If from great nature’s or our own abyss Of thought we could but snatch a certainty, Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss— But then ’twould spoil much good philosophy. One system eats another up, and this 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.
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?
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 call’d, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is pass’d in sleep.
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.
’Tis round him, near him, here, there, every where; 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.
’Tis 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, 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.
But what ’s this to the purpose? you will say. Gent. reader, nothing; a mere speculation, For which my sole excuse is—’tis 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.
You know, or don’t know, that great Bacon saith, ‘Fling up a straw, ’twill show the way the wind blows;’ 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.
The world is all before me—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 knock’d it up with rhyme.
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.
But ‘why then publish?’—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 ponder’d, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink—I have had at least my dream.
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 ’tis not easy to express, And yet ’tis not affected, I opine. In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing— The one is winning, and the other losing.
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 call’d glory, With more ease too she’d tell a different story.
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.
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.
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.
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.
When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, Drest, 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.
’Tis 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, filter’d through her woman.
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? ’Tis that, in fact, there’s little to describe.
‘Haud ignara loquor;’ 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—’ Which means that vulgar people must not share it.
And therefore what I throw off is ideal— Lower’d, leaven’d, 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.
Alas! worlds fall—and woman, since she fell’d 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, compell’d, Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, Condemn’d to child-bed, as men for their sins Have shaving too entail’d upon their chins,—
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.
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?
‘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.
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?
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,— ’Tis pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant, To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant.
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.
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, Embarrass’d somewhat both with fire and water.
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.
A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange; ’Tis 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 turn’d avenger, So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, Knew that he had a rider on his back.
And now in this new field, with some applause, He clear’d hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, And never craned, and made but few ‘faux pas,’ And only fretted when the scent ’gan fail. He broke, ’tis 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.
But on the whole, to general admiration He acquitted both himself and horse: the squires Marvell’d 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 recall’d their former fires; The huntsman’s self relented to a grin, And rated him almost a whipper-in.
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, Ask’d next day, ‘If men ever hunted twice?’
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;
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.
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 drill’d nymphs, but like a gentleman.
Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, And elegance was sprinkled o’er his figure; Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm’d the ground, 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;
Or, like a flying Hour before Aurora, In Guido’s famous fresco 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.
No marvel then he was a favourite; A full-grown Cupid, 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.’
She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, Desirable, distinguish’d, 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.
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.
The circle smiled, then whisper’d, and then sneer’d; The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown’d; Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear’d; Some would not deem such women could be found; Some ne’er believed one half of what they heard; Some look’d perplex’d, and others look’d profound; And several pitied with sincere regret Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.
But what is odd, none ever named the duke, Who, one might think, was something in the affair; True, he was absent, and, ’twas rumour’d, 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.
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, Look’d grave and pale to see her friend’s fragility, For which most friends reserve their sensibility.
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 follow’d my advice!’
O job! you had two friends: one ’s quite enough, Especially when we are ill at ease; They are 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.
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.
Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, ‘I told you so,’ Utter’d 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, And solace your slight lapse ’gainst ‘bonos mores,’ With a long memorandum of old stories.
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 mix’d with pity, pure as e’er was penn’d: His inexperience moved her gentle ruth, And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth.
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.
This may be fix’d 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.
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 guess’d By this time;—but strike six from seven-and-twenty, And you will find her sum of years in plenty.
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, call’d ‘The happiest of men.’
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 snatch’d a moment since her marriage To bear a son and heir—and one miscarriage.
Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, Those little glitterers of the London night; But none of these possess’d a sting to wound her— She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb’s flight. Perhaps she wish’d an aspirant profounder; But whatsoe’er she wish’d, she acted right; And whether coldness, pride, or virtue dignify A woman, so she ’s good, what does it signify?
I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, Leaving all-claretless the unmoisten’d 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.’
’Tis 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.
With the kind view of saving an eclat, 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);—
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.
It was not that she fear’d 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 seem’d to fret) With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.
Her Grace, too, pass’d for being an intrigante, And somewhat mechante 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:
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. ’Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, If that a ‘bonne fortune’ be really ‘bonne.’
And first, in the o’erflowing of her heart, Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, She call’d 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 answer’d, like a statesman or a prophet, In such guise that she could make nothing of it.
Firstly, he said, ‘he never interfered In any body’s business but the king’s:’ Next, that ‘he never judged from what appear’d, 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.’
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 bienseance allows: 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:
And being of the council call’d ‘the Privy,’ Lord Henry walk’d 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.
But ere he went, he added a slight hint, Another gentle common-place or two, Such as are coin’d 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 went out, calmly kiss’d her, Less like a young wife than an aged sister.
He was a cold, good, honourable man, Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing; A goodly spirit for a state divan, A figure fit to walk before a king; Tall, stately, form’d 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.
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 Proportion’d, 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.
Still there was something wanting, as I’ve said— That undefinable ‘Je ne scais 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 Menelaus:— But thus it is some women will betray us.
There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, Unless like wise Tiresias 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 ’tis better not to venture.
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, ’Tis odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock.
There is a flower call’d ‘Love in Idleness,’ For which see Shakspeare’s everblooming 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 ‘Voila la Pervenche!’
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, Convey’d Medea as her supercargo.
‘Beatus ille procul!’ from ‘negotiis,’ Saith Horace; the great little poet ’s wrong; His other maxim, ‘Noscitur a sociis,’ 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!
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.
And hence high life is oft a dreary void, A rack of pleasures, where we must invent A something wherewithal to be annoy’d. Bards may sing what they please about Content; Contented, when translated, means but cloy’d; And hence arise the woes of sentiment, Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances Reduced to practice, and perform’d like dances.
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.
‘An oyster may be cross’d in love,’—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 a-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.
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 halt of earth to rights; You have freed the blacks—now pray shut up the whites.
Shut up the bald-coot 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, Or else ’twill cost us all another million.
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 ’twas.
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 wreck’d, Because ’tis frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one; But when the latter works its own undoing, Its inner crash is like an earthquake’s ruin.
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.
There was no great disparity of years, Though much in temper; but they never clash’d: They moved like stars united in their spheres, Or like the Rhone by Leman’s waters wash’d, Where mingled and yet separate appears The river from the lake, all bluely dash’d Through the serene and placid glassy deep, Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep.
Now when she once had ta’en an interest In any thing, however she might flatter Herself that her intentions were the best, Intense intentions are a dangerous matter: Impressions were much stronger than she guess’d, And gather’d as they run like growing water Upon her mind; the more so, as her breast Was not at first too readily impress’d.
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 ’twill perplex the casuist in morality To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality.
Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo, It had been firmness; now ’tis 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.
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,
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. 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.
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.