Part 55

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.