Don Juan Part 48

But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces, Has not the natural stays of strict old age; And Socrates, that model of all duty, Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty.

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

Also observe, that, like the great Lord c.o.ke (See Littleton), whene'er I have express'd Opinions two, which at first sight may look Twin opposites, the second is the best.

Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook, Or none at all--which seems a sorry jest: But if a writer should be quite consistent, How could he possibly show things existent?

If people contradict themselves, can Help contradicting them, and every body, Even my veracious self?--But that 's a lie: I never did so, never will--how should I?

He who doubts all things nothing can deny: Truth's fountains may be clear--her streams are muddy, And cut through such ca.n.a.ls of contradiction, That she must often navigate o'er fiction.

Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, Are false, but may he render'd also true, By those who sow them in a land that 's arable.

'T is wonderful what fable will not do!

'T is said it makes reality more bearable: But what 's reality? Who has its clue?

Philosophy? No: she too much rejects.

Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects?

Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty dear; Perhaps it may turn out that all were right.

G.o.d help us! Since we have need on our career To keep our holy beacons always bright, 'T is time that some new prophet should appear, Or old indulge man with a second sight.

Opinions wear out in some thousand years, Without a small refreshment from the spheres.

But here again, why will I thus entangle Myself with metaphysics? None can hate So much as I do any kind of wrangle; And yet, such is my folly, or my fate, I always knock my head against some angle About the present, past, or future state.

Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian.

But though I am a temperate theologian, And also meek as a metaphysician, Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, As Eldon on a lunatic commission-- In politics my duty is to show John Bull something of the lower world's condition.

It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla, To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law.

But politics, and policy, and piety, Are topics which I sometimes introduce, Not only for the sake of their variety, But as subservient to a moral use; Because my business is to dress society, And stuff with sage that very verdant goose.

And now, that we may furnish with some matter all Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural.

And now I will give up all argument; And positively henceforth no temptation Shall 'fool me to the top up of my bent:'- Yes, I' ll begin a thorough reformation.

Indeed, I never knew what people meant By deeming that my Muse's conversation Was dangerous;--I think she is as harmless As some who labour more and yet may charm less.

Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost?

No; but you have heard--I understand--be dumb!

And don't regret the time you may have lost, For you have got that pleasure still to come: And do not think I mean to sneer at most Of these things, or by ridicule benumb That source of the sublime and the mysterious:-- For certain reasons my belief is serious.

Serious? You laugh;--you may: that will I not; My smiles must be sincere or not at all.

I say I do believe a haunted spot Exists--and where? That shall I not recall, Because I 'd rather it should be forgot, 'Shadows the soul of Richard' may appal.

In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms very Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury.

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

And therefore, though 't is by no means my way To rhyme at noon--when I have other things To think of, if I ever think--I say I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, And prudently postpone, until mid-day, Treating a topic which, alas! but brings Shadows;--but you must be in my condition Before you learn to call this superst.i.tion.

CANTO THE SIXTEENTH.

The antique Persians taught three useful things, To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth.

This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings-- A mode adopted since by modern youth.

Bows have they, generally with two strings; Horses they ride without remorse or ruth; At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, But draw the long bow better now than ever.

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

And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats From any thing, this epic will contain A wilderness of the most rare conceits, Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain.

'T is true there be some bitters with the sweets, Yet mix'd so slightly, that you can't complain, But wonder they so few are, since my tale is 'De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis.'

But of all truths which she has told, the most True is that which she is about to tell.

I said it was a story of a ghost-- What then? I only know it so befell.

Have you explored the limits of the coast, Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell?

'T is time to strike such puny doubters dumb as The sceptics who would not believe Columbus.

Some people would impose now with authority, Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle; Men whose historical superiority Is always greatest at a miracle.

But Saint Augustine has the great priority, Who bids all men believe the impossible, Because 't is so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he Quiets at once with 'quia impossibile.'

And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all; Believe:--if 't is improbable you must, And if it is impossible, you shall: 'T is always best to take things upon trust.

I do not speak profanely, to recall Those holier mysteries which the wise and just Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted, As all truths must, the more they are disputed:

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

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

The evaporation of a joyous day Is like the last gla.s.s of champagne, without The foam which made its virgin b.u.mper gay; Or like a system coupled with a doubt; Or like a soda bottle when its spray Has sparkled and let half its spirit out; Or like a billow left by storms behind, Without the animation of the wind;

Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest, Or none; or like--like nothing that I know Except itself;--such is the human breast; A thing, of which similitudes can show No real likeness,--like the old Tyrian vest Dyed purple, none at present can tell how, If from a sh.e.l.l-fish or from cochineal.

So perish every tyrant's robe piece-meal!

But next to dressing for a rout or ball, Undressing is a woe; our robe de chambre May sit like that of Nessus, and recall Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber.

t.i.tus exclaim'd, 'I 've lost a day!' Of all The nights and days most people can remember (I have had of both, some not to be disdain'd), I wish they 'd state how many they have gain'd.

And Juan, on retiring for the night, Felt restless, and perplex'd, and compromised: He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright Than Adeline (such is advice) advised; If he had known exactly his own plight, He probably would have philosophised: A great resource to all, and ne'er denied Till wanted; therefore Juan only sigh'd.

He sigh'd;--the next resource is the full moon, Where all sighs are deposited; and now It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone As clear as such a climate will allow; And Juan's mind was in the proper tone To hail her with the apostrophe--'O thou!'

Of amatory egotism the Tuism, Which further to explain would be a truism.

But lover, poet, or astronomer, Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold, Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her: Great thoughts we catch from thence (besides a cold Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err); Deep secrets to her rolling light are told; The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways, And also hearts, if there be truth in lays.

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed For contemplation rather than his pillow: The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed, Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow, With all the mystery by midnight caused; Below his window waved (of course) a willow; And he stood gazing out on the cascade That flash'd and after darken'd in the shade.

Upon his table or his toilet,--which Of these is not exactly ascertain'd (I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd),-- A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche, Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd, In chisell'd stone and painted gla.s.s, and all That time has left our fathers of their hall.

Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw His chamber door wide open--and went forth Into a gallery, of a sombre hue, Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth, Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too, As doubtless should be people of high birth.

But by dim lights the portraits of the dead Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread.

The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint Look living in the moon; and as you turn Backward and forward to the echoes faint Of your own footsteps--voices from the urn Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern, As if to ask how you can dare to keep A vigil there, where all but death should sleep.

And the pale smile of beauties in the grave, The charms of other days, in starlight gleams, Glimmer on high; their buried locks still wave Along the canvas; their eyes glance like dreams On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, But death is imaged in their shadowy beams.

A picture is the past; even ere its frame Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same.