Don Juan

FRAGMENT ON THE BACK OF THE MS. OF CANTO I.

I WOULD to Heaven that I were so much clay,As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feeling--Because at least the past were passed away,And for the future--(but I write this reeling,5Having got drunk exceedingly to-day,So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling)I say--the future is a serious matter--And so--for God's sake--hock and soda-water!

DEDICATION.10

BOB SOUTHEY! You're a poet--Poet-laureate,And representative of all the race;Although 't is true that you turned out a Tory atLast,--yours has lately been a common case;And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?15With all the Lakers, in and out of place?A nest of tuneful persons, to my eyeLike "four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye;

"Which pye being opened they began to sing,"(This old song and new simile holds good),20"A dainty dish to set before the King,"Or Regent, who admires such kind of food;--And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,But like a hawk encumbered with his hood,--Explaining Metaphysics to the nation--25I wish he would explain his Explanation.

You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,At being disappointed in your wishTo supersede all warblers here below,And be the only Blackbird in the dish;30And then you overstrain yourself, or so,And tumble downward like the flying fishGasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob,And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry, Bob!

And Wordsworth, in a rather long "Excursion,"35(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages),Has given a sample from the vasty versionOf his new system to perplex the sages;'T is poetry-at least by his assertion,And may appear so when the dog-star rages--40And he who understands it would be ableTo add a story to the Tower of Babel.

You--Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusionFrom better company, have kept your ownAt Keswick, and, through still continued fusion45Of one another's minds, at last have grownTo deem as a most logical conclusion,That Poesy has wreaths for you alone:There is a narrowness in such a notion,Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for Ocean.50

I would not imitate the petty thought,Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,For all the glory your conversion brought,Since gold alone should not have been its price.You have your salary; was 't for that you wrought?55And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.You're shabby fellows--true--but poets still,And duly seated on the Immortal Hill.

Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows--Perhaps some virtuous blushes;--let them go--60To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs--And for the fame you would engross below,The field is universal, and allowsScope to all such as feel the inherent glow:Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe, will try65'Gainst you the question with posterity.

For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,Contend not with you on the wingéd steed,I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,The fame you envy, and the skill you need;70And, recollect, a poet nothing losesIn giving to his brethren their full meedOf merit--and complaint of present daysIs not the certain path to future praise.

He that reserves his laurels for posterity75(Who does not often claim the bright reversion)Has generally no great crop to spare it, heBeing only injured by his own assertion;And although here and there some glorious rarityArise like Titan from the sea's immersion,80The major part of such appellants goTo--God knows where--for no one else can know.

If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues,Milton appealed to the Avenger, Time,If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs,85And makes the word "Miltonic" mean "Sublime,"He deigned not to belie his soul in songs,Nor turn his very talent to a crime;He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son,But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.90

Think'st thou, could he--the blind Old Man--ariseLike Samuel from the grave, to freeze once moreThe blood of monarchs with his prophecies,Or be alive again--again all hoarWith time and trials, and those helpless eyes,95And heartless daughters--worn--and pale--and poor;Would he adore a sultan? he obeyThe intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore,100And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,Transferred to gorge upon a sister shore,The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want,With just enough of talent, and no more,To lengthen fetters by another fixed,105And offer poison long already mixed.

An orator of such set trash of phraseIneffably--legitimately vile,That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,Nor foes--all nations--condescend to smile,--110Nor even a sprightly blunder's spark can blazeFrom that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil,That turns and turns to give the world a notionOf endless torments and perpetual motion.

A bungler even in its disgusting trade,115And botching, patching, leaving still behindSomething of which its masters are afraid--States to be curbed, and thoughts to be confined,Conspiracy or Congress to be made--Cobbling at manacles for all mankind--120A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,With God and Man's abhorrence for its gains.

If we may judge of matter by the mind,Emasculated to the marrow ItHath but two objects, how to serve, and bind,125Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,Eutropius of its many masters,--blindTo worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,Fearless--because no feeling dwells in ice,Its very courage stagnates to a vice.130

Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,For I will never feel them?--Italy!Thy late reviving Roman soul despondsBeneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee--Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds,135Have voices--tongues to cry aloud for me.Europe has slaves--allies--kings--armies still--And Southey lives to sing them very ill.

Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate,In honest simple verse, this song to you.140And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate,'T is that I still retain my "buff and blue;"My politics as yet are all to educate:Apostasy's so fashionable, too,To keep one creed's a task grown quite Herculean;145Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?

DON JUAN

CANTO THE FIRST.

I WANT a hero: an uncommon want,When every year and month sends forth a new one,150Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,The age discovers he is not the true one;Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan--We all have seen him, in the pantomime,155Sent to the Devil somewhat ere his time.

Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,And filled their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now;160Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,Followers of Fame, "nine farrow" of that sow:France, too, had Buonaparté and DumourierRecorded in the Moniteur and Courier.

Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,165Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La FayetteWere French, and famous people, as we know;And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,With many of the military set,170Exceedingly remarkable at times,But not at all adapted to my rhymes.

Nelson was once Britannia's god of War,And still should be so, but the tide is turned;There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,175'T is with our hero quietly inurned;Because the army's grown more popular,At which the naval people are concerned;Besides, the Prince is all for the land-service.Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.180

Brave men were living before AgamemnonAnd since, exceeding valorous and sage,A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;But then they shone not on the poet's page,And so have been forgotten:--I condemn none,185But can't find any in the present ageFit for my poem (that is, for my new one);So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.

Most epic poets plunge "in medias res"(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road),190And then your hero tells, whene'er you please,What went before--by way of episode,While seated after dinner at his ease,Beside his mistress in some soft abode,Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern,195Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.

That is the usual method, but not mine--My way is to begin with the beginning;The regularity of my designForbids all wandering as the worst of sinning,200And therefore I shall open with a line(Although it cost me half an hour in spinning),Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father,And also of his mother, if you'd rather.

In Seville was he born, a pleasant city,205Famous for oranges and women,--heWho has not seen it will be much to pity,So says the proverb--and I quite agree;Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty,Cadiz perhaps--but that you soon may see;--210Don Juan's parents lived beside the river,A noble stream, and called the Guadalquivir.

His father's name was José-Don, of course,--A true Hidalgo, free from every stainOf Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source215Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain;A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse,Or, being mounted, e'er got down again,Than José, who begot our hero, whoBegot--but that's to come----Well, to renew:220

His mother was a learnéd lady, famedFor every branch of every science known--In every Christian language ever named,With virtues equalled by her wit alone:She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,225And even the good with inward envy groan,Finding themselves so very much exceeded,In their own way, by all the things that she did.

Her memory was a mine: she knew by heartAll Calderon and greater part of Lopé;230So, that if any actor missed his part,She could have served him for the prompter's copy;For her Feinagle's were an useless art,And he himself obliged to shut up shop--heCould never make a memory so fine as235That which adorned the brain of Donna Inez.

Her favourite science was the mathematical,Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity,Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all,Her serious sayings darkened to sublimity;240In short, in all things she was fairly what I callA prodigy--her morning dress was dimity,Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin,And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling.

She knew the Latin--that is, "the Lord's prayer,"245And Greek--the alphabet--I'm nearly sure;She read some French romances here and there,Although her mode of speaking was not pure;For native Spanish she had no great care,At least her conversation was obscure;250Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem,As if she deemed that mystery would ennoble 'em.

She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue,And said there was analogy between 'em;She proved it somehow out of sacred song,255But I must leave the proofs to those who've seen 'em;But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong,And all may think which way their judgments lean 'em,"'T is strange--the Hebrew noun which means 'I am,'The English always use to govern d--n."260

Some women use their tongues--she looked a lecture,Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily,An all-in-all sufficient self-director,Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly,The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector,265Whose suicide was almost an anomaly--One sad example more, that "All is vanity,"--(The jury brought their verdict in "Insanity!")

In short, she was a walking calculation,Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers,270Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education,Or "Coelebs' Wife" set out in quest of lovers,Morality's prim personification,In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers;To others' share let "female errors fall,"275For she had not even one--the worst of all.

Oh! she was perfect past all parallel--Of any modern female saint's comparison;So far above the cunning powers of Hell,Her Guardian Angel had given up his garrison;280Even her minutest motions went as wellAs those of the best time-piece made by Harrison:In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her,Save thine "incomparable oil," Macassar!

Perfect she was, but as perfection is285Insipid in this naughty world of ours,Where our first parents never learned to kissTill they were exiled from their earlier bowers,Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss,(I wonder how they got through the twelve hours),290Don José, like a lineal son of Eve,Went plucking various fruit without her leave.

He was a mortal of the careless kind,With no great love for learning, or the learned,Who chose to go where'er he had a mind,295And never dreamed his lady was concerned;The world, as usual, wickedly inclinedTo see a kingdom or a house o'erturned,Whispered he had a mistress, some said two.But for domestic quarrels one will do.300

Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit,A great opinion of her own good qualities;Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it,And such, indeed, she was in her moralities;But then she had a devil of a spirit,305And sometimes mixed up fancies with realities,And let few opportunities escapeOf getting her liege lord into a scrape.

This was an easy matter with a manOft in the wrong, and never on his guard;310And even the wisest, do the best they can,Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared,That you might "brain them with their lady's fan;"And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard,And fans turn into falchions in fair hands,315And why and wherefore no one understands.

'T is pity learnéd virgins ever wedWith persons of no sort of education,Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred,Grow tired of scientific conversation:320I don't choose to say much upon this head,I'm a plain man, and in a single station,But--Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,Inform us truly, have they not hen-pecked you all?

Don José and his lady quarrelled--why,325Not any of the many could divine,Though several thousand people chose to try,'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine;I loathe that low vice--curiosity;But if there's anything in which I shine,330'T is in arranging all my friends' affairs,Not having, of my own, domestic cares.

And so I interfered, and with the bestIntentions, but their treatment was not kind;I think the foolish people were possessed,335For neither of them could I ever find,Although their porter afterwards confessed--But that's no matter, and the worst's behind,For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs,A pail of housemaid's water unawares.340

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,And mischief-making monkey from his birth;His parents ne'er agreed except in dotingUpon the most unquiet imp on earth;Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in345Their senses, they'd have sent young master forthTo school, or had him soundly whipped at home,To teach him manners for the time to come.

Don José and the Donna Inez ledFor some time an unhappy sort of life,350Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead;They lived respectably as man and wife,Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred,And gave no outward signs of inward strife,Until at length the smothered fire broke out,355And put the business past all kind of doubt.

For Inez called some druggists and physicians,And tried to prove her loving lord was mad,But as he had some lucid intermissions,She next decided he was only bad;360Yet when they asked her for her depositions,No sort of explanation could be had,Save that her duty both to man and GodRequired this conduct--which seemed very odd.

She kept a journal, where his faults were noted,365And opened certain trunks of books and letters,All which might, if occasion served, be quoted;And then she had all Seville for abettors,Besides her good old grandmother (who doted);The hearers of her case became repeaters,370Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges,Some for amusement, others for old grudges.

And then this best and meekest woman boreWith such serenity her husband's woes,Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore,375Who saw their spouses killed, and nobly choseNever to say a word about them more--Calmly she heard each calumny that rose,And saw his agonies with such sublimity,That all the world exclaimed, "What magnanimity!"380

No doubt this patience, when the world is damning us,Is philosophic in our former friends;'T is also pleasant to be deemed magnanimous,The more so in obtaining our own ends;And what the lawyers call a "malus animus"385Conduct like this by no means comprehends:Revenge in person's certainly no virtue,But then 't is not my fault, if others hurt you.

And if our quarrels should rip up old stories,And help them with a lie or two additional,390I'm not to blame, as you well know--no more isAny one else--they were become traditional;Besides, their resurrection aids our gloriesBy contrast, which is what we just were wishing all:And Science profits by this resurrection--395Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection.

Their friends had tried at reconciliation,Then their relations, who made matters worse.('T were hard to tell upon a like occasionTo whom it may be best to have recourse--400I can't say much for friend or yet relation)The lawyers did their utmost for divorce,But scarce a fee was paid on either sideBefore, unluckily, Don José died.

He died: and most unluckily, because,405According to all hints I could collectFrom Counsel learnéd in those kinds of laws,(Although their talk's obscure and circumspect)His death contrived to spoil a charming cause;A thousand pities also with respect410To public feeling, which on this occasionWas manifested in a great sensation.

But ah! he died; and buried with him layThe public feeling and the lawyers' fees:His house was sold, his servants sent away,415A Jew took one of his two mistresses,A priest the other--at least so they say:I asked the doctors after his disease--He died of the slow fever called the tertian,And left his widow to her own aversion.420

Yet José was an honourable man,That I must say, who knew him very well;Therefore his frailties I'll no further scan,Indeed there were not many more to tell:And if his passions now and then outran425Discretion, and were not so peaceableAs Numa's (who was also named Pompilius),He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious.

Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth,Poor fellow! he had many things to wound him.430Let's own--since it can do no good on earth--It was a trying moment that which found himStanding alone beside his desolate hearth,Where all his household gods lay shivered round him:No choice was left his feelings or his pride,435Save Death or Doctors' Commons--so he died.

Dying intestate, Juan was sole heirTo a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands,Which, with a long minority and care,Promised to turn out well in proper hands:440Inez became sole guardian, which was fair,And answered but to Nature's just demands;An only son left with an only motherIs brought up much more wisely than another.

Sagest of women, even of widows, she445Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon,And worthy of the noblest pedigree,(His Sire was of Castile, his Dam from Aragon)Then, for accomplishments of chivalry,In case our Lord the King should go to war again,450He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery,And how to scale a fortress--or a nunnery.

But that which Donna Inez most desired,And saw into herself each day before allThe learnéd tutors whom for him she hired,455Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral:Much into all his studies she inquired,And so they were submitted first to her, all,Arts, sciences--no branch was made a mysteryTo Juan's eyes, excepting natural history.460

The languages, especially the dead,The sciences, and most of all the abstruse,The arts, at least all such as could be saidTo be the most remote from common use,In all these he was much and deeply read:465But not a page of anything that's loose,Or hints continuation of the species,Was ever suffered, lest he should grow vicious.

His classic studies made a little puzzle,Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses,470Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle,But never put on pantaloons or bodices;His reverend tutors had at times a tussle,And for their Æneids, Iliads, and Odysseys,Were forced to make an odd sort of apology,475For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology.

Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him,Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample,Catullus scarcely has a decent poem,I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example,480Although Longinus tells us there is no hymnWhere the Sublime soars forth on wings more ample;But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid oneBeginning with "Formosum Pastor Corydon."

Lucretius' irreligion is too strong485For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food;I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong,Although no doubt his real intent was good,For speaking out so plainly in his song,So much indeed as to be downright rude;490And then what proper person can be partialTo all those nauseous epigrams of Martial?

Juan was taught from out the best edition,Expurgated by learned men, who place,Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision,495The grosser parts; but, fearful to defaceToo much their modest bard by this omission,And pitying sore his mutilated case,They only add them all in an appendix,Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index;500

For there we have them all "at one fell swoop,"Instead of being scattered through the pages;They stand forth marshalled in a handsome troop,To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages,Till some less rigid editor shall stoop505To call them back into their separate cages,Instead of standing staring all together,Like garden gods--and not so decent either.

The Missal too (it was the family Missal)Was ornamented in a sort of way510Which ancient mass-books often are, and this allKinds of grotesques illumined; and how they,Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all,Could turn their optics to the text and pray,Is more than I know--But Don Juan's mother515Kept this herself, and gave her son another.

Sermons he read, and lectures he endured,And homilies, and lives of all the saints;To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured,He did not take such studies for restraints;520But how Faith is acquired, and then insured,So well not one of the aforesaid paintsAs Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions,Which make the reader envy his transgressions.

This, too, was a sealed book to little Juan--525I can't but say that his mamma was right,If such an education was the true one.She scarcely trusted him from out her sight;Her maids were old, and if she took a new one,You might be sure she was a perfect fright;530She did this during even her husband's life--I recommend as much to every wife.

Young Juan waxed in goodliness and grace;At six a charming child, and at elevenWith all the promise of as fine a face535As e'er to Man's maturer growth was given:He studied steadily, and grew apace,And seemed, at least, in the right road to Heaven,For half his days were passed at church, the otherBetween his tutors, confessor, and mother.540

At six, I said, he was a charming child,At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy;Although in infancy a little wild,They tamed him down amongst them: to destroyHis natural spirit not in vain they toiled,545At least it seemed so; and his mother's joyWas to declare how sage, and still, and steady,Her young philosopher was grown already.

I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still,But what I say is neither here nor there:550I knew his father well, and have some skillIn character--but it would not be fairFrom sire to son to augur good or ill:He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair--But scandal's my aversion--I protest555Against all evil speaking, even in jest.

For my part I say nothing--nothing--butThis I will say--my reasons are my own--That if I had an only son to putTo school (as God be praised that I have none),560'T is not with Donna Inez I would shutHim up to learn his catechism alone,No--no--I'd send him out betimes to college,For there it was I picked up my own knowledge.

For there one learns--'t is not for me to boast,565Though I acquired--but I pass over that,As well as all the Greek I since have lost:I say that there's the place--but "Verbum sat,"I think I picked up too, as well as most,Knowledge of matters--but no matter what--570I never married--but, I think, I knowThat sons should not be educated so.

Young Juan now was sixteen years of age,Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seemedActive, though not so sprightly, as a page;575And everybody but his mother deemedHim almost man; but she flew in a rageAnd bit her lips (for else she might have screamed)If any said so--for to be precociousWas in her eyes a thing the most atrocious.580

Amongst her numerous acquaintance, allSelected for discretion and devotion,There was the Donna Julia, whom to callPretty were but to give a feeble notionOf many charms in her as natural585As sweetness to the flower, or salt to Ocean,Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid,(But this last simile is trite and stupid.)

The darkness of her Oriental eyeAccorded with her Moorish origin;590(Her blood was not all Spanish; by the by,In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin;)When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly,Boabdil wept: of Donna Julia's kinSome went to Africa, some stayed in Spain--595Her great great grandmamma chose to remain.

She married (I forget the pedigree)With an Hidalgo, who transmitted downHis blood less noble than such blood should be;At such alliances his sires would frown,600In that point so precise in each degreeThat they bred in and in, as might be shown,Marrying their cousins--nay, their aunts, and nieces,Which always spoils the breed, if it increases.

This heathenish cross restored the breed again,605Ruined its blood, but much improved its flesh;For from a root the ugliest in Old SpainSprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh;The sons no more were short, the daughters plain:But there's a rumour which I fain would hush,610'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmammaProduced her Don more heirs at love than law.

However this might be, the race went onImproving still through every generation,Until it centred in an only son,615Who left an only daughter; my narrationMay have suggested that this single oneCould be but Julia (whom on this occasionI shall have much to speak about), and sheWas married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.620

Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes)Was large and dark, suppressing half its fireUntil she spoke, then through its soft disguiseFlashed an expression more of pride than ire,And love than either; and there would arise625A something in them which was not desire,But would have been, perhaps, but for the soulWhich struggled through and chastened down the whole.

Her glossy hair was clustered o'er a browBright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth;630Her eyebrow's shape was like the aërial bow,Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow,As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth,Possessed an air and grace by no means common:635Her stature tall--I hate a dumpy woman.

Wedded she was some years, and to a manOf fifty, and such husbands are in plenty;And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE'T were better to have TWO of five-and-twenty,640Especially in countries near the sun:And now I think on 't, "mi vien in mente",Ladies even of the most uneasy virtuePrefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty.

'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say,645And all the fault of that indecent sun,Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay,But will keep baking, broiling, burning on,That howsoever people fast and pray,The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone:650What men call gallantry, and gods adultery,Is much more common where the climate's sultry,

Happy the nations of the moral North!Where all is virtue, and the winter seasonSends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth655('T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason);Where juries cast up what a wife is worth,By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please onThe lover, who must pay a handsome price,Because it is a marketable vice.660

Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord,A man well looking for his years, and whoWas neither much beloved nor yet abhorred:They lived together as most people do,Suffering each other's foibles by accord,665And not exactly either one or two;Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,For Jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

Julia was--yet I never could see why--With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend;670Between their tastes there was small sympathy,For not a line had Julia ever penned:Some people whisper (but, no doubt, they lie,For Malice still imputes some private end)That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage,675Forgot with him her very prudent carriage;

And that still keeping up the old connection,Which Time had lately rendered much more chaste,She took his lady also in affection,And certainly this course was much the best:680She flattered Julia with her sage protection,And complimented Don Alfonso's taste;And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal,At least she left it a more slender handle.

I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair685With other people's eyes, or if her ownDiscoveries made, but none could be awareOf this, at least no symptom e'er was shown;Perhaps she did not know, or did not care,Indifferent from the first, or callous grown:690I'm really puzzled what to think or say,She kept her counsel in so close a way.

Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child,Caressed him often--such a thing might beQuite innocently done, and harmless styled,695When she had twenty years, and thirteen he;But I am not so sure I should have smiledWhen he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three;These few short years make wondrous alterations,Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations.700

Whate'er the cause might be, they had becomeChanged; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy,Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb,And much embarrassment in either eye;There surely will be little doubt with some705That Donna Julia knew the reason why,But as for Juan, he had no more notionThan he who never saw the sea of Ocean.

Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind,And tremulously gentle her small hand710Withdrew itself from his, but left behindA little pressure, thrilling, and so blandAnd slight, so very slight, that to the mind'T was but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wandWrought change with all Armida's fairy art715Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart.

And if she met him, though she smiled no more,She looked a sadness sweeter than her smile,As if her heart had deeper thoughts in storeShe must not own, but cherished more the while720For that compression in its burning core;Even Innocence itself has many a wile,And will not dare to trust itself with truth,And Love is taught hypocrisy from youth.

But Passion most dissembles, yet betrays725Even by its darkness; as the blackest skyForetells the heaviest tempest, it displaysIts workings through the vainly guarded eye,And in whatever aspect it arraysItself, 't is still the same hypocrisy;730Coldness or Anger, even Disdain or Hate,Are masks it often wears, and still too late.

Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft,And burning blushes, though for no transgression,735Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left;All these are little preludes to possession,Of which young Passion cannot be bereft,And merely tend to show how greatly Love isEmbarrassed at first starting with a novice.740

Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state;She felt it going, and resolved to makeThe noblest efforts for herself and mate,For Honour's, Pride's, Religion's, Virtue's sake:Her resolutions were most truly great,745And almost might have made a Tarquin quake:She prayed the Virgin Mary for her grace,As being the best judge of a lady's case.

She vowed she never would see Juan more,And next day paid a visit to his mother,750And looked extremely at the opening door,Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another;Grateful she was, and yet a little sore--Again it opens, it can be no other,'T is surely Juan now--No! I'm afraid755That night the Virgin was no further prayed.

She now determined that a virtuous womanShould rather face and overcome temptation,That flight was base and dastardly, and no manShould ever give her heart the least sensation,760That is to say, a thought beyond the commonPreference, that we must feel, upon occasion,For people who are pleasanter than others,But then they only seem so many brothers.

And even if by chance--and who can tell?765The Devil's so very sly--she should discoverThat all within was not so very well,And, if still free, that such or such a loverMight please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quellSuch thoughts, and be the better when they're over;770And if the man should ask, 't is but denial:I recommend young ladies to make trial.

And, then, there are such things as Love divine,Bright and immaculate, unmixed and pure,Such as the angels think so very fine,775And matrons, who would be no less secure,Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine;"Thus Julia said--and thought so, to be sure;And so I'd have her think, were I the manOn whom her reveries celestial ran.780

Such love is innocent, and may existBetween young persons without any danger.A hand may first, and then a lip be kissed;For my part, to such doings I'm a stranger,But hear these freedoms form the utmost list785Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger:If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime,But not my fault--I tell them all in time.

Love, then, but Love within its proper limits,Was Julia's innocent determination790In young Don Juan's favour, and to him itsExertion might be useful on occasion;And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim itsEthereal lustre, with what sweet persuasionHe might be taught, by Love and her together--795I really don't know what, nor Julia either.

Fraught with this fine intention, and well fencedIn mail of proof--her purity of soul--She, for the future, of her strength convinced,And that her honour was a rock, or mole,800Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensedWith any kind of troublesome control;But whether Julia to the task was equalIs that which must be mentioned in the sequel.

Her plan she deemed both innocent and feasible,805And, surely, with a stripling of sixteenNot Scandal's fangs could fix on much that's seizable,Or if they did so, satisfied to meanNothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable--A quiet conscience makes one so serene!810Christians have burnt each other, quite persuadedThat all the Apostles would have done as they did.

And if in the mean time her husband died,But Heaven forbid that such a thought should crossHer brain, though in a dream! (and then she sighed)815Never could she survive that common loss;But just suppose that moment should betide,I only say suppose it--inter nos:(This should be entre nous, for Julia thoughtIn French, but then the rhyme would go for nought.)820

I only say, suppose this supposition:Juan being then grown up to man's estateWould fully suit a widow of condition,Even seven years hence it would not be too late;And in the interim (to pursue this vision)825The mischief, after all, could not be great,For he would learn the rudiments of Love,I mean the seraph way of those above.

So much for Julia! Now we'll turn to Juan.Poor little fellow! he had no idea830Of his own case, and never hit the true one;In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea,He puzzled over what he found a new one,But not as yet imagined it could be aThing quite in course, and not at all alarming,835Which, with a little patience, might grow charming.

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow,His home deserted for the lonely wood,Tormented with a wound he could not know,His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude:840I'm fond myself of solitude or so,But then, I beg it may be understood,By solitude I mean a Sultan's (notA Hermit's), with a haram for a grot.

"Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this,845Where Transport and Security entwine,Here is the Empire of thy perfect bliss,And here thou art a God indeed divine."The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,With the exception of the second line,850For that same twining "Transport and Security"Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity.

The Poet meant, no doubt, and thus appealsTo the good sense and senses of mankind,The very thing which everybody feels,855As all have found on trial, or may find,That no one likes to be disturbed at mealsOr love.--I won't say more about "entwined"Or "Transport," as we knew all that before,But beg "Security" will bolt the door.860

Young Juan wandered by the glassy brooks,Thinking unutterable things; he threwHimself at length within the leafy nooksWhere the wild branch of the cork forest grew;There poets find materials for their books,865And every now and then we read them through,So that their plan and prosody are eligible,Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible.

He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursuedHis self-communion with his own high soul,870Until his mighty heart, in its great mood,Had mitigated part, though not the wholeOf its disease; he did the best he couldWith things not very subject to control,And turned, without perceiving his condition,875Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician.

He thought about himself, and the whole earth,Of man the wonderful, and of the stars,And how the deuce they ever could have birth:And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars,880How many miles the moon might have in girth,Of air-balloons, and of the many barsTo perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;--And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes.

In thoughts like these true Wisdom may discern885Longings sublime, and aspirations high,Which some are born with, but the most part learnTo plague themselves withal, they know not why:'T was strange that one so young should thus concernHis brain about the action of the sky;890If you think 't was Philosophy that this did,I can't help thinking puberty assisted.

He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers,And heard a voice in all the winds; and thenHe thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers,895And how the goddesses came down to men:He missed the pathway, he forgot the hours,And when he looked upon his watch again,He found how much old Time had been a winner--He also found that he had lost his dinner.900

Sometimes he turned to gaze upon his book,Boscan, or Garcilasso;--by the windEven as the page is rustled while we look,So by the poesy of his own mindOver the mystic leaf his soul was shook,905As if 't were one whereon magicians bindTheir spells, and give them to the passing gale,According to some good old woman's tale.

Thus would he while his lonely hours awayDissatisfied, not knowing what he wanted;910Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay,Could yield his spirit that for which it panted,A bosom whereon he his head might lay,And hear the heart beat with the love it granted,With----several other things, which I forget,915Or which, at least, I need not mention yet.

Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries,Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes;She saw that Juan was not at his ease;But that which chiefly may, and must surprise,920Is, that the Donna Inez did not teaseHer only son with question or surmise;Whether it was she did not see, or would not,Or, like all very clever people, could not.

This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common;925For instance--gentlemen, whose ladies takeLeave to o'erstep the written rights of Woman,And break the----Which commandment is 't they break?(I have forgot the number, and think no manShould rashly quote, for fear of a mistake;)930I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous,They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us.

A real husband always is suspicious,But still no less suspects in the wrong place,Jealous of some one who had no such wishes,935Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace,By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious;The last indeed's infallibly the case:And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly,He wonders at their vice, and not his folly.940

Thus parents also are at times short-sighted:Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover,The while the wicked world beholds delighted,Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover,Till some confounded escapade has blighted945The plan of twenty years, and all is over;And then the mother cries, the father swears,And wonders why the devil he got heirs.

But Inez was so anxious, and so clearOf sight, that I must think, on this occasion,950She had some other motive much more nearFor leaving Juan to this new temptation,But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here;Perhaps to finish Juan's education,Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes,955In case he thought his wife too great a prize.

It was upon a day, a summer's day;--Summer's indeed a very dangerous season,And so is spring about the end of May;The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason;960But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say,And stand convicted of more truth than treason,That there are months which nature grows more merry in,--March has its hares, and May must have its heroine.

'T was on a summer's day--the sixth of June:965I like to be particular in dates,Not only of the age, and year, but moon;They are a sort of post-house, where the FatesChange horses, making History change its tune,Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states,970Leaving at last not much besides chronology,Excepting the post-obits of theology.

'T was on the sixth of June, about the hourOf half-past six--perhaps still nearer seven--When Julia sate within as pretty a bower975As e'er held houri in that heathenish heavenDescribed by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore,To whom the lyre and laurels have been given,With all the trophies of triumphant song--He won them well, and may he wear them long!980

She sate, but not alone; I know not wellHow this same interview had taken place,And even if I knew, I should not tell--People should hold their tongues in any case;No matter how or why the thing befell,985But there were she and Juan, face to face--When two such faces are so, 't would be wise,But very difficult, to shut their eyes.

How beautiful she looked! her conscious heartGlowed in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong:990Oh Love! how perfect is thy mystic art,Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong!How self-deceitful is the sagest partOf mortals whom thy lure hath led along!--The precipice she stood on was immense,995So was her creed in her own innocence.

She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth,And of the folly of all prudish fears,Victorious Virtue, and domestic Truth,And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years:1000I wish these last had not occurred, in sooth,Because that number rarely much endears,And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny,Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money.

When people say, "I've told you fifty times,"1005They mean to scold, and very often do;When poets say, "I've written fifty rhymes,"They make you dread that they 'll recite them too;In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes;At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true,1010But then, no doubt, it equally as true is,A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis.

Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and loveFor Don Alfonso; and she inly swore,By all the vows below to Powers above,1015She never would disgrace the ring she wore,Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove;And while she pondered this, besides much more,One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown,Quite by mistake--she thought it was her own;1020

Unconsciously she leaned upon the other,Which played within the tangles of her hair;And to contend with thoughts she could not smotherShe seemed by the distraction of her air.'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother1025To leave together this imprudent pair,She who for many years had watched her son so--I'm very certain mine would not have done so.

The hand which still held Juan's, by degreesGently, but palpably confirmed its grasp,1030As if it said, "Detain me, if you please;"Yet there's no doubt she only meant to claspHis fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze;She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp,Had she imagined such a thing could rouse1035A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse.

I cannot know what Juan thought of this,But what he did, is much what you would do;His young lip thanked it with a grateful kiss,And then, abashed at its own joy, withdrew1040In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,--Love is so very timid when 't is new:She blushed, and frowned not, but she strove to speak,And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak.

The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon:1045The Devil's in the moon for mischief; theyWho called her CHASTE, methinks, began too soonTheir nomenclature; there is not a day,The longest, not the twenty-first of June,Sees half the business in a wicked way,1050On which three single hours of moonshine smile--And then she looks so modest all the while!

There is a dangerous silence in that hour,A stillness, which leaves room for the full soulTo open all itself, without the power1055Of calling wholly back its self-control;The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower,Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole,Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throwsA loving languor, which is not repose.1060

And Julia sate with Juan, half embracedAnd half retiring from the glowing arm,Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed;Yet still she must have thought there was no harm,Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist;1065But then the situation had its charm,And then--God knows what next--I can't go on;I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun.

Oh Plato! Plato! you have paved the way,With your confounded fantasies, to more1070Immoral conduct by the fancied swayYour system feigns o'er the controlless coreOf human hearts, than all the long arrayOf poets and romancers:--You're a bore,A charlatan, a coxcomb--and have been,1075At best, no better than a go-between.

And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs,Until too late for useful conversation;The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes,I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion;1080But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?Not that Remorse did not oppose Temptation;A little still she strove, and much repented,And whispering "I will ne'er consent"--consented.

'T is said that Xerxes offered a reward1085To those who could invent him a new pleasure:Methinks the requisition's rather hard,And must have cost his Majesty a treasure:For my part, I'm a moderate-minded bard,Fond of a little love (which I call leisure);1090I care not for new pleasures, as the oldAre quite enough for me, so they but hold.

Oh Pleasure! you're indeed a pleasant thing,Although one must be damned for you, no doubt:I make a resolution every spring1095Of reformation, ere the year run out,But somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing,Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout:I'm very sorry, very much ashamed,And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaimed.1100

Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take--Start not! still chaster reader--she'll be nice hence-Forward, and there is no great cause to quake;This liberty is a poetic licence,Which some irregularity may make1105In the design, and as I have a high senseOf Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fitTo beg his pardon when I err a bit.

This licence is to hope the reader willSuppose from June the sixth (the fatal day,1110Without whose epoch my poetic skillFor want of facts would all be thrown away),But keeping Julia and Don Juan stillIn sight, that several months have passed; we'll say'T was in November, but I'm not so sure1115About the day--the era's more obscure.

We'll talk of that anon.--'T is sweet to hearAt midnight on the blue and moonlit deepThe song and oar of Adria's gondolier,By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep;1120'T is sweet to see the evening star appear;'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creepFrom leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on highThe rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark1125Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home;'T is sweet to know there is an eye will markOur coming, and look brighter when we come;'T is sweet to be awakened by the lark,Or lulled by falling waters; sweet the hum1130Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapesIn Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes1135From civic revelry to rural mirth;Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps,Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth,Sweet is revenge--especially to women--Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.1140

Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweetThe unexpected death of some old lady,Or gentleman of seventy years complete,Who've made "us youth" wait too--too long already,For an estate, or cash, or country seat,1145Still breaking, but with stamina so steady,That all the Israelites are fit to mob itsNext owner for their double-damned post-obits.

'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end1150To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,Particularly with a tiresome friend:Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;Dear is the helpless creature we defendAgainst the world; and dear the schoolboy spot1155We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,Is first and passionate Love--it stands alone,Like Adam's recollection of his fall;The Tree of Knowledge has been plucked--all 's known--1160And Life yields nothing further to recallWorthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,No doubt in fable, as the unforgivenFire which Prometheus filched for us from Heaven.

Man's a strange animal, and makes strange use1165Of his own nature, and the various arts,And likes particularly to produceSome new experiment to show his parts;This is the age of oddities let loose,Where different talents find their different marts;1170You'd best begin with truth, and when you've lost yourLabour, there's a sure market for imposture.

What opposite discoveries we have seen!(Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.)One makes new noses, one a guillotine,1175One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets;But Vaccination certainly has beenA kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets,With which the Doctor paid off an old pox,By borrowing a new one from an ox.1180

Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes:And Galvanism has set some corpses grinning,But has not answered like the apparatusOf the Humane Society's beginning,By which men are unsuffocated gratis:1185What wondrous new machines have late been spinning!I said the small-pox has gone out of late;Perhaps it may be followed by the great.

'T is said the great came from America;Perhaps it may set out on its return,--1190The population there so spreads, they say'T is grown high time to thin it in its turn,With war, or plague, or famine--any way,So that civilisation they may learn;And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is--1195Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis?

This is the patent age of new inventionsFor killing bodies, and for saving souls,All propagated with the best intentions:Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals1200Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions,Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the PolesAre ways to benefit mankind, as true,Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.

Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what,1205And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure;'T is pity though, in this sublime world, thatPleasure's a sin, and sometimes Sin's a pleasure;Few mortals know what end they would be at,But whether Glory, Power, or Love, or Treasure,1210The path is through perplexing ways, and whenThe goal is gained, we die, you know--and then----

What then?--I do not know, no more do you--And so good night.--Return we to our story:'T was in November, when fine days are few,1215And the far mountains wax a little hoary,And clap a white cape on their mantles blue;And the sea dashes round the promontory,And the loud breaker boils against the rock,And sober suns must set at five o'clock.1220

'T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night;No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loudBy gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was brightWith the piled wood, round which the family crowd;There's something cheerful in that sort of light,1225Even as a summer sky's without a cloud:I'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that,A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat.

'T was midnight--Donna Julia was in bed,Sleeping, most probably,--when at her door1230Arose a clatter might awake the dead,If they had never been awoke before,And that they have been so we all have read,And are to be so, at the least, once more;--The door was fastened, but with voice and fist1235First knocks were heard, then "Madam--Madam--hist!

"For God's sake, Madam--Madam--here's my master,With more than half the city at his back--Wasever heard of such a curst disaster!'T is not my fault--I kept good watch--Alack!1240Do pray undo the bolt a little faster--They're on the stair just now, and in a crackWill all be here; perhaps he yet may fly--Surely the window's not so very high!"

By this time Don Alfonso was arrived,1245With torches, friends, and servants in great number;The major part of them had long been wived,And therefore paused not to disturb the slumberOf any wicked woman, who contrivedBy stealth her husband's temples to encumber:1250Examples of this kind are so contagious,Were one not punished, all would be outrageous.

I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicionCould enter into Don Alfonso's head;But for a cavalier of his condition1255It surely was exceedingly ill-bred,Without a word of previous admonition,To hold a levee round his lady's bed,And summon lackeys, armed with fire and sword,To prove himself the thing he most abhorred.1260

Poor Donna Julia! starting as from sleep,(Mind--that I do not say--she had not slept),Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep;Her maid, Antonia, who was an adept,Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap,1265As if she had just now from out them crept:I can't tell why she should take all this troubleTo prove her mistress had been sleeping double.

But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid,Appeared like two poor harmless women, who1270Of goblins, but still more of men afraid,Had thought one man might be deterred by two,And therefore side by side were gently laid,Until the hours of absence should run through,And truant husband should return, and say,1275"My dear,--I was the first who came away."

Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried,"In Heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean?Has madness seized you? would that I had diedEre such a monster's victim I had been!1280What may this midnight violence betide,A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen?Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill?Search, then, the room!"--Alfonso said, "I will."

He searched, they searched, and rummaged everywhere,1285Closet and clothes' press, chest and window-seat,And found much linen, lace, and several pairOf stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete,With other articles of ladies fair,To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat:1290Arras they pricked and curtains with their swords,And wounded several shutters, and some boards.

Under the bed they searched, and there they found--No matter what--it was not that they sought;They opened windows, gazing if the ground1295Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said nought;And then they stared each others' faces round:'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought,And seems to me almost a sort of blunder,Of looking in the bed as well as under.1300

During this inquisition Julia's tongueWas not asleep--"Yes, search and search," she cried,"Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong!It was for this that I became a bride!For this in silence I have suffered long1305A husband like Alfonso at my side;But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain,If there be law or lawyers in all Spain.

"Yes, Don Alfonso! husband now no more,If ever you indeed deserved the name,1310Is 't worthy of your years?--you have threescore--Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same--Is 't wise or fitting, causeless to exploreFor facts against a virtuous woman's fame?Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso,1315How dare you think your lady would go on so?

"Is it for this I have disdained to holdThe common privileges of my sex?That I have chosen a confessor so oldAnd deaf, that any other it would vex,1320And never once he has had cause to scold,But found my very innocence perplexSo much, he always doubted I was married--How sorry you will be when I've miscarried!

"Was it for this that no Cortejo e'er1325I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville?Is it for this I scarce went anywhere,Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel?Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were,I favoured none--nay, was almost uncivil?1330Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly,Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely?

"Did not the Italian Musico CazzaniSing at my heart six months at least in vain?Did not his countryman, Count Corniani,1335Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain?Were there not also Russians, English, many?The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain,And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer,Who killed himself for love (with wine) last year.1340

"Have I not had two bishops at my feet?The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez;And is it thus a faithful wife you treat?I wonder in what quarter now the moon is:I praise your vast forbearance not to beat1345Me also, since the time so opportune is--Oh, valiant man! with sword drawn and cocked trigger,Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure?

"Was it for this you took your sudden journey,Under pretence of business indispensable1350With that sublime of rascals your attorney,Whom I see standing there, and looking sensibleOf having played the fool? though both I spurn, heDeserves the worst, his conduct's less defensible,Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty fee,1355And not from any love to you nor me.

"If he comes here to take a deposition,By all means let the gentleman proceed;You've made the apartment in a fit condition:--There's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need--1360Let everything be noted with precision,I would not you for nothing should be fee'd--But, as my maid's undressed, pray turn your spies out.""Oh!" sobbed Antonia, "I could tear their eyes out."

"There is the closet, there the toilet, there1365The antechamber--search them under, over;There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair,The chimney--which would really hold a lover.I wish to sleep, and beg you will take careAnd make no further noise, till you discover1370The secret cavern of this lurking treasure--And when 't is found, let me, too, have that pleasure.

"And now, Hidalgo! now that you have thrownDoubt upon me, confusion over all,Pray have the courtesy to make it known1375Who is the man you search for? how d' ye callHim? what's his lineage? let him but be shown--I hope he's young and handsome--is he tall?Tell me--and be assured, that since you stainMy honour thus, it shall not be in vain.1380

"At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years,At that age he would be too old for slaughter,Or for so young a husband's jealous fears--(Antonia! let me have a glass of water.)I am ashamed of having shed these tears,1385They are unworthy of my father's daughter;My mother dreamed not in my natal hour,That I should fall into a monster's power.

"Perhaps 't is of Antonia you are jealous,You saw that she was sleeping by my side,1390When you broke in upon us with your fellows:Look where you please--we've nothing, sir, to hide;Only another time, I trust, you'll tell us,Or for the sake of decency abideA moment at the door, that we may be1395Dressed to receive so much good company.

"And now, sir, I have done, and say no more;The little I have said may serve to showThe guileless heart in silence may grieve o'erThe wrongs to whose exposure it is slow:--1400I leave you to your conscience as before,'T will one day ask you why you used me so?God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief!--Antonia! where's my pocket-handkerchief?"

She ceased, and turned upon her pillow; pale1405She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears,Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil,Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appearsHer streaming hair; the black curls strive, but failTo hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears1410Its snow through all;--her soft lips lie apart,And louder than her breathing beats her heart.

The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused;Antonia bustled round the ransacked room,And, turning up her nose, with looks abused1415Her master, and his myrmidons, of whomNot one, except the attorney, was amused;He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb,So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause,Knowing they must be settled by the laws.1420

With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood,Following Antonia's motions here and there,With much suspicion in his attitude;For reputations he had little care;So that a suit or action were made good,1425Small pity had he for the young and fair,And ne'er believed in negatives, till theseWere proved by competent false witnesses.

But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks,And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure;1430When, after searching in five hundred nooks,And treating a young wife with so much rigour,He gained no point, except some self-rebukes,Added to those his lady with such vigourHad poured upon him for the last half-hour,1435Quick, thick, and heavy--as a thunder-shower.

At first he tried to hammer an excuse,To which the sole reply was tears, and sobs,And indications of hysterics, whosePrologue is always certain throes, and throbs,1440Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose:Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's;He saw too, in perspective, her relations,And then he tried to muster all his patience.

He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer,1445But sage Antonia cut him short beforeThe anvil of his speech received the hammer,With "Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more,Or madam dies."--Alfonso muttered, "D--n her,"But nothing else, the time of words was o'er;1450He cast a rueful look or two, and did,He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid.

With him retired his "posse comitatus,"The attorney last, who lingered near the doorReluctantly, still tarrying there as late as1455Antonia let him--not a little soreAt this most strange and unexplained "hiatus"In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now woreAn awkward look; as he revolved the case,The door was fastened in his legal face.1460

No sooner was it bolted, than--Oh Shame!Oh Sin! Oh Sorrow! and Oh Womankind!How can you do such things and keep your fame,Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind?Nothing so dear as an unfilched good name!1465But to proceed--for there is more behind:With much heartfelt reluctance be it said,Young Juan slipped, half-smothered, from the bed.

He had been hid--I don't pretend to sayHow, nor can I indeed describe the where--1470Young, slender, and packed easily, he lay,No doubt, in little compass, round or square;But pity him I neither must nor mayHis suffocation by that pretty pair;'T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut1475With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt.

And, secondly, I pity not, becauseHe had no business to commit a sin,Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws;--At least 't was rather early to begin,1480But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnawsSo much as when we call our old debts inAt sixty years, and draw the accompts of evil,And find a deuced balance with the Devil.

Of his position I can give no notion:1485'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle,How the physicians, leaving pill and potion,Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle,When old King David's blood grew dull in motion,And that the medicine answered very well;1490Perhaps 't was in a different way applied,For David lived, but Juan nearly died.

What's to be done? Alfonso will be backThe moment he has sent his fools away.Antonia's skill was put upon the rack,1495But no device could be brought into play--And how to parry the renewed attack?Besides, it wanted but few hours of day:Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak,But pressed her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek.1500

He turned his lip to hers, and with his handCalled back the tangles of her wandering hair;Even then their love they could not all command,And half forgot their danger and despair:Antonia's patience now was at a stand--1505"Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there,"She whispered, in great wrath--"I must depositThis pretty gentleman within the closet:

"Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier night--Who can have put my master in this mood?1510What will become on 't--I'm in such a fright,The Devil's in the urchin, and no good--Is this a time for giggling? this a plight?Why, don't you know that it may end in blood?You'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place,1515My mistress all, for that half-girlish face.

"Had it but been for a stout cavalierOf twenty-five or thirty--(come, make haste)But for a child, what piece of work is here!I really, madam, wonder at your taste--1520(Come, sir, get in)--my master must be near:There, for the present, at the least, he's fast,And if we can but till the morning keepOur counsel--(Juan, mind, you must not sleep.)"

Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone,1525Closed the oration of the trusty maid:She loitered, and he told her to be gone,An order somewhat sullenly obeyed;However, present remedy was none,And no great good seemed answered if she staid:1530Regarding both with slow and sidelong view,She snuffed the candle, curtsied, and withdrew.

Alfonso paused a minute--then begunSome strange excuses for his late proceeding;He would not justify what he had done,1535To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding;But there were ample reasons for it, noneOf which he specified in this his pleading:His speech was a fine sample, on the whole,Of rhetoric, which the learned call "rigmarole."1540

Julia said nought; though all the while there roseA ready answer, which at once enablesA matron, who her husband's foible knows,By a few timely words to turn the tables,Which, if it does not silence, still must pose,--1545Even if it should comprise a pack of fables;'T is to retort with firmness, and when heSuspects with one, do you reproach with three.

Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds,--Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known;1550But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds--But that can't be, as has been often shown,A lady with apologies abounds;--It might be that her silence sprang aloneFrom delicacy to Don Juan's ear,1555To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear.

There might be one more motive, which makes two;Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded,--Mentioned his jealousy, but never whoHad been the happy lover, he concluded,1560Concealed amongst his premises; 't is true,His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded;To speak of Inez now were, one may say,Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way.

A hint, in tender cases, is enough;1565Silence is best: besides, there is a tact--(That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff,But it will serve to keep my verse compact)--Which keeps, when pushed by questions rather rough,A lady always distant from the fact:1570The charming creatures lie with such a grace,There's nothing so becoming to the face.

They blush, and we believe them; at least IHave always done so; 't is of no great use,In any case, attempting a reply,1575For then their eloquence grows quite profuse;And when at length they're out of breath, they sigh,And cast their languid eyes down, and let looseA tear or two, and then we make it up;And then--and then--and then--sit down and sup.1580

Alfonso closed his speech, and begged her pardon,Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted,And laid conditions he thought very hard on,Denying several little things he wanted:He stood like Adam lingering near his garden,1585With useless penitence perplexed and haunted;Beseeching she no further would refuse,When, lo! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes.

A pair of shoes!--what then? not much, if theyAre such as fit with ladies' feet, but these1590(No one can tell how much I grieve to say)Were masculine; to see them, and to seize,Was but a moment's act.--Ah! well-a-day!My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze!Alfonso first examined well their fashion,1595And then flew out into another passion.

He left the room for his relinquished sword,And Julia instant to the closet flew."Fly, Juan, fly! for Heaven's sake--not a word--The door is open--you may yet slip through1600The passage you so often have explored--Here is the garden-key--Fly--fly--Adieu!Haste--haste! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet--Day has not broke--there's no one in the street."

None can say that this was not good advice,1605The only mischief was, it came too late;Of all experience 't is the usual price,A sort of income-tax laid on by fate:Juan had reached the room-door in a trice,And might have done so by the garden-gate,1610But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown,Who threatened death--so Juan knocked him down.

Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light;Antonia cried out "Rape!" and Julia "Fire!"But not a servant stirred to aid the fight.1615Alfonso, pommelled to his heart's desire,Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night;And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher;His blood was up: though young, he was a Tartar,And not at all disposed to prove a martyr.1620

Alfonso's sword had dropped ere he could draw it,And they continued battling hand to hand,For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it;His temper not being under great command,If at that moment he had chanced to claw it,1625Alfonso's days had not been in the landMuch longer.--Think of husbands', lovers' lives!And how ye may be doubly widows--wives!

Alfonso grappled to detain the foe,And Juan throttled him to get away,1630And blood ('t was from the nose) began to flow;At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay,Juan contrived to give an awkward blow,And then his only garment quite gave way;He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there,1635I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair.

Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who foundAn awkward spectacle their eyes before;Antonia in hysterics, Julia swooned,Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door;1640Some half-torn drapery scattered on the ground,Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more:Juan the gate gained, turned the key about,And liking not the inside, locked the out.

Here ends this canto.--Need I sing, or say,1645How Juan, naked, favoured by the night,Who favours what she should not, found his way,And reached his home in an unseemly plight?The pleasant scandal which arose next day,The nine days' wonder which was brought to light,1650And how Alfonso sued for a divorce,Were in the English newspapers, of course.

If you would like to see the whole proceedings,The depositions, and the Cause at full,The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings1655Of Counsel to nonsuit, or to annul,There's more than one edition, and the readingsAre various, but they none of them are dull:The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney,Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey.1660

But Donna Inez, to divert the trainOf one of the most circulating scandalsThat had for centuries been known in Spain,At least since the retirement of the Vandals,First vowed (and never had she vowed in vain)1665To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles;And then, by the advice of some old ladies,She sent her son to be shipped off from Cadiz.

She had resolved that he should travel throughAll European climes, by land or sea,1670To mend his former morals, and get new,Especially in France and Italy--(At least this is the thing most people do.)Julia was sent into a convent--sheGrieved--but, perhaps, her feelings may be better1675Shown in the following copy of her Letter:--

"They tell me 't is decided you depart:'T is wise--'t is well, but not the less a pain;I have no further claim on your young heart,Mine is the victim, and would be again:1680To love too much has been the only artI used;--I write in haste, and if a stainBe on this sheet, 't is not what it appears;My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.

"I loved, I love you, for this love have lost1685State, station, Heaven, Mankind's, my own esteem,And yet can not regret what it hath cost,So dear is still the memory of that dream;Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast,None can deem harshlier of me than I deem:1690I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest--I've nothing to reproach, or to request.

"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,'T is a Woman's whole existence; Man may rangeThe Court, Camp, Church, the Vessel, and the Mart;1695Sword, Gown, Gain, Glory, offer in exchangePride, Fame, Ambition, to fill up his heart,And few there are whom these can not estrange;Men have all these resources, We but one,To love again, and be again undone."1700

"You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,Beloved and loving many; all is o'erFor me on earth, except some years to hideMy shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core:These I could bear, but cannot cast aside1705The passion which still rages as before,--And so farewell--forgive me, love me--No,That word is idle now--but let it go.

"My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;But still I think I can collect my mind;1710My blood still rushes where my spirit's set,As roll the waves before the settled wind;My heart is feminine, nor can forget--To all, except one image, madly blind;So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,1715As vibrates my fond heart to my fixed soul.

"I have no more to say, but linger still,And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,And yet I may as well the task fulfil,My misery can scarce be more complete;1720I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet,And I must even survive this last adieu,And bear with life, to love and pray for you!"

This note was written upon gilt-edged paper1725With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new;Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper,It trembled as magnetic needles do,And yet she did not let one tear escape her;The seal a sun-flower; "Elle vous suit partout,"1730The motto cut upon a white cornelian;The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion.

This was Don Juan's earliest scrape; but whetherI shall proceed with his adventures isDependent on the public altogether;1735We'll see, however, what they say to this:Their favour in an author's cap's a feather,And no great mischief's done by their caprice;And if their approbation we experience,Perhaps they'll have some more about a year hence.1740

My poem's epic, and is meant to beDivided in twelve books; each book containing,With Love, and War, a heavy gale at sea,A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning,New characters; the episodes are three:1745A panoramic view of Hell's in training,After the style of Virgil and of Homer,So that my name of Epic's no misnomer.

All these things will be specified in time,With strict regard to Aristotle's rules,1750The Vade Mecum of the true sublime,Which makes so many poets, and some fools:Prose poets like blank-verse, I'm fond of rhyme,Good workmen never quarrel with their tools;I've got new mythological machinery,1755And very handsome supernatural scenery.

There's only one slight difference betweenMe and my epic brethren gone before,And here the advantage is my own, I ween(Not that I have not several merits more,1760But this will more peculiarly be seen);They so embellish, that 't is quite a boreTheir labyrinth of fables to thread through,Whereas this story's actually true.

If any person doubt it, I appeal1765To History, Tradition, and to Facts,To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel,To plays in five, and operas in three acts;All these confirm my statement a good deal,But that which more completely faith exacts1770Is, that myself, and several now in Seville,Saw Juan's last elopement with the Devil.

If ever I should condescend to prose,I'll write poetical commandments, whichShall supersede beyond all doubt all those1775That went before; in these I shall enrichMy text with many things that no one knows,And carry precept to the highest pitch:I'll call the work "Longinus o'er a Bottle,Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle."1780

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope;Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey;Because the first is crazed beyond all hope,The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy:With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope,1785And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy:Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, norCommit--flirtation with the muse of Moore.

Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse,His Pegasus, nor anything that's his;1790Thou shalt not bear false witness like "the Blues"--(There's one, at least, is very fond of this);Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose:This is true criticism, and you may kiss--Exactly as you please, or not,--the rod;1795But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G--d!

If any person should presume to assertThis story is not moral, first, I pray,That they will not cry out before they're hurt,Then that they'll read it o'er again, and say1800(But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert)That this is not a moral tale, though gay:Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to showThe very place where wicked people go.

If, after all, there should be some so blind1805To their own good this warning to despise,Led by some tortuosity of mind,Not to believe my verse and their own eyes,And cry that they "the moral cannot find,"I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies;1810Should captains the remark, or critics, make,They also lie too--under a mistake.

The public approbation I expect,And beg they'll take my word about the moral,Which I with their amusement will connect1815(So children cutting teeth receive a coral);Meantime they'll doubtless please to recollectMy epical pretensions to the laurel:For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish,I've bribed my Grandmother's Review--the British.1820

I sent it in a letter to the Editor,Who thanked me duly by return of post--I'm for a handsome article his creditor;Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast,And break a promise after having made it her,1825Denying the receipt of what it cost,And smear his page with gall instead of honey,All I can say is--that he had the money.

I think that with this holy new allianceI may ensure the public, and defy1830All other magazines of art or science,Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; IHave not essayed to multiply their clients,Because they tell me 't were in vain to try,And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly1835Treat a dissenting author very martyrly.

"Non ego hoc ferrem calidus juventâConsule Planco" Horace said, and soSay I; by which quotation there is meant aHint that some six or seven good years ago1840(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta)I was most ready to return a blow,And would not brook at all this sort of thingIn my hot youth--when George the Third was King.

But now at thirty years my hair is grey--1845(I wonder what it will be like at forty?I thought of a peruke the other day--)My heart is not much greener; and, in short, IHave squandered my whole summer while 't was May,And feel no more the spirit to retort; I1850Have spent my life, both interest and principal,And deem not, what I deemed--my soul invincible.

No more--no more--Oh! never more on meThe freshness of the heart can fall like dew,Which out of all the lovely things we see1855Extracts emotions beautiful and new,Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee.Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew?Alas! 't was not in them, but in thy powerTo double even the sweetness of a flower.1860

No more--no more--Oh! never more, my heart,Canst thou be my sole world, my universe!Once all in all, but now a thing apart,Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse:The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art1865Insensible, I trust, but none the worse,And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment,Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment.

My days of love are over; me no moreThe charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,1870Can make the fool of which they made before,--In short, I must not lead the life I did do;The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er,The copious use of claret is forbid too,So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,1875I think I must take up with avarice.

Ambition was my idol, which was brokenBefore the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure;And the two last have left me many a tokenO'er which reflection may be made at leisure:1880Now, like Friar Bacon's Brazen Head, I've spoken,"Time is, Time was, Time's past:"--a chymic treasureIs glittering Youth, which I have spent betimes--My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

What is the end of Fame? 't is but to fill1885A certain portion of uncertain paper:Some liken it to climbing up a hill,Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper,"1890To have, when the original is dust,A name, a wretched picture and worse bust.

What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's KingCheops erected the first PyramidAnd largest, thinking it was just the thing1895To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid;But somebody or other rummaging,Burglariously broke his coffin's lid:Let not a monument give you or me hopes,Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.1900

But I, being fond of true philosophy,Say very often to myself, "Alas!All things that have been born were born to die,And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;You've passed your youth not so unpleasantly,1905And if you had it o'er again--'t would pass--So thank your stars that matters are no worse,And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse."

But for the present, gentle reader! andStill gentler purchaser! the Bard--that's I--1910Must, with permission, shake you by the hand,And so--"your humble servant, and Good-bye!"We meet again, if we should understandEach other; and if not, I shall not tryYour patience further than by this short sample--1915'T were well if others followed my example.

"Go, little Book, from this my solitude!I cast thee on the waters--go thy ways!And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,The World will find thee after many days."1920When Southey's read, and Wordsworth understood,I can't help putting in my claim to praise--The four first rhymes are Southey's every line:For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine.

CANTO THE SECOND.1925

OH ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,I pray ye flog them upon all occasions--It mends their morals, never mind the pain:The best of mothers and of educations1930In Juan's case were but employed in vain,Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, heBecame divested of his native modesty.

Had he but been placed at a public school,In the third form, or even in the fourth,1935His daily task had kept his fancy cool,At least, had he been nurtured in the North;Spain may prove an exception to the rule,But then exceptions always prove its worth--A lad of sixteen causing a divorce1940Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

I can't say that it puzzles me at all,If all things be considered: first, there wasHis lady-mother, mathematical,A----never mind;--his tutor, an old ass;1945A pretty woman--(that's quite natural,Or else the thing had hardly come to pass)A husband rather old, not much in unityWith his young wife--a time, and opportunity.

Well--well; the World must turn upon its axis,1950And all Mankind turn with it, heads or tails,And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;The King commands us, and the Doctor quacks us,The Priest instructs, and so our life exhales,1955A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,Fighting, devotion, dust,--perhaps a name.

I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz--A pretty town, I recollect it well--'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is,1960(Or was, before Peru learned to rebel),And such sweet girls!--I mean, such graceful ladies,Their very walk would make your bosom swell;I can't describe it, though so much it strike,Nor liken it--I never saw the like:1965

An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barbNew broke, a camelopard, a gazelle,No--none of these will do;--and then their garb,Their veil and petticoat--Alas! to dwellUpon such things would very near absorb1970A canto--then their feet and ankles,--well,Thank Heaven I've got no metaphor quite ready,(And so, my sober Muse--come, let's be steady--

Chaste Muse!--well,--if you must, you must)--the veilThrown back a moment with the glancing hand,1975While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale,Flashes into the heart:--All sunny landOf Love! when I forget you, may I failTo----say my prayers--but never was there plannedA dress through which the eyes give such a volley,1980Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.

But to our tale: the Donna Inez sentHer son to Cadiz only to embark;To stay there had not answered her intent,But why?--we leave the reader in the dark--1985'T was for a voyage the young man was meant,As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark,To wean him from the wickedness of earth,And send him like a Dove of Promise forth.

Don Juan bade his valet pack his things1990According to direction, then receivedA lecture and some money: for four springsHe was to travel; and though Inez grieved(As every kind of parting has its stings),She hoped he would improve--perhaps believed:1995A letter, too, she gave (he never read it)Of good advice--and two or three of credit.

In the mean time, to pass her hours away,Brave Inez now set up a Sunday schoolFor naughty children, who would rather play2000(Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool;Infants of three years old were taught that day,Dunces were whipped, or set upon a stool:The great success of Juan's educationSpurred her to teach another generation.2005

Juan embarked--the ship got under way,The wind was fair, the water passing rough;A devil of a sea rolls in that bay,As I, who've crossed it oft, know well enough;And, standing on the deck, the dashing spray2010Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough:And there he stood to take, and take again,His first--perhaps his last--farewell of Spain.

I can't but say it is an awkward sightTo see one's native land receding through2015The growing waters; it unmans one quite,Especially when life is rather new:I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white,But almost every other country's blue,When gazing on them, mystified by distance,2020We enter on our nautical existence.

So Juan stood, bewildered on the deck:The wind sung, cordage strained, and sailors swore,And the ship creaked, the town became a speck,From which away so fair and fast they bore.2025The best of remedies is a beef-steakAgainst sea-sickness: try it, Sir, beforeYou sneer, and I assure you this is true,For I have found it answer--so may you.

Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern,2030Beheld his native Spain receding far:First partings form a lesson hard to learn,Even nations feel this when they go to war;There is a sort of unexpressed concern,A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar,2035At leaving even the most unpleasant peopleAnd places--one keeps looking at the steeple.

But Juan had got many things to leave,His mother, and a mistress, and no wife,So that he had much better cause to grieve2040Than many persons more advanced in life:And if we now and then a sigh must heaveAt quitting even those we quit in strife,No doubt we weep for those the heart endears--That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears.2045

So Juan wept, as wept the captive JewsBy Babel's waters, still remembering Sion:I'd weep,--but mine is not a weeping Muse,And such light griefs are not a thing to die on;Young men should travel, if but to amuse2050Themselves; and the next time their servants tie onBehind their carriages their new portmanteau,Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto.

And Juan wept, and much he sighed and thought,While his salt tears dropped into the salt sea,2055"Sweets to the sweet;" (I like so much to quote;You must excuse this extract,--'t is where she,The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia broughtFlowers to the grave;) and, sobbing often, heReflected on his present situation,2060And seriously resolved on reformation.

"Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!" he cried,"Perhaps I may revisit thee no more,But die, as many an exiled heart hath died,Of its own thirst to see again thy shore:2065Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide!Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er,Farewell, too, dearest Julia!--(here he drewHer letter out again, and read it through.)

"And oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear--2070But that's impossible, and cannot be--Sooner shall this blue Ocean melt to air,Sooner shall Earth resolve itself to sea,Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair!Or think of anything, excepting thee;2075A mind diseased no remedy can physic--(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick.)

"Sooner shall Heaven kiss earth--(here he fell sicker)Oh, Julia! what is every other woe?--(For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor;2080Pedro, Battista, help me down below.)Julia, my love!--(you rascal, Pedro, quicker)--Oh, Julia!--(this curst vessel pitches so)--Belovéd Julia, hear me still beseeching!"(Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)2085

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart,Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends,Beyond the best apothecary's art,The loss of Love, the treachery of friends,Or death of those we dote on, when a part2090Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends:No doubt he would have been much more pathetic,But the sea acted as a strong emetic.

Love's a capricious power: I've known it holdOut through a fever caused by its own heat,2095But be much puzzled by a cough and cold,And find a quinsy very hard to treat;Against all noble maladies he's bold,But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet,Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh,2100Nor inflammations redden his blind eye.

But worst of all is nausea, or a painAbout the lower region of the bowels;Love, who heroically breathes a vein,Shrinks from the application of hot towels,2105And purgatives are dangerous to his reign,Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect, how elseCould Juan's passion, while the billows roar,Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before?

The ship, called the most holy "Trinidada,"2110Was steering duly for the port Leghorn;For there the Spanish family MoncadaWere settled long ere Juan's sire was born:They were relations, and for them he had aLetter of introduction, which the morn2115Of his departure had been sent him byHis Spanish friends for those in Italy.

His suite consisted of three servants andA tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo,Who several languages did understand,2120But now lay sick and speechless on his pillowAnd, rocking in his hammock, longed for land,His headache being increased by every billow;And the waves oozing through the port-hole madeHis berth a little damp, and him afraid.2125

'T was not without some reason, for the windIncreased at night, until it blew a gale;And though 't was not much to a naval mind,Some landsmen would have looked a little pale,For sailors are, in fact, a different kind:2130At sunset they began to take in sail,For the sky showed it would come on to blow,And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.

At one o'clock the wind with sudden shiftThrew the ship right into the trough of the sea,2135Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift,Started the stern-post, also shattered theWhole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could liftHerself from out her present jeopardy,The rudder tore away: 't was time to sound2140The pumps, and there were four feet water found.

One gang of people instantly was putUpon the pumps, and the remainder setTo get up part of the cargo, and what not;But they could not come at the leak as yet;2145At last they did get at it really, butStill their salvation was an even bet:The water rushed through in a way quite puzzling,While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin,

Into the opening; but all such ingredients2150Would have been vain, and they must have gone down,Despite of all their efforts and expedients,But for the pumps: I'm glad to make them knownTo all the brother tars who may have need hence,For fifty tons of water were upthrown2155By them per hour, and they had all been undone,But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London.

As day advanced the weather seemed to abate,And then the leak they reckoned to reduce,And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet2160Kept two hand--and one chain-pump still in use.The wind blew fresh again: as it grew lateA squall came on, and while some guns broke loose,A gust--which all descriptive power transcends--Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends.2165

There she lay, motionless, and seemed upset;The water left the hold, and washed the decks,And made a scene men do not soon forget;For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks,Or any other thing that brings regret2170Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks:Thus drownings are much talked of by the divers,And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors.

Immediately the masts were cut away,Both main and mizen; first the mizen went,2175The main-mast followed: but the ship still layLike a mere log, and baffled our intent.Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and theyEased her at last (although we never meantTo part with all till every hope was blighted),2180And then with violence the old ship righted.

It may be easily supposed, while thisWas going on, some people were unquiet,That passengers would find it much amissTo lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet;2185That even the able seaman, deeming hisDays nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot,As upon such occasions tars will askFor grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask.

There's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms2190As rum and true religion: thus it was,Some plundered, some drank spirits, some sung psalms,The high wind made the treble, and as bassThe hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured the qualmsOf all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws:2195Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion,Clamoured in chorus to the roaring Ocean.

Perhaps more mischief had been done, but forOur Juan, who, with sense beyond his years,Got to the spirit-room, and stood before2200It with a pair of pistols; and their fears,As if Death were more dreadful by his doorOf fire than water, spite of oaths and tears,Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk,Thought it would be becoming to die drunk.2205

"Give us more grog," they cried, "for it will beAll one an hour hence." Juan answered, "No!'T is true that Death awaits both you and me,But let us die like men, not sink belowLike brutes:"--and thus his dangerous post kept he,2210And none liked to anticipate the blow;And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor,Was for some rum a disappointed suitor.

The good old gentleman was quite aghast,And made a loud and pious lamentation;2215Repented all his sins, and made a lastIrrevocable vow of reformation;Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past)To quit his academic occupation,In cloisters of the classic Salamanca,2220To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca.

But now there came a flash of hope once more;Day broke, and the wind lulled: the masts were goneThe leak increased; shoals round her, but no shore,The vessel swam, yet still she held her own.2225They tried the pumps again, and though beforeTheir desperate efforts seemed all useless grown,A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale--The stronger pumped, the weaker thrummed a sail.

Under the vessel's keel the sail was passed,2230And for the moment it had some effect;But with a leak, and not a stick of mast,Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect?But still 't is best to struggle to the last,'T is never too late to be wholly wrecked:2235And though 't is true that man can only die once,'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons.

There winds and waves had hurled them, and from thence,Without their will, they carried them away;For they were forced with steering to dispense,2240And never had as yet a quiet dayOn which they might repose, or even commenceA jurymast or rudder, or could sayThe ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck,Still swam--though not exactly like a duck.2245

The wind, in fact, perhaps, was rather less,But the ship laboured so, they scarce could hopeTo weather out much longer; the distressWas also great with which they had to copeFor want of water, and their solid mess2250Was scant enough: in vain the telescopeWas used--nor sail nor shore appeared in sight,Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night.

Again the weather threatened,--again blewA gale, and in the fore and after hold2255Water appeared; yet, though the people knewAll this, the most were patient, and some bold,Until the chains and leathers were worn throughOf all our pumps:--a wreck complete she rolled,At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are2260Like human beings during civil war.

Then came the carpenter, at last, with tearsIn his rough eyes, and told the captain, heCould do no more: he was a man in years,And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea,2265And if he wept at length they were not fearsThat made his eyelids as a woman's be,But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children,--Two things for dying people quite bewildering.

The ship was evidently settling now2270Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone,Some went to prayers again, and made a vowOf candles to their saints--but there were noneTo pay them with; and some looked o'er the bow;Some hoisted out the boats; and there was one2275That begged Pedrillo for an absolution,Who told him to be damned--in his confusion.

Some lashed them in their hammocks; some put onTheir best clothes, as if going to a fair;Some cursed the day on which they saw the Sun,2280And gnashed their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair;And others went on as they had begun,Getting the boats out, being well awareThat a tight boat will live in a rough sea,Unless with breakers close beneath her lee.2285

The worst of all was, that in their condition,Having been several days in great distress,'T was difficult to get out such provisionAs now might render their long suffering less:Men, even when dying, dislike inanition;2290Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress:Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter,Were all that could be thrown into the cutter.

But in the long-boat they contrived to stowSome pounds of bread, though injured by the wet;2295Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so;Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to getA portion of their beef up from below,And with a piece of pork, moreover, met,But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon--2300Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon.

The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, hadBeen stove in the beginning of the gale;And the long-boat's condition was but bad,As there were but two blankets for a sail,2305And one oar for a mast, which a young ladThrew in by good luck over the ship's rail;And two boats could not hold, far less be stored,To save one half the people then on board.

'T was twilight, and the sunless day went down2310Over the waste of waters; like a veil,Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frownOf one whose hate is masked but to assail.Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown,And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale,2315And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had FearBeen their familiar, and now Death was here.

Some trial had been making at a raft,With little hope in such a rolling sea,A sort of thing at which one would have laughed,2320If any laughter at such times could be,Unless with people who too much have quaffed,And have a kind of wild and horrid glee,Half epileptical, and half hysterical:--Their preservation would have been a miracle.2325

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars,And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose,That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,For yet they strove, although of no great use:There was no light in heaven but a few stars,2330The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews;She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port,And, going down head foremost--sunk, in short.

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell--Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave,--2335Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell,As eager to anticipate their grave;And the sea yawned around her like a hell,And down she sucked with her the whirling wave,Like one who grapples with his enemy,2340And strives to strangle him before he die.

And first one universal shriek there rushed,Louder than the loud Ocean, like a crashOf echoing thunder; and then all was hushed,Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash2345Of billows; but at intervals there gushed,Accompanied by a convulsive splash,A solitary shriek, the bubbling cryOf some strong swimmer in his agony.

The boats, as stated, had got off before,2350And in them crowded several of the crew;And yet their present hope was hardly moreThan what it had been, for so strong it blewThere was slight chance of reaching any shore;And then they were too many, though so few--2355Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat,Were counted in them when they got afloat.

All the rest perished; near two hundred soulsHad left their bodies; and what's worse, alas!When over Catholics the Ocean rolls,2360They must wait several weeks before a massTakes off one peck of purgatorial coals,Because, till people know what's come to pass,They won't lay out their money on the dead--It costs three francs for every mass that's said.2365

Juan got into the long-boat, and thereContrived to help Pedrillo to a place;It seemed as if they had exchanged their care,For Juan wore the magisterial faceWhich courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair2370Of eyes were crying for their owner's case:Battista, though, (a name called shortly Tita),Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita.

Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save,But the same cause, conducive to his loss,2375Left him so drunk, he jumped into the wave,As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross,And so he found a wine-and-watery grave;They could not rescue him although so close,Because the sea ran higher every minute,2380And for the boat--the crew kept crowding in it.

A small old spaniel,--which had been Don José's,His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think,For on such things the memory reposesWith tenderness--stood howling on the brink,2385Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses!)No doubt, the vessel was about to sink;And Juan caught him up, and ere he steppedOff threw him in, then after him he leaped.

He also stuffed his money where he could2390About his person, and Pedrillo's too,Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would,Not knowing what himself to say, or do,As every rising wave his dread renewed;But Juan, trusting they might still get through,2395And deeming there were remedies for any ill,Thus re-embarked his tutor and his spaniel.

'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet,That the sail was becalmed between the seas,Though on the wave's high top too much to set,2400They dared not take it in for all the breeze:Each sea curled o'er the stern, and kept them wet,And made them bale without a moment's ease,So that themselves as well as hopes were damped,And the poor little cutter quickly swamped.2405

Nine souls more went in her: the long-boat stillKept above water, with an oar for mast,Two blankets stitched together, answering illInstead of sail, were to the oar made fast;Though every wave rolled menacing to fill,2410And present peril all before surpassed,They grieved for those who perished with the cutter,And also for the biscuit-casks and butter.

The sun rose red and fiery, a sure signOf the continuance of the gale: to run2415Before the sea until it should grow fine,Was all that for the present could be done:A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wineWere served out to the people, who begunTo faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags,2420And most of them had little clothes but rags.

They counted thirty, crowded in a spaceWhich left scarce room for motion or exertion;They did their best to modify their case,One half sate up, though numbed with the immersion,2425While t' other half were laid down in their place,At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the tertianAgue in its cold fit, they filled their boat,With nothing but the sky for a great coat.

'T is very certain the desire of life2430Prolongs it: this is obvious to physicians,When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife,Survive through very desperate conditions,Because they still can hope, nor shines the knifeNor shears of Atropos before their visions:2435Despair of all recovery spoils longevity,And makes men's misery of alarming brevity.

'T is said that persons living on annuitiesAre longer lived than others,--God knows why,Unless to plague the grantors,--yet so true it is,2440That some, I really think, do never die:Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is,And that's their mode of furnishing supply:In my young days they lent me cash that way,Which I found very troublesome to pay.2445

'T is thus with people in an open boat,They live upon the love of Life, and bearMore than can be believed, or even thought,And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear;And hardship still has been the sailor's lot,2450Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there;She had a curious crew as well as cargo,Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo.

But man is a carnivorous production,And must have meals, at least one meal a day;2455He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction,But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey;Although his anatomical constructionBears vegetables, in a grumbling way,Your labouring people think, beyond all question,2460Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion.

And thus it was with this our hapless crew;For on the third day there came on a calm,And though at first their strength it might renew,And lying on their weariness like balm,2465Lulled them like turtles sleeping on the blueOf Ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm,And fell all ravenously on their provision,Instead of hoarding it with due precision.

The consequence was easily foreseen--2470They ate up all they had, and drank their wine,In spite of all remonstrances, and thenOn what, in fact, next day were they to dine?They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men!And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine,2475But as they had but one oar, and that brittle,It would have been more wise to save their victual.

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air,And Ocean slumbered like an unweaned child:The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there,2480The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild--With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair)What could they do? and Hunger's rage grew wild:So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating,Was killed, and portioned out for present eating.2485

On the sixth day they fed upon his hide,And Juan, who had still refused, becauseThe creature was his father's dog that died,Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws,With some remorse received (though first denied)2490As a great favour one of the fore-paws,Which he divided with Pedrillo, whoDevoured it, longing for the other too.

The seventh day, and no wind--the burning sunBlistered and scorched, and, stagnant on the sea,2495They lay like carcasses; and hope was none,Save in the breeze that came not: savagelyThey glared upon each other--all was done,Water, and wine, and food,--and you might seeThe longings of the cannibal arise2500(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes.

At length one whispered his companion, whoWhispered another, and thus it went round,And then into a hoarser murmur grew,An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound;2505And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew,'T was but his own, suppressed till now, he found:And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood,And who should die to be his fellow's food.

But ere they came to this, they that day shared2510Some leathern caps, and what remained of shoes;And then they looked around them, and despaired,And none to be the sacrifice would choose;At length the lots were torn up, and prepared,But of materials that must shock the Muse--2515Having no paper, for the want of better,They took by force from Juan Julia's letter.

The lots were made, and marked, and mixed, and handed,In silent horror, and their distributionLulled even the savage hunger which demanded,2520Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution;None in particular had sought or planned it,'T was Nature gnawed them to this resolution,By which none were permitted to be neuter--And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor.2525

He but requested to be bled to death:The surgeon had his instruments, and bledPedrillo, and so gently ebbed his breath,You hardly could perceive when he was dead.He died as born, a Catholic in faith,2530Like most in the belief in which they're bred,And first a little crucifix he kissed,And then held out his jugular and wrist.

The surgeon, as there was no other fee,Had his first choice of morsels for his pains;2535But being thirstiest at the moment, hePreferred a draught from the fast-flowing veins:Part was divided, part thrown in the sea,And such things as the entrails and the brainsRegaled two sharks, who followed o'er the billow--2540The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo.