Part 28

Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, Some to men’s feelings, others to their reason; The last of these was never much the fashion, For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, But more or less continue still to tease on, With arguments according to their ‘forte;’ But no one ever dreams of being short.—

But I digress: of all appeals,—although I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling,—no Method ’s more sure at moments to take hold Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow More tender, as we every day behold, Than that all-softening, overpowering knell, The tocsin of the soul—the dinner-bell.

Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine; And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard No Christian knoll to table, saw no line Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared, Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, And gazed around them to the left and right With the prophetic eye of appetite.

And giving up all notions of resistance, They follow’d close behind their sable guide, Who little thought that his own crack’d existence Was on the point of being set aside: He motion’d them to stop at some small distance, And knocking at the gate, ’twas open’d wide, And a magnificent large hall display’d The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade.

I won’t describe; description is my forte, But every fool describes in these bright days His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise— Death to his publisher, to him ’tis sport; While Nature, tortured twenty thousand ways, Resigns herself with exemplary patience To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations.

Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted Upon their hams, were occupied at chess; Others in monosyllable talk chatted, And some seem’d much in love with their own dress. And divers smoked superb pipes decorated With amber mouths of greater price or less; And several strutted, others slept, and some Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.

As the black eunuch enter’d with his brace Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes A moment without slackening from their pace; But those who sate ne’er stirr’d in anywise: One or two stared the captives in the face, Just as one views a horse to guess his price; Some nodded to the negro from their station, But no one troubled him with conversation.

He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping, On through a farther range of goodly rooms, Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping, A marble fountain echoes through the glooms Of night which robe the chamber, or where popping Some female head most curiously presumes To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, As wondering what the devil a noise that is.

Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls Gave light enough to hint their farther way, But not enough to show the imperial halls, In all the flashing of their full array; Perhaps there’s nothing—I’ll not say appals, But saddens more by night as well as day, Than an enormous room without a soul To break the lifeless splendour of the whole.

Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing: In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, There solitude, we know, has her full growth in The spots which were her realms for evermore; But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in More modern buildings and those built of yore, A kind of death comes o’er us all alone, Seeing what ’s meant for many with but one.

A neat, snug study on a winter’s night, A book, friend, single lady, or a glass Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite, Are things which make an English evening pass; Though certes by no means so grand a sight As is a theatre lit up by gas. I pass my evenings in long galleries solely, And that ’s the reason I’m so melancholy.

Alas! man makes that great which makes him little: I grant you in a church ’tis very well: What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell Their names who rear’d it; but huge houses fit ill— And huge tombs worse—mankind, since Adam fell: Methinks the story of the tower of Babel Might teach them this much better than I’m able.

Babel was Nimrod’s hunting-box, and then A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men, Reign’d, till one summer’s day he took to grazing, And Daniel tamed the lions in their den, The people’s awe and admiration raising; ’Twas famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, And the calumniated queen Semiramis.

That injured Queen by chroniclers so coarse Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy) Of an improper friendship for her horse (Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy): This monstrous tale had probably its source (For such exaggerations here and there I see) In writing ‘Courser’ by mistake for ‘Courier:’ I wish the case could come before a jury here.

But to resume,—should there be (what may not Be in these days?) some infidels, who don’t, Because they can’t find out the very spot Of that same Babel, or because they won’t (Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks has got, And written lately two memoirs upon’t), Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who Must be believed, though they believe not you,

Yet let them think that Horace has exprest Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, Who give themselves to architecture wholly; We know where things and men must end at best: A moral (like all morals) melancholy, And ‘Et sepulchri immemor struis domos’ Shows that we build when we should but entomb us.

At last they reach’d a quarter most retired, Where echo woke as if from a long slumber; Though full of all things which could be desired, One wonder’d what to do with such a number Of articles which nobody required; Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber With furniture an exquisite apartment, Which puzzled Nature much to know what Art meant.

It seem’d, however, but to open on A range or suite of further chambers, which Might lead to heaven knows where; but in this one The movables were prodigally rich: Sofas ’twas half a sin to sit upon, So costly were they; carpets every stitch Of workmanship so rare, they made you wish You could glide o’er them like a golden fish.

The black, however, without hardly deigning A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in wonder, Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining, As if the milky way their feet was under With all its stars; and with a stretch attaining A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder— In that remote recess which you may see— Or if you don’t the fault is not in me,—

I wish to be perspicuous; and the black, I say, unlocking the recess, pull’d forth A quantity of clothes fit for the back Of any Mussulman, whate’er his worth; And of variety there was no lack— And yet, though I have said there was no dearth, He chose himself to point out what he thought Most proper for the Christians he had bought.

The suit he thought most suitable to each Was, for the elder and the stouter, first A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, And trousers not so tight that they would burst, But such as fit an Asiatic breech; A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst, Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy; In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy.

While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend, Hinted the vast advantages which they Might probably attain both in the end, If they would but pursue the proper way Which fortune plainly seem’d to recommend; And then he added, that he needs must say, ‘’Twould greatly tend to better their condition, If they would condescend to circumcision.

‘For his own part, he really should rejoice To see them true believers, but no less Would leave his proposition to their choice.’ The other, thanking him for this excess Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice In such a trifle, scarcely could express ‘Sufficiently’ (he said) ‘his approbation Of all the customs of this polish’d nation.

‘For his own share—he saw but small objection To so respectable an ancient rite; And, after swallowing down a slight refection, For which he own’d a present appetite, He doubted not a few hours of reflection Would reconcile him to the business quite.’ ‘Will it?’ said Juan, sharply: ‘Strike me dead, But they as soon shall circumcise my head!

‘Cut off a thousand heads, before—’—‘Now, pray,’ Replied the other, ‘do not interrupt: You put me out in what I had to say. Sir!—as I said, as soon as I have supt, I shall perpend if your proposal may Be such as I can properly accept; Provided always your great goodness still Remits the matter to our own free-will.’

Baba eyed Juan, and said, ‘Be so good As dress yourself—’ and pointed out a suit In which a Princess with great pleasure would Array her limbs; but Juan standing mute, As not being in a masquerading mood, Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot; And when the old negro told him to ‘Get ready,’ Replied, ‘Old gentleman, I’m not a lady.’

‘What you may be, I neither know nor care,’ Said Baba; ‘but pray do as I desire: I have no more time nor many words to spare.’ ‘At least,’ said Juan, ‘sure I may enquire The cause of this odd travesty?’—‘Forbear,’ Said Baba, ‘to be curious; ’twill transpire, No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season: I have no authority to tell the reason.’

‘Then if I do,’ said Juan, ‘I’ll be—’—‘Hold!’ Rejoin’d the negro, ‘pray be not provoking; This spirit ’s well, but it may wax too bold, And you will find us not top fond of joking.’ ‘What, sir!’ said Juan, ‘shall it e’er be told That I unsex’d my dress?’ But Baba, stroking The things down, said, ‘Incense me, and I call Those who will leave you of no sex at all.