Part 33

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

Juan rejoin’d—‘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 seem’d to pique Herself extremely on the inoculation Of others with her own opinions, stated— As usual—the same reason which she late did.

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 gain’d, what signifies the route?

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.

Perhaps she did not like the quiet way With which Aurora on those baubles look’d, Which charm most people in their earlier day: For there are few things by mankind less brook’d, And womankind too, if we so may say, Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, Like ‘Anthony’s by Caesar,’ by the few Who look upon them as they ought to do.

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 ’tis easier far, alas! To say what it was not than what it was.

Little Aurora deem’d 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 flow’d 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.

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 turn’d 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.

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 trick’d out so brightly that they blind:— These seals upon her wax made no impression, Such was her coldness or her self-possession.

Juan knew nought of such a character— High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee; 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.

Having wound up with this sublime comparison, Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, And, as my friend Scott says, ‘I sound my warison;’ 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 Shakspeare and Voltaire, Of one or both of whom he seems the heir.

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, But still I am, or was, a pretty poet.

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 marr’d or mended, The silvery bell rang, not for ‘dinner ready, But for that hour, call’d half-hour, given to dress, Though ladies’ robes seem scant enough for less.

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 ragout, Than witches, b—ches, or physicians, brew.

There was a goodly ‘soupe a la bonne femme,’ Though God knows whence it came from; there was, too, A turbot for relief of those who cram, Relieved with ‘dindon à la Parigeux;’ 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.

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.

Fowls ‘à la Condé,’ slices eke of salmon, With ‘sauces Génévoises,’ and haunch of venison; Wines too, which might again have slain young Ammon— A man like whom I hope we shan’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.

Then there was God knows what ‘à l’Allemande,’ ‘A l’Espagnole,’ ‘timballe,’ and ‘salpicon’— With things I can’t withstand or understand, Though swallow’d 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, deck’d with truffles.

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?

Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, Follow’d 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.’

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 call’d forth such resources, As form a science and a nomenclature From out the commonest demands of nature?

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 gormandize excel, But thinks less of good eating than the whisper (When seated next him) of some pretty lisper.

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;’

And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines From nature for the service of the gout— 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.

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, every where: 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.

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 display’d: Don Juan sat next an ‘à l’Espagnole’— No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said; But so far like a lady, that ’twas drest Superbly, and contain’d a world of zest.

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 seem’d to look through him.

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 pass’d without a word!

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.

To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, Or something which was nothing, as urbanity Required. Aurora scarcely look’d 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,

And look’d 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.

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 relax’d her thoughts from their sweet prison, As once or twice to smile, if not to listen.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CANTO THE SIXTEENTH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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