Part 32

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

’Tis strange,—but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction; if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold! How oft would vice and virtue places change! The new world would be nothing to the old, If some Columbus of the moral seas Would show mankind their souls’ antipodes.

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

CANTO THE FIFTEENTH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adeline, no deep judge of character, Was apt to add a colouring from her own: ’Tis thus the good will amiably err, And eke the wise, as has been often shown. Experience is the chief philosopher, But saddest when his science is well known: And persecuted sages teach the schools Their folly in forgetting there are fools.

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

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

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

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

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

But then ’tis mostly on the weaker side; So that I verily believe if they Who now are basking in their full-blown pride Were shaken down, and ‘dogs had had their day,’ Though at the first I might perchance deride Their tumble, I should turn the other way, And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, Because I hate even democratic royalty.

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

But ‘laissez aller’—knights and dames I sing, Such as the times may furnish. ’Tis a flight Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite: The difficultly lies in colouring (Keeping the due proportions still in sight) With nature manners which are artificial, And rend’ring general that which is especial.

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

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

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

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

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

Next to the making matches for herself, And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, Arranging them like books on the same shelf, There’s nothing women love to dabble in More (like a stock-holder in growing pelf) Than match-making in general: ’tis no sin Certes, but a preventative, and therefore That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore.

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

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

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

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

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

But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, Who favour, 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.

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

But Adeline, who probably presumed That Juan had enough of maintenance, Or separate maintenance, in case ’twas doom’d— As on the whole it is an even chance That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom’d, May retrograde a little in the dance Of marriage (which might form a painter’s fame, Like Holbein’s ‘Dance of Death’—but ’tis the same);—

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere, As far as her own gentle heart allow’d, And deem’d that fallen worship far more dear Perhaps because ’twas fallen: her sires were proud Of deeds and days when they had fill’d the ear Of nations, and had never bent or bow’d To novel power; and as she was the last, She held their old faith and old feelings fast.

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

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