LXXII. And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines From nature for the service of the goût,Taste or the gout,-pronounce it as inclines Your stomach. Ere you dine, the French will do, But after, there are sometimes certain signs

Which prove plain English truer of the two. Hast ever had the gout? I have not had itBut I may have, and you too, reader, dread it. LXXIII.

The simple olives, best allies of wine,

Must I pass over in my bill of fare?
I must, although a favorite " plat" of mine
In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where:
On them and bread 'twas oft my luck to dine,
The grass my table cloth, in open air,
On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes,
Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is.
LXXIV.

Amid this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl,

And vegetables, all in masquerade,
The guests were placed according to their roll,
But various as the various meats display'd:
Don Juan sate next an "à l'Espagnole "

No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said;

But so far like a lady, that 'twas drest
Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest.

LXXIX.

And look'd as much as if to say, "I said it;"
A kind of triumph I'll not recommend,
Because it sometimes, as I've seen or read it,
Both in the case of lover and of friend,
Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit,

To bring what was a jest to a serious end;
For all men prophecy what is or was,
And hate those who won't let them come to pass.
LXXX.

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions,
Slight but select, and just enough to express,
To females of perspicuous comprehensions,
That he would rather make them more than less.
Aurora at the last (so history mentions,

Though probably much less a fact than guess)
So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison
As once or twice to smile, if not to listen.

Also observe, that like the great Lord Coke,
(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?
LXXXVIII.

If people contradict themselves, can I

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 canals of contradiction,
That she must often navigate o'er fiction.

LXXXIX.

Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable,

Are false, but may be render'd also true By those who saw them in a land that's arable. 'Tis wonderful what fable will not do! 'Tis 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?

XC.

Some millions must be wrong, that's pretty clear;
Perhaps it may turn out that all were right.
God help us! Since we've need on our career
To keep our holy beacons always bright,
'Tis 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.
XCI.

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.

XCII.

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.

XCIII.

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 al Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural.

XCIV.

And now I will give up all argument:

And positively henceforth no temptation Shall "fool me to the top 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;-1 think she is as harmless As some who labor more and yet may charm less XCV.

Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost?

No; but you've 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 a ridicule benumb That source of the sublime and the mysterious:For certain reasons my belief is serious.

XCVI.

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 philosophy of Malmsbury.'

XCVII.

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 grateI think too that 1 have sate up too late:

XCVIII.

And therefore, though 'tis 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 midday, Treating a topic which, alas! but brings Shadows;-but you must be in my condition Before you learn to call this superstition.

XCIX.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star,
"Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge
How little do we know that which we are!
How less what we may be! The eternal surge
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar

Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge, Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves Of empires heave but like some passing waves.

721

CANTO XVI.

I.

VII.

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.

VIII.

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

II.

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.

III.

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. "Tis true, there be some bitters with the sweets,

Yet mix'd so slightly that you can't complain, But wonder they so few are, since my tale is "De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis."

IV.

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? 'Tis time to strike such puny doubters dumb as The skeptics who would not believe Columbus.

V.

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 'tis so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he Quiets at once with "quia impossibile."

VI.

And therefore, mortals, cavil not all;
Believe:-if 'tis improbable you must;
And if it is impossible, you shall :

'Tis always best to take things upon trust. I do not speak profanely to 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.

The supper too discuss'd, the dames admired The banqueters had dropp'd off one by oneThe 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. IX.

The evaporation of a joyous day

Is like the last glass of champagne, without
The foam which made its virgin bumper gay;
Or like a system coupled with a doubt;
Or like a soda-bottle, when its spray

Has sparkled and let half its spiret out,
Or like a billow left by storms behind,
Without the animation of the wind;

X.

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 shell-fish or from cochineal.1
So perish every tyrant's robe piecemeal.
XI.

But next to dressing for a rout or ball,
Undressing is a wo; our robe-de-chambre
May sit like that of Nessus, and recall

Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber Titus 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. XII.

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 philosophized; A great resource to all, and ne'er denied Till wanted; therefore Juan only sigh'd.

XIII.

He sigh'd;-rhe 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--" Oh, thou!" Of amatory egotism the tuism,

Which further to explain would be a truism.

XIV.

But lover, poet, or astronomer,

Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold,
Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her: [cold
Great thoughts we catch from thence, (besides a
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.

XV.

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed
For contemplation rather than his pillow;
The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed,
Le in the rippling sonnd 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.

XVI.

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 glass, and all
That time has left our fathers of their hall.

XVII.

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.

XVIII.

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 As if to ask how you can dare to keep [stern, A vigil there, where all but death should sleep.

XIX.

And the pale smile of beautics 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. XX.

As Juan mused on mutability,

Or on his mistress-terms synonymousNo sound except the echo of his sigh

Or step ran sadly through that antique house, When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh,

A supernatural agent-or a mouse, Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass Most people, as it plays along the arrass.

XXVIII.

He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed,
Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision,
And whether it ought not to be disclosed,

At risk of being quizz'd for superstition.
The more he thought, the more his mind was posed;
In the mean time, his valet, whose precision
Was great, because his master brook'd no less,
Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress.

XXIX.

He dress'd; and, like young people he was wont
To take some trouble with his toilet, but
This morning rather spent less time upon't;
Aside his very mirror soon was put ;
His curls fell negligently o'er his front,

His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut; His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied Almost a hair's breadth too much on one side.

XXX.

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

XXXI.

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

XXXII.

But seeing him all cold and silent still,
And every body wondering more or less,

Fair Adeline inquired if he were ill?

He started, and said, "Yes-no-rather-yes."

The family physician had great skill,

And, being present, now began to express His readiness to feel his pulse, and tell

The cause, but Juan said "he was quite well."

XXXIII.

"Quite well; yes, no."-These answers were mysterious,

And yet his looks appeared to sanction both, However they might savor of delirious;

Something like illness of a sudden growth Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious:

But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted, it was not the physician that he wanted.

XXXIV.

Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocalate,
Also the muffin, whereof he complain'd,
Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate,

At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd;
Then ask'd her grace what news were of the duke of
Her grace replied, his grace was rather pain'd [late?
With some slight, light, hereditary twinges
Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges.

XXXV.

Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd
A few words of condolence on his state:
"You look," quoth he, "as if you'd had your rest
Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late."
"What friar?" said Juan; and he did his best
To put the question with an air sedate,
Or careless, but the effort was not valid
To hinder him from growing still more pallid.
XXXVI.

"Oh! have you not heard of the Black Friar?
The spirit of these walls?"-" In truth pot I."
Why fame-but fame you know sometime's a liar-
Tells an odd story, of which by and by:
Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer,
Or that our sires had a more gifted eye
For such sights, though the tale is half believed,
The friar of late has not been oft perceived.

After some fascinating hesitation,

The charming of these charmers, who seem bourd I can't tell why, to this dissimulationFair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground At first, then kindling into animation,

Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, And sang with much simplicity,-a merit Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 1.

Beware! beware! of the Black Friar,

Who sitteth by Norman stone,
For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air,
And his mass of the days that are gone.
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville,
Made Norman Church his prey,
And expell'd the friars, one friar still
Would not be driven away.