan_.... It is said that the Newstead ghost appeared, also, to Lord Byron's cousin, Miss Fanny Parkins, and that she made a sketch of him from memory." The legend of the Black Friar may, it is believed at Newstead (_et vide post_, "Song," stanza ii. line 5, p. 583), be traced to the alarm and suspicion of the country-folk, who, on visiting the Abbey, would now and then catch sight of an aged lay-brother, or monkish domestic, who had been retained in the service of the Byrons long after the Canons had been "turned adrift." He would naturally keep out of sight of a generation who knew not monks, and, when surprised in the cloisters or ruins of the church, would glide back to his own quarters in the dormitories.]

[782]

["Shew his eyes, and grieve his heart; Come like shadows, so depart."

_Macbeth_, act iv. sc. 1, lines 110, 111.]

{582}[nz] _With that she rose as graceful as a Roe_ _Slips from the mountain in the month of June,_ _And opening her Piano 'gan to play_ _Forthwith--"It was a Friar of Orders Gray."_--[MS. erased.]

{584}[oa] _By their bed of death he receives their_ [_breath_].--[MS. erased.]

{585}[783] I think that it was a carpet on which Diogenes trod, with--"Thus I trample on the pride of Plato!"--"With greater pride," as the other replied. But as carpets are meant to be trodden upon, my memory probably misgives me, and it might be a robe, or tapestry, or a table-cloth, or some other expensive and uncynical piece of furniture.

[It was Plato's couch or lounge which Diogenes stamped upon. "So much for Plato's pride!" "And how much for yours, Diogenes?" "Calco Platonis fastum!" "Ast fastu alio?" (_Vide_ Diogenis Laertii _De Vita et Sententiis_, lib. vi. ed. 1595, p. 321.)

For "Attic Bee," _vide_ Cic. I. _De Div._, xxxvi. § 78, "At Platoni cum in cunis parvulo dormienti apes in labellis consedissent, responsum est, singulari illum suavitate orationis fore."]

{586}[784] [For two translations of this Portuguese song, see _Poetical Works_, 1900, iii. 71.]

[785] I remember that the mayoress of a provincial town, somewhat surfeited with a similar display from foreign parts, did rather indecorously break through the applauses of an intelligent audience--intelligent, I mean, as to music--for the words, besides being in recondite languages (it was some years before the peace, ere all the world had travelled, and while I was a collegian), were sorely disguised by the performers:--this mayoress, I say, broke out with, "Rot your Italianos! for my part, I loves a simple ballat!" Rossini will go a good way to bring most people to the same opinion some day. Who would imagine that he was to be the successor of Mozart? However, I state this with diffidence, as a liege and loyal admirer of Italian music in general, and of much of Rossini's; but we may say, as the connoisseur did of painting in _The Vicar of Wakefield_, that "the picture would be better painted if the painter had taken more pains."

[A little while, and Rossini is being lauded at the expense of a degenerate modern rival. Compare Browning's _Bishop Blougram's Apology_. "Where sits Rossini patient in his stall."--_Poetical Works_, ed. 1868, v. 276.]

[786] [Compare _The Two Foscari_, act iii. sc. 1, line 172, _Poetical Works_, 1901, v. 159, note 1.]

{587}[787] [Of Lady Beaumont, who was "weak enough" to admire Wordsworth, see _The Blues_, Ecl. II. line 47, _sq._, _Poetical Works_, 1901, iv. 582.]

[788] [Christopher Anstey (1724-1802) published his _New Bath Guide_ in 1766.]

[789] [Compare _English Bards, etc._, lines 309-318, _Poetical Works_, 1898, i. 321, note 1.]

{588}[790] [For "Gynocracy," _vide ante_, p. 473, note 1.]

{589}[ob] _Thrower down of buildings_----.--[MS. erased.]

[791] [Byron had, no doubt, inspected the plan of Colonel Wildman's elaborate restoration of the Abbey, which was carried out at a cost of one hundred thousand pounds (see stanza lix. lines 1, 2). The kitchen and domestic offices, which extended at right angles to the west front of the Abbey (see "Newstead from a Picture by Peter Tilleman, _circ._ 1720" _Letters_, 1898, i. (to face p.) 216), were pulled down and rebuilt, the massive Sussex Tower (so named in honour of H.R.H. the Duke of Sussex) was erected at the south-west corner of the Abbey, and the south front was, in part, rebuilt and redecorated. Byron had been ready to "leave everything" with regard to his beloved Newstead to Wildman's "own feelings, present or future" (see his letter, November 18, 1818, _Letters_, 1900, iv. 270); but when the time came, the necessary and, on the whole, judicious alterations of his successor, must have cost the "banished Lord" many a pang.]

{590}[792] "Ausu Romano, sere Veneto" is the inscription (and well inscribed in this instance) on the sea walls between the Adriatic and Venice. The walls were a republican work of the Venetians; the inscription, I believe, Imperial; and inscribed by Napoleon the _First_. It is time to continue to him that title--there will be a second by and by, "Spes altera mundi," _if he live_; let him not defeat it like his father. But in any case, he will be preferable to "_Imbéciles_." There is a glorious field for him, if he know how to cultivate it.

[Francis Charles Joseph Napoleon, Duke of Reichstadt, died at Vienna, July 22, 1832. But, none the less, Byron's prophecy was fulfilled.]

[793] [Burgage, or tenure in burgage, is where the king or some other person is lord of an ancient borough, in which the tenements are held by a yearly rent certain.]

[794]

["I conjure you, by that which you profess, (Howe'er you come to know it) answer me: Though you _untie_ the winds, and let them fight Against the _churches_."

_Macbeth_, act iv. sc. 1, lines 50-53.]

{591}[795] [See the lines "To my Son," _Poetical Works_, 1898, i. 260, note 1.]

{592}[796] [See Spenser's _Faëry Queen_, Book I. Canto IX. stanza 6, line 1.]

[oc] _To name what passes for a puzzle rather,_ _Although there must be such a thing--a father_.--[MS. erased.]

{594}[797]

["Rather than so, come, Fate, into the list, And champion me to the utterance."

_Macbeth_, act iii. sc. 1, lines 70, 71.]

{595}[798] [For "Septemberers (_Septembriseurs_)," see Carlyle's _French Revolution_, 1839, iii. 50.]

{596}[799] ["Query, _Sydney Smith_, author of Peter Plymley's Letters?--Printer's Devil."--Ed. 1833. Byron must have met Sydney Smith (1771-1845) at Holland House. The "fat fen vicarage" (_vide infra_, stanza lxxxii. line 8) was Foston-le-Clay (Foston, All Saints), near Barton Hill, Yorkshire, which Lord Chancellor Erskine presented to Sydney Smith in 1806. The "living" consisted of "three hundred acres of glebe-land of the stiffest clay," and there was no parsonage house.--See _A Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith_, by Lady Holland, 1855, i. 100-107.]

[800] ["Observe, also, three grotesque figures in the blank arches of the gable which forms the eastern end of St. Hugh's Chapel," and of these, "one is popularly said to represent the 'Devil looking over Lincoln.'"--_Handbook to the Cathedrals of England_, by R.J. King, _Eastern Division_, p. 394, note x.

The devil looked over Lincoln because the unexampled height of the central tower of the cathedral excited his envy and alarm; or, as Fuller (_Worthies: Lincolnshire_) has it, "overlooked this church, when first finished, with a torve and tetrick countenance, as maligning men's costly devotions." So, at least, the vanity of later ages interpreted the saying; but a time was when the devil "looked over" Lincoln to some purpose, for in A.D. 1185 an earthquake clave the Church of Remigius in twain, and in 1235 a great part of the central tower, which had been erected by Bishop Hugh de Wells, fell and injured the rest of the building.]

{597}[od] _For laughter rarely shakes these aguish folks_.--[MS, erased.]

[oe] _Took down the gay_ bon-mot----.--[MS. erased.]

[of] _To hammer half a laugh_----.--[MS. erased.]

[801]

["There's a difference to be seen between a beggar and a Queen; And I 'll tell you the reason why; A Queen does not swagger, nor get drunk like a beggar, Nor be half so merry as I," etc.

"There's a difference to be seen,'twixt a Bishop and a Dean, And I'll tell you the reason why; A Dean can not dish up a dinner like a Bishop, And that's the reason why!"]

{598}[802] ["Sine Cerere et Libero friget Venus." Terentius, _Eun._, act iv. sc. 5, line 6.]

{601}[803] In French "_mobilité_." I am not sure that mobility is English; but it is expressive of a quality which rather belongs to other climates, though it is sometimes seen to a great extent in our own. It may be defined as an excessive susceptibility of immediate impressions--at the same time without _losing_ the past: and is, though sometimes apparently useful to the possessor, a most painful and unhappy attribute.

["That he was fully aware not only of the abundance of this quality in his own nature, but of the danger in which it placed consistency and singleness of character, did not require the note on this passage to assure us. The consciousness, indeed, of his own natural tendency to yield thus to every chance impression, and change with every passing impulse, was not only for ever present in his mind, but ... had the effect of keeping him in that general line of consistency, on certain great subjects, which ... he continued to preserve throughout life."--_Life_, p. 646. "Mobility" is not the tendency to yield to _every_ impression, to change with _every_ impulse, but the capability of being moved by many and various impressions, of responding to an ever-renewed succession of impulses. Byron is defending the enthusiastic temperament from the charge of inconstancy and insincerity.]

[804] [The first edition of Cocker's _Arithmetic_ was published in 1677. There are many allusions to Cocker in Arthur Murphy's _Apprentice_ (1756), whence, perhaps, the saying, "according to Cocker."]

{602}[805] "[Et Horatii] Curiosa felicitas."--Petronius Arbiter, _Salyricôn_, cap. cxviii.

[806]

["Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer."

Pope _on Addison, Prologue to the Satires_, lines 201, 202.]

{604}[807] [Bion, _Epitaphium Adonidis_, line 28.]

[808] [" ... genetrix hominum, divômque voluptas, Alma Venus!" Lucret., _De Rerum Nat_., lib. i. lines 1, 2.]

{605}[809] [_Job_ iv. 13.]

[810] See the account of the ghost of the uncle of Prince Charles of Saxony, raised by Schroepfer--"Karl--Karl--was willst du mit mir?"

[For Johann Georg Schrepfer (1730(?)-1774), see J.S.B. Schlegel's _Tagebuch, etc._, 1806, and _Schwärmer und Schwindler_, von Dr. Eugen Sierke, 1874, pp. 298-332.]

{606}[811] [_Inferno_, Canto III. line 9.]

[og] _When once discovered it don't like to come near it_.--[MS.]

{607}[oh] _A beardless chin_----.--[MS.]

[812] [End of Canto 16. B. My. 6, 1823.--MS.]

CANTO THE SEVENTEENTH.[813]

I.

The world is full of orphans: firstly, those Who are so in the strict sense of the phrase; But many a lonely tree the loftier grows Than others crowded in the Forest's maze-- The next are such as are not doomed to lose Their tender parents, in their budding days, But, merely, their parental tenderness, Which leaves them orphans of the heart no less.

II.

The next are "_only_ Children," as they are styled, Who grow up _Children_ only, since th' old saw Pronounces that an "only's" a spoilt child-- But not to go too far, I hold it law, That where their education, harsh or mild, Transgresses the great bounds of love or awe, The sufferers--be 't in heart or intellect-- Whate'er the _cause_, are orphans in _effect_.

III.

But to return unto the stricter rule-- As far as words make rules--our common notion Of orphan paints at once a parish school, A half-starved babe, a wreck upon Life's ocean, A human (what the Italians nickname) "Mule!"[814] A theme for Pity or some worse emotion; Yet, if examined, it might be admitted The wealthiest orphans are to be more pitied.

IV.

Too soon they are Parents to themselves: for what Are Tutors, Guardians, and so forth, compared With Nature's genial Genitors? so that A child of Chancery, that Star-Chamber ward, (I'll take the likeness I can first come at,) Is like--a duckling by Dame Partlett reared, And frights--especially if 'tis a daughter, Th' old Hen--by running headlong to the water.

V.

There is a common-place book argument, Which glibly glides from every tongue; When any dare a new light to present, "If you are right, then everybody's wrong"! Suppose the converse of this precedent So often urged, so loudly and so long; "If you are wrong, then everybody's right"! Was ever everybody yet so quite?

VI.

Therefore I would solicit free discussion Upon all points--no matter what, or whose-- Because as Ages upon Ages push on, The last is apt the former to accuse Of pillowing its head on a pin-cushion, Heedless of pricks because it was obtuse: What was a paradox becomes a truth or A something like it--witness Luther!

VII.

The Sacraments have been reduced to two, And Witches unto none, though somewhat late Since burning agéd women (save a few-- Not witches only b--ches--who create Mischief in families, as some know or knew, Should still be singed, but lightly, let me state,) Has been declared an act of inurbanity, _Malgré_ Sir Matthew Hales's great humanity.

VIII.

Great Galileo was debarred the Sun, Because he fixed it; and, to stop his talking, How Earth could round the solar orbit run, Found his own legs embargoed from mere walking: The man was well-nigh dead, ere men begun To think his skull had not some need of caulking; But now, it seems, he's right--his notion just: No doubt a consolation to his dust.

IX.

Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates--but pages Might be filled up, as vainly as before, With the sad usage of all sorts of sages, Who in his life-time, each, was deemed a Bore! The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages: This they must bear with and, perhaps, much more; The wise man's sure when he no more can share it, he Will have a firm Post Obit on posterity.

X.

If such doom waits each intellectual Giant, We little people in our lesser way, In Life's small rubs should surely be more pliant, And so for one will I--as well I may-- Would that I were less bilious--but, oh, fie on 't! Just as I make my mind up every day, To be a "_totus, teres_," Stoic, Sage, The wind shifts and I fly into a rage.

XI.

Temperate I am--yet never had a temper; Modest I am--yet with some slight assurance; Changeable too--yet somehow "_Idem semper_:" Patient--but not enamoured of endurance; Cheerful--but, sometimes, rather apt to whimper: Mild--but at times a sort of "_Hercules furens_:" So that I almost think that the same skin For one without--has two or three within.

XII.

Our Hero was, in Canto the Sixteenth, Left in a tender moonlight situation, Such as enables Man to show his strength Moral or physical: on this occasion Whether his virtue triumphed--or, at length, His vice--for he was of a kindling nation-- Is more than I shall venture to describe;-- Unless some Beauty with a kiss should bribe.

XIII.

I leave the thing a problem, like all things:-- The morning came--and breakfast, tea and toast, Of which most men partake, but no one sings. The company whose birth, wealth, worth, has cost My trembling Lyre already several strings, Assembled with our hostess, and mine host; The guests dropped in--the last but one, Her Grace, The latest, Juan, with his virgin face.

XIV.

Which best it is to encounter--Ghost, or none, 'Twere difficult to say--but Juan looked As if he had combated with more than one, Being wan and worn, with eyes that hardly brooked The light, that through the Gothic window shone: Her Grace, too, had a sort of air rebuked-- Seemed pale and shivered, as if she had kept A vigil, or dreamt rather more than slept.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES:

{608}[813] [May 8, 1823.--_MS_. More than one "Seventeenth Canto," or so-called continuation of _Don Juan_, has been published. Some of these "Sequels" pretend to be genuine, while others are undisguisedly imitations or parodies. For an account of these spurious and altogether worthless continuations, see "Bibliography," vol. vii. There was, however, a foundation for the myth. Before Byron left Italy he had begun (May 8, 1823) a seventeenth canto, and when he sailed for Greece he took the new stanzas with him. Trelawny found "fifteen stanzas of the seventeenth canto of _Don Juan_" in Byron's room at Missolonghi (_Recollections, etc._, 1858, p. 237). The MS., together with other papers, was handed over to John Cam Hobhouse, and is now in the possession of his daughter, the Lady Dorchester. The copyright was purchased by the late John Murray. The fourteen (not fifteen) stanzas are now printed and published for the first time.]

{609}[814] The Italians, at least in some parts of Italy, call bastards and foundlings the _mules--why_, I cannot see, unless they mean to infer that the offspring of matrimony are asses.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Works of Lord Byron, Volume 6, by Lord Byron