Canto XVI

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 flawsIn some things, mine ’s beyond all contradictionThe most sincere that ever dealt in fiction.

And as she treats all things, and ne’er retreatsFrom any thing, this epic will containA 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 mostTrue 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 asThe sceptics who would not believe Columbus.

Some people would impose now with authority,Turpin’s or Monmouth Geoffry’s Chronicle;Men whose historical superiorityIs 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, heQuiets 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 recallThose holier mysteries which the wise and justReceive 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 deadA 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 stillIn its behalf, let those deny who will.

The dinner and the soiree too were done,The supper too discuss’d, the dames admired,The banqueteers had dropp’d off one by one—The song was silent, and the dance expired:The last thin petticoats were vanish’d, goneLike fleecy Clouds into the sky retired,And nothing brighter gleam’d through the saloonThan dying tapers—and the peeping moon.

The evaporation of a joyous dayIs like the last glass of champagne, withoutThe foam which made its virgin bumper gay;Or like a system coupled with a doubt;Or like a soda bottle when its sprayHas sparkled and let half its spirit out;Or like a billow left by storms behind,Without the animation of the wind;

Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest,Or none; or like—like nothing that I knowExcept itself;—such is the human breast;A thing, of which similitudes can showNo real likeness,—like the old Tyrian vestDyed purple, none at present can tell how,If from a shell-fish or from cochineal.So perish every tyrant’s robe piece-meal!

But next to dressing for a rout or ball,Undressing is a woe; our robe de chambreMay sit like that of Nessus, and recallThoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber.Titus exclaim’d, ‘I’ve lost a day!’ Of allThe nights and days most people can remember(I have had of both, some not to be disdain’d),I wish they’d state how many they have gain’d.

And Juan, on retiring for the night,Felt restless, and perplex’d, and compromised:He thought Aurora Raby’s eyes more brightThan 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 deniedTill wanted; therefore Juan only sigh’d.

He sigh’d;—the next resource is the full moon,Where all sighs are deposited; and nowIt happen’d luckily, the chaste orb shoneAs clear as such a climate will allow;And Juan’s mind was in the proper toneTo hail her with the apostrophe—‘O thou!’Of amatory egotism the Tuism,Which further to explain would be a truism.

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 coldSometimes, 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.

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposedFor 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) a willow;And he stood gazing out on the cascadeThat flash’d and after darken’d in the shade.

Upon his table or his toilet,—whichOf these is not exactly ascertain’d(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitchOf nicety, where a fact is to be gain’d),—A lamp burn’d high, while he leant from a niche,Where many a Gothic ornament remain’d,In chisell’d stone and painted glass, and allThat time has left our fathers of their hall.

Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threwHis chamber door wide open—and went forthInto a gallery, of a sombre hue,Long, furnish’d 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 deadHave something ghastly, desolate, and dread.

The forms of the grim knight and pictured saintLook living in the moon; and as you turnBackward and forward to the echoes faintOf your own footsteps—voices from the urnAppear to wake, and shadows wild and quaintStart from the frames which fence their aspects stern,As if to ask how you can dare to keepA vigil there, where all but death should sleep.

And the pale smile of beauties in the grave,The charms of other days, in starlight gleams,Glimmer on high; their buried locks still waveAlong the canvas; their eyes glance like dreamsOn ours, or spars within some dusky cave,But death is imaged in their shadowy beams.A picture is the past; even ere its frameBe gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same.

As Juan mused on mutability,Or on his mistress—terms synonymous—No sound except the echo of his sighOr 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 embarrassMost people as it plays along the arras.

It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array’dIn cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear’d,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,But slowly; and as he pass’d Juan by,Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye.

Juan was petrified; he had heard a hintOf such a spirit in these halls of old,But thought, like most men, there was nothing in ’tBeyond the rumour which such spots unfold,Coin’d 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?

Once, twice, thrice pass’d, repass’d—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 baseAs stands a statue, stood: he felt his hairTwine like a knot of snakes around his face;He tax’d his tongue for words, which were not granted,To ask the reverend person what he wanted.

The third time, after a still longer pause,The shadow pass’d away—but where? the hallWas long, and thus far there was no great causeTo think his vanishing unnatural:Doors there were many, through which, by the lawsOf physics, bodies whether short or tallMight come or go; but Juan could not stateThrough which the spectre seem’d to evaporate.

He stood—how long he knew not, but it seem’dAn age—expectant, powerless, with his eyesStrain’d on the spot where first the figure gleam’d;Then by degrees recall’d his energies,And would have pass’d the whole off as a dream,But could not wake; he was, he did surmise,Waking already, and return’d at lengthBack to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.

All there was as he left it: still his taperBurnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use,Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour;He rubb’d his eyes, and they did not refuseTheir 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.’

This savour’d of this world; but his hand shook—He shut his door, and after having readA paragraph, I think about Horne Tooke,Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed.There, couch’d all snugly on his pillow’s nook,With what he had seen his phantasy he fed;And though it was no opiate, slumber creptUpon him by degrees, and so he slept.

He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed,Ponder’d upon his visitant or vision,And whether it ought not to be disclosed,At risk of being quizz’d for superstition.The more he thought, the more his mind was posed:In the mean time, his valet, whose precisionWas great, because his master brook’d no less,Knock’d to inform him it was time to dress.

He dress’d; and like young people he was wontTo take some trouble with his toilet, butThis 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 curb’d to their usual cut,His very neckcloth’s Gordian knot was tiedAlmost an hair’s breadth too much on one side.

And when he walk’d down into the saloon,He sate him pensive o’er a dish of tea,Which he perhaps had not discover’d soon,Had it not happen’d scalding hot to be,Which made him have recourse unto his spoon;So much distrait he was, that all could seeThat something was the matter—AdelineThe first—but what she could not well divine.

She look’d, and saw him pale, and turn’d as paleHerself; then hastily look’d down, and mutter’dSomething, but what ’s not stated in my tale.Lord Henry said his muffin was ill butter’d;The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play’d with her veil,And look’d at Juan hard, but nothing utter’d.Aurora Raby with her large dark eyesSurvey’d him with a kind of calm surprise.

But seeing him all cold and silent still,And everybody wondering more or less,Fair Adeline enquired, ‘If he were ill?’He started, and said, ‘Yes—no—rather—yes.’The family physician had great skill,And being present, now began to expressHis readiness to feel his pulse and tellThe cause, but Juan said, ‘He was quite well.’

‘Quite well; yes,—no.’—These answers were mysterious,And yet his looks appear’d to sanction both,However they might savour of delirious;Something like illness of a sudden growthWeigh’d on his spirit, though by no means serious:But for the rest, as he himself seem’d lothTo state the case, it might be ta’en for grantedIt was not the physician that he wanted.

Lord Henry, who had now discuss’d his chocolate,Also the muffin whereof he complain’d,Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate,At which he marvell’d, since it had not rain’d;Then ask’d her Grace what news were of the duke of late?Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather pain’dWith some slight, light, hereditary twingesOf gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges.

Then Henry turn’d to Juan, and address’dA few words of condolence on his state:‘You look,’ quoth he, ‘as if you had had your restBroke in upon by the Black Friar of late.’‘What friar?’ said Juan; and he did his bestTo put the question with an air sedate,Or careless; but the effort was not validTo hinder him from growing still more pallid.

‘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 eyeFor such sights, though the tale is half believed,The friar of late has not been oft perceived.

“The last time was—” “I pray,” said Adeline—(Who watch’d the changes of Don Juan’s brow,And from its context thought she could divineConnexions stronger then he chose to avowWith this same legend)—‘if you but designTo 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.’

‘Jest!’ quoth Milor; ‘why, Adeline, you knowThat 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 soonAs touch’d, and plaintively began to playThe air of ‘’Twas a Friar of Orders Gray.’

‘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 expressIn courtesy their wish to see display’dBy one three talents, for there were no less—The voice, the words, the harper’s skill, at onceCould hardly be united by a dunce.

After some fascinating hesitation,—The charming of these charmers, who seem bound,I can’t tell why, to this dissimulation,—Fair Adeline, with eyes fix’d on the groundAt first, then kindling into animation,Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound,And sang with much simplicity,—a meritNot the less precious, that we seldom hear it.

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 expell’d the friars, one friar stillWould not be driven away.

Though he came in his might, with King Henry’s right,To turn church lands to lay,With sword in hand, and torch to lightTheir walls, if they said nay;A monk remain’d, unchased, unchain’d,And he did not seem form’d of clay,For he ’s seen in the porch, and he ’s seen in the church,Though he is not seen by day.

And whether for good, or whether for ill,It is not mine to say;But still with the house of AmundevilleHe 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 deathHe comes—but not to grieve.

When an heir is born, he ’s heard to mourn,And when aught is to befallThat ancient line, in the pale moonshineHe walks from hall to hall.His form you may trace, but not his face,’Tis shadow’d by his cowl;But his eyes may be seen from the folds between,And they seem of a parted soul.

But beware! beware! of the Black Friar,He still retains his sway,For he is yet the church’s heirWhoever may be the lay.Amundeville is lord by day,But the monk is lord by night;Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassalTo question that friar’s right.

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.

The lady’s voice ceased, and the thrilling wiresDied from the touch that kindled them to sound;And the pause follow’d, which when song expiresPervades 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.

Fair Adeline, though in a careless way,As if she rated such accomplishmentAs 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 relentTo such performances with haughty smile,To show she could, if it were worth her while.

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 spoil’d carpet—but the ‘Attic Bee’Was much consoled by his own repartee.

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 growsTo something like this when too oft display’d;And that it is so everybody knowsWho have heard Miss That or This, or Lady T’other,Show off—to please their company or mother.

O! 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,To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The present culprit was extremely pale,Pale as if painted so; her cheek being redBy 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 immoralityThan to wax white—for blushes are for quality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Courteous and cautious therefore in his county,He was all things to all men, and dispensedTo some civility, to others bounty,And promises to all—which last commencedTo gather to a somewhat large amount, heNot calculating how much they condensed;But what with keeping some, and breaking others,His word had the same value as another’s.

A friend to freedom and freeholders—yetNo less a friend to government—he held,That he exactly the just medium hit’Twixt place and patriotism—albeit compell’d,Such was his sovereign’s pleasure (though unfit,He added modestly, when rebels rail’d),To hold some sinecures he wish’d abolish’d,But that with them all law would be demolish’d.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But of all nature’s discrepancies, noneUpon the whole is greater than the differenceBeheld between the country and the town,Of which the latter merits every preferenceFrom those who have few resources of their own,And only think, or act, or feel, with referenceTo some small plan of interest or ambition—Both which are limited to no condition.

But ‘en avant!’ The light loves languish o’erLong banquets and too many guests, althoughA slight repast makes people love much more,Bacchus and Ceres being, as we knowEven from our grammar upwards, friends of yoreWith vivifying Venus, who doth oweTo these the invention of champagne and truffles:Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Adeline was occupied by fameThis day; and watching, witching, condescendingTo 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’sSafe conduct through the rocks of re-elections.

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

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

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

The poets of arithmetic are theyWho, though they prove not two and two to beFive, 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, leavesThe debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives.

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

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

Some praised her beauty; others her great grace;The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerityWas 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 simplicityDraperied her form with curious felicity!

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

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

There were but two exceptions to this keenSkirmish of wits o’er the departed; oneAurora, with her pure and placid mien;And Juan, too, in general behind noneIn gay remark on what he had heard or seen,Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone:In vain he heard the others rail or rally,He would not join them in a single sally.

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

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

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

Who would not sigh Ai ai Tan KuuerheianThat 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 anUnwithering myrtle round the unblunted dartOf Eros: but though thou hast play’d us many tricks,Still we respect thee, ‘Alma Venus Genetrix!’

And full of sentiments, sublime as billowsHeaving between this world and worlds beyond,Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillowsArrived, retired to his; but to despondRather than rest. Instead of poppies, willowsWaved o’er his couch; he meditated, fondOf those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep,And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep.

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

And not in vain he listen’d;—Hush! what ’s that?I see—I see—Ah, no!—’tis not—yet ’tis—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.

Again—what is ’t? The wind? No, no—this timeIt 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, and the world woreThe starry darkness round her like a girdleSpangled with gems—the monk made his blood curdle.

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,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 throbb’d, alas!For immaterialism ’s a serious matter;So that even those whose faith is the most greatIn souls immortal, shun them tête-à-tête.

Were his eyes open?—Yes! and his mouth too.Surprise has this effect—to make one dumb,Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips throughAs 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 beforeStated) his mouth. What open’d next?—the door.

It open’d with a most infernal creak,Like that of hell. ‘Lasciate ogni speranzaVoi che entrate!’ The hinge seem’d to speak,Dreadful as Dante’s rhima, or this stanza;Or—but all words upon such themes are weak:A single shade ’s sufficient to entrance aHero—for what is substance to a spirit?Or how is ’t matter trembles to come near it?

The door flew wide,—not swiftly, but, as flyThe 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, stoodThe sable Friar in his solemn hood.

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! The eternal surgeOf time and tide rolls on, and bears afarOur bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,Lash’d from the foam of ages; while the gravesOf empires heave but like some passing waves.

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shakenThe 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 awakenWithin him and to quell his corporal quaking,Hinting that soul and body on the wholeWere odds against a disembodied soul.

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, untilHe reached the ancient wall, then stood stone still.

Juan put forth one arm. Eternal powers!It touched no soul nor body, but the wall,On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showersCheckered with all the tracery of the hall.He shuddered, as no doubt the bravest cowersWhen he can’t tell what ’tis that doth appal.How odd, a single hobgoblin’s nonentityShould cause more fear than a whole host’s identity.

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 beneathGleamed forth, as through the casement’s ivy shroudThe moon peeped, just escaped from a grey cloud.

And Juan, puzzled but still curious, thrustHis 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 blunderAnd that in his confusion he had caughtOnly the wall, instead of what he sought

The ghost, if ghost it were, seemed a sweet soulAs ever lurked beneath a holy hood.A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory stoleForth into something much like flesh and blood.Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowlAnd they revealed, alas, that ere they should,In full, voluptuous, but not o’ergrown bulk,The phantom of her frolic Grace—Fitz-Fulke!

[The end of the 1857 edition]