PREFACE TO CANTOS VI., VII., AND VIII. THE details of the siege of Ismail, in two of the following cantos (i.e. the seventh and eighth), were taken from the French work entitled Histoire de la Nouvelle Russie. Some of the incidents attributed to Don Juan really occurred, particularly the circumstance of his saving the infant, which was the actual case of the late Duc de Richelieu, then a young volunteer in the Russian service, and afterwards the founder and benefactor of Odessa, where his name and memory can never cease to be regarded with reverence. In the course of these cantos, a stanza or two will be found relative to the late Marquis of Londonderry, but written some time before his decease. Had that person's oligarchy died with him, they would have been suppressed: as it is, I am aware of nothing in the manner of his death or of his life to prevent the free expression of the opinions of all whom his whole existence was consumed in endeavouring to enslave. That he was an amiable man in private life, may or may be true; but with this the public have nothing to do: and as to lamenting his death, it will be time enough when Ireland has ceased to mourn for his birth. As a minister, I, for one of millions, looked upon him as one of the most despotic in intention, and the weakest in intellect, that ever tyrannized over a country. It is the first time indeed, since the Normans, that England has been insulted by a minister (at least) who could not speak English, and that Parliament permitted itself to be dictated to in the language of Mrs Malaprop. Of the manner of his death little need be said, except that, if a poor Radical, such as Waddington or Watson, had cut his throat, he would have been buried in a cross-road, with the usual appurtenances of the stake and mallet. But the minister was an elegant lunatic-a sentimental suicide; he merely cut the "carotid artery" (blessings on their learning !), and lo! the pageant, and the Abbey, and "the syllables of dolour yelled forth" by the newspapers, and the harangue of the coroner in an eulogy over the bleeding body of the deceased (an Antony worthy of such a Cæsar), and the nauseous and atrocious cant of a degraded crew of conspirators against all that is sincere and honourable. In his death he was necessarily one of two things by the law-a felon or a madman; and in either case no great subject for panegyric. In his life he was--what all the world knows, and half of it will feel for years to come, unless his death prove a "moral lesson" to the surviving Sejani of Europe. It may at least serve as some consolation to the nations that their oppressors are not happy, and in some instances judge so justly of their own actions, as to anticipate the sentence of mankind. Let us hear no more of this man; and let Ireland remove the ashes of her Grattan from the sanctuary of Westminster. Shall the patriot of humanity repose by the Werther of politics? With regard to the objections which have been made, on another score, to the already published cantos of this poem, I shall content myself with two quotations from Voltaire : "La pudeur s'est enfuite des cœurs, et s'est refugiée sur les lèvres." "Plus les mœurs sont dépravées, plus les expressions deviennent mesurées; on croit regagner en langage ce qu'on a perdu en vertu." This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded and hypocritical mass which leavens the present English generation, and is the only answer they deserve. The hackneyed and lavished title of Blasphemer-which, with Radical, Liberal, Jacobin, Reformer, &c., are the changes which the hirelings are daily ringing in the ears of those who will listen-should be welcome to all who recollect on whom it was originally bestowed. Socrates and Jesus Christ were put to death publicly as blasphemers, and so have been, and may be, many who dare to oppose the most notorious abuses of the name of God and the mind of man. But persecution is not refutation, nor even triumph: the "wretched infidel," as he is called, is probably happier in his prison than the proudest of his assailants. With his opinions I have nothing to do-they may be right or wrong; but he has suffered for them, and that very suffering for conscience' sake will make more proselytes to deism than the example of heterodox prelates to Christianity, suicide statesmen to oppression, or over-pensioned homicides to the impious alliance which insults the world with the name of "Holy !" I have no wish to trample on the dishonoured or the dead; but it would be well if the adherents to the classes from whence those persons sprung should abate a little of the cant which is the crying sin of this double-dealing and false-speaking time of selfish spoilers, and-but enough for the present. PISA, July, 1822. Gave what I had-a heart; as the world west, 1 Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could Restore me those pare felings, gone for ever. Twas the boy's “mite, "and, like the "widow's," Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now; But whether such things do or do not weigh, All abe have loved or love will still allow Life has mought like it. God is love, they say: And Love's a god, or was before the brow Of earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears Of-but Chronology best knows the years. Self-love in man, too, beats all female art; They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less; And no one virtue yet, except starvation, Could stop that worst of vices-propagation. XX. We leave this royal couple to repose: A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes; Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep As any man's clay mixture undergoes; Our least of sorrows are such as we weep: 'Tis the vile daily drop on drop which wears The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares. XXI. A scolding wife, a sullen son; a bill To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted At a percentage; a child cross, dog ill, A favourite horse fallen lame just as he's mounted : A bad old woman making a worse will, As certain these are paltry things, and yet XXII. I'm a philosopher; confound them all! Bills, beasts, and men, and-no! not womankind! With one good hearty curse I vent my gall, And then my stoicism leaves nought behind Which it can either pain or evil call, And I can give my whole soul up to mind: Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth, Is more than I know-the deuce take them both! XXIII. So now all things are d-n'd, one feels at ease, I doubt if any now could make it worse 'Tis so sententious, positive, and terse, Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or At least one of them!-Oh, the heavy night, When wicked wives, who love some bachelor, Lie down in dudgeon, to sigh for the light Of the grey morning, and look vainly for Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake Lest their too lawful bed-fellow should wake! In the seraglio, where the ladies lay Their delicate limbs; a thousand bosoms there Beating for love, as the caged birds for air. XXVII. I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse The tyrant's wish, "that mankind only had One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce." My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad, And much more tender, on the whole, than fierce; It being (not now, but only while a lad) That womankind had but one rosy mouth, To kiss them all at once from North to South. XXVIII. O enviable Briareus! with thy hands And heads if thou hadst all things multiplied In such proportion! But my Muse withstands The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, Or travelling in Patagonian lands; So let us back to Lilliput, and guide He went forth with the lovely Odalisques, t Yet he could not at times keep, by the way, (Although the consequences of such frisks Are worse than the worst damages men pay In moral England, where the thing's a tax), From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. XXXII. A goodly sinecure, no doubt! but made A slight example, just to cast a shade Along the rest, contrived to keep this den Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, Where all the passions have, alas ! but one vent. XXXIII. And what is that? Devotion, doubtless-how *Caligula-See Suetonius. The slaves of the harem. Dudù said nothing, but sat down beside XLVI. And all abash'd, too, at the general stare Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, With kind remarks upon their mien and faces. But here the Mother of the Maids drew near, With, "Ladies, it is time to go to rest. I'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear," She added to Juanna, their new guest. "Your coming has been unexpected here, And every couch is occupied: you had best Partake of mine; but by to-morrow early We will have all things settled for you fairly." |