Don Juan
There is but one superb menagerie.
But I am sick of politics. Begin,
‘Paulo Majora.’ Juan, undecided
Amongst the paths of being ‘taken in,’
Above the ice had like a skater glided:
When tired of play, he flirted without sin
With some of those fair creatures who have prided
Themselves on innocent tantalisation,
And hate all vice except its reputation.
But these are few, and in the end they make
Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows
That even the purest people may mistake
Their way through virtue’s primrose paths of snows;
And then men stare, as if a new ass spake
To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o’erflows
Quicksilver small talk, ending (if you note it)
With the kind world’s amen—‘Who would have thought it?’
The little Leila, with her orient eyes,
And taciturn Asiatic disposition
(Which saw all western things with small surprise,
To the surprise of people of condition,
Who think that novelties are butterflies
To be pursued as food for inanition),
Her charming figure and romantic history
Became a kind of fashionable mystery.
The women much divided—as is usual
Amongst the sex in little things or great.
Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you all—
I have always liked you better than I state:
Since I’ve grown moral, still I must accuse you all
Of being apt to talk at a great rate;
And now there was a general sensation
Amongst you, about Leila’s education.
In one point only were you settled—and
You had reason; ’twas that a young child of grace,
As beautiful as her own native land,
And far away, the last bud of her race,
Howe’er our friend Don Juan might command
Himself for five, four, three, or two years’ space,
Would be much better taught beneath the eye
Of peeresses whose follies had run dry.
So first there was a generous emulation,
And then there was a general competition,
To undertake the orphan’s education.
As Juan was a person of condition,
It had been an affront on this occasion
To talk of a subscription or petition;
But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages,
Whose tale belongs to ‘Hallam’s Middle Ages,’
And one or two sad, separate wives, without
A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough—
Begg’d to bring up the little girl and ‘out,’—
For that ’s the phrase that settles all things now,
Meaning a virgin’s first blush at a rout,
And all her points as thorough-bred to show:
And I assure you, that like virgin honey
Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money).
How all the needy honourable misters,
Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy,
The watchful mothers, and the careful sisters
(Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy
At making matches, where ‘’tis gold that glisters,’
Than their he relatives), like flies o’er candy
Buzz round ‘the Fortune’ with their busy battery,
To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery!
Each aunt, each cousin, hath her speculation;
Nay, married dames will now and then discover
Such pure disinterestedness of passion,
I’ve known them court an heiress for their lover.
‘Tantaene!’ Such the virtues of high station,
Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet ’s ‘Dover!’
While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares,
Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs.
Some are soon bagg’d, and some reject three dozen.
’Tis fine to see them scattering refusals
And wild dismay o’er every angry cousin
(Friends of the party), who begin accusals,
Such as—‘Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen
Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals
To his billets? Why waltz with him? Why, I pray,
Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day?
‘Why?—Why?—Besides, Fred really was attach’d;
’Twas not her fortune—he has enough without:
The time will come she’ll wish that she had snatch’d
So good an opportunity, no doubt:—
But the old marchioness some plan had hatch’d,
As I’ll tell Aurea at to-morrow’s rout:
And after all poor Frederick may do better—
Pray did you see her answer to his letter?’
Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets
Are spurn’d in turn, until her turn arrives,
After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets
Upon the sweepstakes for substantial wives;
And when at last the pretty creature gets
Some gentleman, who fights, or writes, or drives,
It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected
To find how very badly she selected.
For sometimes they accept some long pursuer,
Worn out with importunity; or fall
(But here perhaps the instances are fewer)
To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all.
A hazy widower turn’d of forty ’s sure
(If ’tis not vain examples to recall)
To draw a high prize: now, howe’er he got her, I
See nought more strange in this than t’ other lottery.
I, for my part (one ‘modern instance’ more,
‘True, ’tis a pity—pity ’tis, ’tis true’),
Was chosen from out an amatory score,
Albeit my years were less discreet than few;
But though I also had reform’d before
Those became one who soon were to be two,
I’ll not gainsay the generous public’s voice,
That the young lady made a monstrous choice.
O, pardon my digression—or at least
Peruse! ’Tis always with a moral end
That I dissert, like grace before a feast:
For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend,
A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest,
My Muse by exhortation means to mend
All people, at all times, and in most places,
Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces.
But now I’m going to be immoral; now
I mean to show things really as they are,
Not as they ought to be: for I avow,
That till we see what ’s what in fact, we’re far
From much improvement with that virtuous plough
Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar
Upon the black loam long manured by Vice,
Only to keep its corn at the old price.
But first of little Leila we’ll dispose;
For like a day-dawn she was young and pure,
Or like the old comparison of snows,
Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure.
Like many people everybody knows,
Don Juan was delighted to secure
A goodly guardian for his infant charge,
Who might not profit much by being at large.
Besides, he had found out he was no tutor
(I wish that others would find out the same);
And rather wish’d in such things to stand neuter,
For silly wards will bring their guardians blame:
So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor
To make his little wild Asiatic tame,
Consulting ‘the Society for Vice
Suppression,’ Lady Pinchbeck was his choice.
Olden she was—but had been very young;
Virtuous she was—and had been, I believe;
Although the world has such an evil tongue
That—but my chaster ear will not receive
An echo of a syllable that ’s wrong:
In fact, there’s nothing makes me so much grieve,
As that abominable tittle-tattle,
Which is the cud eschew’d by human cattle.
Moreover I’ve remark’d (and I was once
A slight observer in a modest way),
And so may every one except a dunce,
That ladies in their youth a little gay,
Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense
Of the sad consequence of going astray,
Are wiser in their warnings ’gainst the woe
Which the mere passionless can never know.
While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue
By railing at the unknown and envied passion,
Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you,
Or, what ’s still worse, to put you out of fashion,—
The kinder veteran with calm words will court you,
Entreating you to pause before you dash on;
Expounding and illustrating the riddle
Of epic Love’s beginning, end, and middle.
Now whether it be thus, or that they are stricter,
As better knowing why they should be so,
I think you’ll find from many a family picture,
That daughters of such mothers as may know
The world by experience rather than by lecture,
Turn out much better for the Smithfield Show
Of vestals brought into the marriage mart,
Than those bred up by prudes without a heart.
I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk’d about—
As who has not, if female, young, and pretty?
But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk’d about;
She merely was deem’d amiable and witty,
And several of her best bon-mots were hawk’d about:
Then she was given to charity and pity,
And pass’d (at least the latter years of life)
For being a most exemplary wife.
High in high circles, gentle in her own,
She was the mild reprover of the young,
Whenever—which means every day—they’d shown
An awkward inclination to go wrong.
The quantity of good she did ’s unknown,
Or at the least would lengthen out my song:
In brief, the little orphan of the East
Had raised an interest in her, which increased.
Juan, too, was a sort of favourite with her,
Because she thought him a good heart at bottom,
A little spoil’d, but not so altogether;
Which was a wonder, if you think who got him,
And how he had been toss’d, he scarce knew whither:
Though this might ruin others, it did not him,
At least entirely—for he had seen too many
Changes in youth, to be surprised at any.
And these vicissitudes tell best in youth;
For when they happen at a riper age,
People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth,
And wonder Providence is not more sage.
Adversity is the first path to truth:
He who hath proved war, storm, or woman’s rage,
Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty,
Hath won the experience which is deem’d so weighty.
How far it profits is another matter.—
Our hero gladly saw his little charge
Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter
Being long married, and thus set at large,
Had left all the accomplishments she taught her
To be transmitted, like the Lord Mayor’s barge,
To the next comer; or—as it will tell
More Muse-like—like to Cytherea’s shell.
I call such things transmission; for there is
A floating balance of accomplishment
Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss,
According as their minds or backs are bent.
Some waltz; some draw; some fathom the abyss
Of metaphysics; others are content
With music; the most moderate shine as wits;
While others have a genius turn’d for fits.
But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords,
Theology, fine arts, or finer stays,
May be the baits for gentlemen or lords
With regular descent, in these our days,
The last year to the new transfers its hoards;
New vestals claim men’s eyes with the same praise
Of ‘elegant’ et caetera, in fresh batches—
All matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches.
But now I will begin my poem. ’Tis
Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new,
That from the first of Cantos up to this
I’ve not begun what we have to go through.
These first twelve books are merely flourishes,
Preludios, trying just a string or two
Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure;
And when so, you shall have the overture.
My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin
About what ’s call’d success, or not succeeding:
Such thoughts are quite below the strain they have chosen;
’Tis a ‘great moral lesson’ they are reading.
I thought, at setting off, about two dozen
Cantos would do; but at Apollo’s pleading,
If that my Pegasus should not be founder’d,
I think to canter gently through a hundred.
Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts,
Yclept the Great World; for it is the least,
Although the highest: but as swords have hilts
By which their power of mischief is increased,
When man in battle or in quarrel tilts,
Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east,
Must still obey the high—which is their handle,
Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle.
He had many friends who had many wives, and was
Well look’d upon by both, to that extent