Part 62

Alas! worlds fall—and woman, since she fell’d The world (as, since that history less polite Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held) Has not yet given up the practice quite. Poor thing of usages! coerced, compell’d, Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, Condemn’d to child-bed, as men for their sins Have shaving too entail’d upon their chins,—

A daily plague, which in the aggregate May average on the whole with parturition. But as to women, who can penetrate The real sufferings of their she condition? Man’s very sympathy with their estate Has much of selfishness, and more suspicion. Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.

All this were very well, and can’t be better; But even this is difficult, Heaven knows, So many troubles from her birth beset her, Such small distinction between friends and foes, The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter, That—but ask any woman if she’d choose (Take her at thirty, that is) to have been Female or male? a schoolboy or a queen?

‘Petticoat influence’ is a great reproach, Which even those who obey would fain be thought To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach; But since beneath it upon earth we are brought, By various joltings of life’s hackney coach, I for one venerate a petticoat— A garment of a mystical sublimity, No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity.

Much I respect, and much I have adored, In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, Which holds a treasure, like a miser’s hoard, And more attracts by all it doth conceal— A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, A loving letter with a mystic seal, A cure for grief—for what can ever rankle Before a petticoat and peeping ankle?

And when upon a silent, sullen day, With a sirocco, for example, blowing, When even the sea looks dim with all its spray, And sulkily the river’s ripple ’s flowing, And the sky shows that very ancient gray, The sober, sad antithesis to glowing,— ’Tis pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant, To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant.

We left our heroes and our heroines In that fair clime which don’t depend on climate, Quite independent of the Zodiac’s signs, Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, Because the sun, and stars, and aught that shines, Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun— Whether a sky’s or tradesman’s is all one.

An in-door life is less poetical; And out of door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, With which I could not brew a pastoral. But be it as it may, a bard must meet All difficulties, whether great or small, To spoil his undertaking or complete, And work away like spirit upon matter, Embarrass’d somewhat both with fire and water.

Juan—in this respect, at least, like saints— Was all things unto people of all sorts, And lived contentedly, without complaints, In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts— Born with that happy soul which seldom faints, And mingling modestly in toils or sports. He likewise could be most things to all women, Without the coxcombry of certain she men.

A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange; ’Tis also subject to the double danger Of tumbling first, and having in exchange Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger: But Juan had been early taught to range The wilds, as doth an Arab turn’d avenger, So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, Knew that he had a rider on his back.

And now in this new field, with some applause, He clear’d hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, And never craned, and made but few ‘faux pas,’ And only fretted when the scent ’gan fail. He broke, ’tis true, some statutes of the laws Of hunting—for the sagest youth is frail; Rode o’er the hounds, it may be, now and then, And once o’er several country gentlemen.

But on the whole, to general admiration He acquitted both himself and horse: the squires Marvell’d at merit of another nation; The boors cried ‘Dang it? who ’d have thought it?’—Sires, The Nestors of the sporting generation, Swore praises, and recall’d their former fires; The huntsman’s self relented to a grin, And rated him almost a whipper-in.

Such were his trophies—not of spear and shield, But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes’ brushes; Yet I must own,—although in this I yield To patriot sympathy a Briton’s blushes,— He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, Who, after a long chase o’er hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price, Ask’d next day, ‘If men ever hunted twice?’

He also had a quality uncommon To early risers after a long chase, Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon December’s drowsy day to his dull race,— A quality agreeable to woman, When her soft, liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,— He did not fall asleep just after dinner;

But, light and airy, stood on the alert, And shone in the best part of dialogue, By humouring always what they might assert, And listening to the topics most in vogue; Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert; And smiling but in secret—cunning rogue! He ne’er presumed to make an error clearer;— In short, there never was a better hearer.

And then he danced;—all foreigners excel The serious Angles in the eloquence Of pantomime;—he danced, I say, right well, With emphasis, and also with good sense— A thing in footing indispensable; He danced without theatrical pretence, Not like a ballet-master in the van Of his drill’d nymphs, but like a gentleman.

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, And elegance was sprinkled o’er his figure; Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm’d the ground, And rather held in than put forth his vigour; And then he had an ear for music’s sound, Which might defy a crotchet critic’s rigour. Such classic pas—sans flaws—set off our hero, He glanced like a personified Bolero;

Or, like a flying Hour before Aurora, In Guido’s famous fresco which alone Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a Remnant were there of the old world’s sole throne. The ‘tout ensemble’ of his movements wore a Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, And ne’er to be described; for to the dolour Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour.

No marvel then he was a favourite; A full-grown Cupid, very much admired; A little spoilt, but by no means so quite; At least he kept his vanity retired. Such was his tact, he could alike delight The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved ‘tracasserie,’ Began to treat him with some small ‘agacerie.’

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, Desirable, distinguish’d, celebrated For several winters in the grand, grand monde. I’d rather not say what might be related Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground; Besides there might be falsehood in what ’s stated: Her late performance had been a dead set At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

This noble personage began to look A little black upon this new flirtation; But such small licences must lovers brook, Mere freedoms of the female corporation. Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke! ’Twill but precipitate a situation Extremely disagreeable, but common To calculators when they count on woman.

The circle smiled, then whisper’d, and then sneer’d; The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown’d; Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear’d; Some would not deem such women could be found; Some ne’er believed one half of what they heard; Some look’d perplex’d, and others look’d profound; And several pitied with sincere regret Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

But what is odd, none ever named the duke, Who, one might think, was something in the affair; True, he was absent, and, ’twas rumour’d, took But small concern about the when, or where, Or what his consort did: if he could brook Her gaieties, none had a right to stare: Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, Which never meets, and therefore can’t fall out.

But, oh! that I should ever pen so sad a line! Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she, My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, Began to think the duchess’ conduct free; Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line, And waxing chiller in her courtesy, Look’d grave and pale to see her friend’s fragility, For which most friends reserve their sensibility.

There’s nought in this bad world like sympathy: ’Tis so becoming to the soul and face, Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh, And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. Without a friend, what were humanity, To hunt our errors up with a good grace? Consoling us with—‘Would you had thought twice! Ah, if you had but follow’d my advice!’

O Job! you had two friends: one ’s quite enough, Especially when we are ill at ease; They are but bad pilots when the weather ’s rough, Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze: When your affairs come round, one way or t’ other, Go to the coffee-house, and take another.

But this is not my maxim: had it been, Some heart-aches had been spared me: yet I care not— I would not be a tortoise in his screen Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not. ’Tis better on the whole to have felt and seen That which humanity may bear, or bear not: ’Twill teach discernment to the sensitive, And not to pour their ocean in a sieve.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, ‘I told you so,’ Utter’d by friends, those prophets of the past, Who, ’stead of saying what you now should do, Own they foresaw that you would fall at last, And solace your slight lapse ’gainst ‘bonos mores,’ With a long memorandum of old stories.