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    Don Juan
    Don Juan
    Don Juan
    Ebook666 pages6 hours

    Don Juan

    By Byron

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    About this ebook

    Caught carrying on a love affair with a married woman, Don Juan is forced leave his home in Spain. His adventures take across Europe to Greece, Russia, and Italy, where women cannot resist his good looks and charm, and Don Juan himself certainly cannot resist the advances of a woman who has fallen for him.

    Lord Byron’s “Don Juan” is a satirical poem based on the legend of Don Juan, the famous libertine character known for his ability to seduce women. However, in Lord Byron’s telling, Don Juan’s womanizing is due more to his inability to refuse the advances of women than his ability to seduce them. Left unfinished upon his death in 1824, “Don Juan” is one of the widest-read poems in the English language.

    HarperPerennial Classics brings great works of literature to life in digital format, upholding the highest standards in ebook production and celebrating reading in all its forms. Look for more titles in the HarperPerennial Classics collection to build your digital library.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateNov 25, 2014
    ISBN9781443441148
    Author

    Byron

    Lord Byron was an English poet and the most infamous of the English Romantics, glorified for his immoderate ways in both love and money. Benefitting from a privileged upbringing, Byron published the first two cantos of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage upon his return from his Grand Tour in 1811, and the poem was received with such acclaim that he became the focus of a public mania. Following the dissolution of his short-lived marriage in 1816, Byron left England amid rumours of infidelity, sodomy, and incest. In self-imposed exile in Italy Byron completed Childe Harold and Don Juan. He also took a great interest in Armenian culture, writing of the oppression of the Armenian people under Ottoman rule; and in 1823, he aided Greece in its quest for independence from Turkey by fitting out the Greek navy at his own expense. Two centuries of references to, and depictions of Byron in literature, music, and film began even before his death in 1824.

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    Reviews for Don Juan

    5/5

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    • 5/5
      This was tremendous fun to read. Byron's personality infuses the work and he's a likable, open-hearted narrator. It's a picture of England just before the clouds of Victorian prudery turned love from a game to a chore. It also has a strong anti-war subtext that I wasn't expecting. A great read and a real surprise!
    • 5/5
      One of my favorite works of poetry. Fantastic. A man's poet.
    • 5/5
      Incredibly clever, yet florid poetry.
    • 4/5
      I haven't read all of this yet; I've been reading a bit at a time for years. But it's fun and relaxing.
    • 4/5
      Absolutely fun and worthwhile. Read them with a glass of wine and in a mood to float out of your own life.
    • 5/5
      While this isn't complicated to read, this is one long poem. This might be my favorite out of all Byron wrote. I love the langue and how he wrote the poem. Keep in mind this is a satire on epic poems. While I didn't find this funny, it was cleaver and witty.
    • 5/5
      Bloody great book. I think a lot of people don't realize that as a poet/writer Byron was in a sense closer to 18th century satirists like, say, Swift than he was to his Romantic so-called cohorts ... and yet he's often considered some kind of "arch"-Romantic. Naah. His great talent, I'd say, was a comic one, and it's in Don Juan -- even unfinished as it is -- that this comic genius burns most brightly. It isn't just the funny-as-hell "Hudibrastic" rhymes he often employs, it's ... oh, hell, he was just such a funny damned bastard. Mean, spiteful, but funny.
    • 5/5
      A very modern and readable epic. Though some (maybe... 5%) takes a pretty hardcore reader to appreciate, it was easy for even a big noob like me to have a lot of fun.

      One of the finest long poems in English.
    • 5/5
      For a long time, I somehow placed Byron into that terrible category of "people you read about" - I don't know why, because every time I've looked up quotations from Don Juan I've felt that this is a poem I should read. Probably needless to say that I couldn't tear myself away from it once I did finally get around to reading it, and read the whole thing in one weekend.

      There's a story, of sorts, although that gets pushed further and further into the background as we go on; there's sex and violence; there are all your favourite holiday destinations (Spain, Greece, Turkey, English country houses); there are the wonderfully cutting asides about fellow-poets and contemporary politics; there are gloriously random discussions of whatever happens to come into the poet's head.

      It's all wonderful, but what really makes it work is Byron's amazingly light touch with verse. The ottava rima form ought by rights to sound forced and mechanical in English, and it probably would in anyone else's hands, but Byron seems to be able to make it read as naturally as everyday conversation. Of course, he has to cheat like anything to achieve this, but he knows exactly how far he can bend the rules before the whole thing breaks down, and always draws back just in time. He seems to take great pleasure in pretending to paint himself into a corner and then producing a ludicrously inappropriate or impossible rhyme ("Aristotle/bottle", "Corydon/horrid one", "excel/well/indispensable"). Even a master of atrocious rhymes like W.S. Gilbert ("Plato/potato") couldn't have done any better - in fact, Gilbert clearly lifted a few useful examples direct from Don Juan, e.g. the "monotony/got any" in Iolanthe. And there are some wonderful bits of bathos, like "...that all-softening, overpowering knell, / The tocsin of the soul—the dinner-bell" and some dreadfully barbed jokes "...angling, too, that solitary vice, / Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says". What more could you want?
    • 5/5
      "Try and find something in here I haven't put my penis in. It's not easy!"

      Screw (not all the time, but at this moment I am lionizing Byron, so screw) all the other Romantics with their philosophies and sensibilities. Byron is not even a poet in the hyperdense, words-on-paper-privileging sense that we are used to these days--he's a raconteur, and as such his poetry is a lot more capacious, more flowy, more conducive to being read out loud, more expressive of the medium's oral, social past. "Wedlock and padlock". Keats killed by one review. English ennui. He's not only a raconteur, he's full to bursting of upper-class bons mots. And in that sense, we get the cute reversal of Don Juan the ingenue, not lusting but being lusted, but we also get Byron playing the traditional Don Juan role, rolling and rocking and rollicking the story out with a leer. Putting his penis in it, shall we say. And think about how fast that changed from, say, Mozart's Don Giovanni, the degenerate genius of Joseph II's court rolling out a demonic hubris play. In that sense, Don Juan is Exhibit A for the case of Byron as the first modern.

      (Penis!)

    • 5/5
      "there's only one slight difference between
      me and my epic brethern gone before,
      and here the advantege is my own, i ween...
      they so embellish, that 't is quite a bore
      their labyrinth of fables to thread through,
      whereas this story's actually true."

    Book preview

    Don Juan - Byron

    donjuan_cover_resized.jpg

    DON JUAN

    Lord Byron

    HarperPerennialClassicsLogo.jpg

    CONTENTS

    Epigraph

    Dedication

    Canto the First

    Canto the Second

    Canto the Third

    Canto the Fourth

    Canto the Fifth

    Preface to Cantos Six, Seven and Eight

    Canto the Sixth

    Canto the Seventh

    Canto the Eighth

    Canto the Ninth

    Canto the Tenth

    Canto the Eleventh

    Canto the Twelfth

    Canto the Thirteenth

    Canto the Fourteenth

    Canto the Fifteenth

    Canto the Sixteenth

    Canto the Seventeenth (unfinished)

    About the Author

    About the Series

    Copyright

    About the Publisher

    Epigraph

    Difficile est proprie communia dicere.

    —Horace

    Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?—Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth, too!

    —Shakspeare, Twelfth Night

    Dedication

    I

    Bob Southey ! You’re a poet—Poet-laureate,

    And representative of all the race,

    Although ’tis true that you turn’d out a Tory at

    Last,—yours has lately been a common case;

    And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?

    With all the Lakers, in and out of place?

    A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye

    Like four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye;

    II

    Which pye being open’d they began to sing

    (This old song and new simile holds good),

    A dainty dish to set before the King,

    Or Regent, who admires such kind of food;—

    And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,

    But like a hawk encumber’d with his hood,—

    Explaining metaphysics to the nation—

    I wish he would explain his Explanation.

    III

    You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,

    At being disappointed in your wish

    To supersede all warblers here below.

    And be the only Blackbird in the dish;

    And then you overstrain yourself, or so,

    And tumble downward like the flying fish

    Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob,

    And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob!

    IV

    And Wordsworth, in a rather long Excursion

    (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages),

    Has given a sample from the vasty version

    Of his new system to perplex the sages;

    ’Tis poetry—at least by his assertion.

    And may appear so when the dog-star rages—

    And he who understands it would be able

    To add a story to the Tower of Babel.

    V

    You—Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion

    From better company, have kept your own

    At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion

    Of one another’s minds, at last have grown

    To deem as a most logical conclusion.

    That Poesy has wreaths for you alone:

    There is a narrowness in such a notion,

    Which makes me wish you’d change your lakes for ocean.

    VI

    I would not imitate the petty thought,

    Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,

    For all the glory your conversion brought,

    Since gold alone should not have been its price.

    You have your salary; was’t for that you wrought?

    And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.

    You’re shabby fellows—true—but poets still,

    And duly seated on the immortal hill.

    VII

    Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows—

    Perhaps some virtuous blushes;—let them go—

    To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs—

    And for the fame you would engross below,

    The field is universal, and allows

    Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow:

    Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe, will try

    ’Gainst you the question with posterity.

    VIII

    For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,

    Contend not with you on the wingèd steed,

    I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,

    The fame you envy, and the skill you need:

    And recollect a poet nothing loses

    In giving to his brethren their full meed

    Of merit, and complaint of present days

    Is not the certain path to future praise.

    IX

    He that reserves his laurels for posterity

    (Who does not often claim the bright reversion)

    Has generally no great crop to spare it, he

    Being only injured by his own assertion;

    And although here and there some glorious rarity

    Arise like Titan from the sea’s immersion,

    The major part of such appellants go

    To—God knows where—for no one else can know.

    X

    If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues,

    Milton appeal’d to the Avenger, Time,

    If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs,

    And makes the word Miltonic mean "sublime,"

    He deign’d not to belie his soul in songs.

    Nor turn his very talent to a crime;

    He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son,

    But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.

    XI

    Think’st thou, could he—the blind Old Man—arise

    Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more

    The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,

    Or be alive again—again all hoar

    With time and trials, and those helpless eyes,

    And heartless daughters—worn—and pale—and poor;

    Would he adore a sultan? he obey

    The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?

    XII

    Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!

    Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin’s gore,

    And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,

    Transferr’d to gorge upon a sister shore,

    The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want,

    With just enough of talent, and no more.

    To lengthen fetters by another fix’d,

    And offer poison long already mix’d.

    XIII

    An orator of such set trash of phrase,

    Ineffably—legitimately vile.

    That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,

    Nor foes—all nations—condescend to smile,—

    Nor even a sprightly blunder’s spark can blaze

    From that Ixion grindstone’s ceaseless toil.

    That turns and turns to give the world a notion

    Of endless torments and perpetual motion.

    XIV

    A bungler even in its disgusting trade.

    And botching, patching, leaving still behind

    Something of which its masters are afraid,

    States to be curb’d, and thoughts to be confined,

    Conspiracy or Congress to be made—

    Cobbling at manacles for all mankind—

    A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,

    With God and man’s abhorrence for its gains.

    XV

    If we may judge of matter by the mind.

    Emasculated to the marrow It

    Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind,

    Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,

    Eutropius of its many masters,—blind

    To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit.

    Fearless—because no feeling dwells in ice,

    Its very courage stagnates to a vice.

    XVI

    Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,

    For I will never feel them?—Italy!

    Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds

    Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o’er thee—

    Thy clanking chain, and Erin’s yet green wounds,

    Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me.

    Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still,

    And Southey lives to sing them very ill.

    XVII

    Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate,

    In honest simple verse, this song to you.

    And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate,

    ’Tis that I still retain my buff and blue;

    My politics as yet are all to educate:

    Apostasy’s so fashionable, too.

    To keep one creed’s a task grown quite Herculean;

    Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?

    VENICE

    September 16, 1818

    Canto the First

    I

    I want a hero: an uncommon want,

    When every year and month sends forth a new one,

    Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,

    The age discovers he is not the true one;

    Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,

    I’ll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan—

    We all have seen him, in the pantomime,

    Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.

    II

    Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,

    Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,

    Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk.

    And fill’d their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;

    Each in their turn like Banquo’s monarchs stalk,

    Followers of fame, nine farrow of that sow:

    France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier

    Recorded in the Moaiteur and Courier.

    III

    Barnave, Brissot , Condorcet , Mirabeau,

    Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat , La Fayette,

    Were French, and famous people, as we know;

    And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,

    Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,

    With many of the military set,

    Exceedingly remarkable at times,

    But not at all adapted to my rhymes.

    IV

    Nelson was once Britannia’s god of war,

    And still should be so, but the tide is turn’d;

    There’s no more to be said of Trafalgar,

    ’Tis with our hero quietly inurn’d;

    Because the army ’s grown more popular,

    At which the naval people are concern’d;

    Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,

    Forgetting Duncan, Kelson, Howe, and Jervis.

    V

    Brave men were living before Agamemnon

    And since, exceeding valourous and sage,

    A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;

    But then they shone not on the poet’s page,

    And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none.

    But can’t find any in the present age

    Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);

    So, as I said, I’ll take my friend Don Juan.

    VI

    Most epic poets plunge in medias res

    (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road).

    And then your hero tells, whene’er you please.

    What went before—by way of episode,

    While seated after dinner at his ease,

    Beside his mistress in some soft abode.

    Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern,

    Which serves the happy couple for a tavern.

    VII

    That is the usual method, but not mine—

    My way is to begin with the beginning;

    The regularity of my design

    Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning.

    And therefore I shall open with a line

    (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning)

    Narrating somewhat of Don Juan’s father,

    And also of his mother, if you’d rather.

    VIII

    In Seville was lie born, a pleasant city,

    Famous for oranges and women—he

    Who has not seen it will be much to pity,

    So says the proverb—and I quite agree;

    Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty,

    Cadiz perhaps—but that you soon may see;

    Don Juan’s parents lived beside the river,

    A noble stream, and call’d the Guadalquivir.

    IX

    His father’s name was José—Don, of course,—

    A true Hidalgo, free from every stain

    Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source

    Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain;

    A better cavalier ne’er mounted horse,

    Or, being mounted, e’er got down again.

    Than José, who begot our hero, who

    Begot—but that’s to come—Well, to renew:

    X

    His mother was a learned lady, famed

    For every branch of every science known

    In every Christian language ever named.

    With virtues equall’d by her wit alone,

    She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,

    And even the good with inward envy groan,

    Finding themselves so very much exceeded

    In their own way by all the things that she did.

    XI

    Her memory was a mine: she knew by heart

    All Calderon and greater part of Lopé,

    So that if any actor miss’d his part

    She could have served him for the prompter’s copy;

    For her Feinagle’s were an useless art,

    And he himself obliged to shut up shop—he

    Could never make a memory so fine as

    That which adorn’d the brain of Donna Inez.

    XII

    Her favourite science was the mathematical,

    Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity,

    Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all.

    Her serious sayings darken’d to sublimity;

    In short, in all things she was fairly what I call

    A prodigy—her morning dress was dimity,

    Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin.

    And other stuffs, with which I won’t stay puzzling.

    XIII

    She knew the Latin—that is, the Lord’s prayer,

    And Greek—the alphabet—I ‘m nearly sure;

    She read some French romances here and there,

    Although her mode of speaking was not pure;

    For native Spanish she had no great care.

    At least her conversation was obscure;

    Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem,

    As if she deem’d that mystery would ennoble ’em.

    XIV

    She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue,

    And said there was analogy between ’em;

    She proved it somehow out of sacred song,

    But I must leave the proofs to those who’ve seen ’em;

    But this I heard her say, and can’t be wrong.

    And all may think which way their judgments lean ’em,

    "’Tis strange—the Hebrew noun which means ‘I am,’

    The English always use to govern d——n."

    XV

    Some women use their tongues—she look’d a lecture.

    Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily,

    An all-in-all sufficient self-director.

    Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly,

    The Law’s expounder, and the State’s corrector,

    Whose suicide was almost an anomaly—

    One sad example more, that All is vanity—

    (The jury brought their verdict in Insanity).

    XVI

    In short, she was a walkinsr calculation,

    Miss Edgeworth’s novels stepping from their covers,

    Or Mrs. Trimmer’s books on education,

    Or Coelebs’ Wife set out in quest of lovers,

    Morality’s prim personification.

    In which not Envy’s self a flaw discovers;

    To others’ share let female errors fall,

    For she had not even one—the worst of all.

    XVII

    Oh! she was perfect past all parallel—

    Of any modern female saint’s comparison;

    So far above the cunning powers of hell,

    Her guardian angel had given up his garrison;

    Even her minutest motions went as well

    As those of the best timepiece made by Harrison:

    In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her,

    Save thine incomparable oil, Macassar!

    XVIII

    Perfect she was, but as perfection is

    Insipid in this naughty world of ours,

    Where our first parents never learn’d to kiss

    Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers,

    Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss

    (I wonder how they got through the twelve hours),

    Don José, like a lineal son of Eve,

    Went plucking various fruit without her leave.

    XIX

    He was a mortal of the careless kind.

    With no great love for learning, or the learn’d.

    Who chose to go where’er he had a mind,

    And never dream’d his lady was concern’d;

    The world, as usual, wickedly inclined

    To see a kingdom or a house o’erturn’d,

    Whisper’d he had a mistress, some said two—

    But for domestic quarrels one will do.

    XX

    Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit,

    A great opinion of her own good qualities;

    Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it,

    And such, indeed, she was in her moralities;

    But then she had a devil of a spirit,

    And sometimes mix’d up fancies with realities,

    And let few opportunities escape

    Of getting her liege lord into a scrape.

    XXI

    This was an easy matter with a man

    Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard;

    And even the wisest, do the best they can,

    Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared,

    That you might brain them with their lady’s fan;

    And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard.

    And fans turn into falchions in fair hands.

    And why and wherefore no one understands.

    XXII

    ’Tis pity learned virgins ever wed

    With persons of no sort of education.

    Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred,

    Grow tired of scientific conversation:

    I don’t choose to say much upon this head,

    I’m a plain man, and in a single station,

    But—Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual.

    Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck’d you all?

    XXIII

    Don José and his lady quarrell’d—why,

    Not any of the many could divine,

    Though several thousand people chose to try,

    ’Twas surely no concern of theirs nor mine;

    I loathe that low vice—curiosity;

    But if there’s anything in which I shine,

    ’Tis in arranging all my friends’ affairs,

    Not having, of my own, domestic cares.

    XXIV

    And so I interfered, and with the best

    Intentions, but their treatment was not kind;

    I think the foolish people were possess’d,

    For neither of them could I ever find,

    Although their porter afterwards confess’d—

    But that’s no matter, and the worst’s behind,

    For little Juan o’er me threw, down stairs,

    A pail of housemaid’s water unawares.

    XXV

    A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,

    And mischief-making monkey from his birth;

    His parents ne’er agreed except in doting

    Upon the most unquiet imp on earth;

    Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in

    Their senses, they’d have sent young master forth

    To school, or had him soundly whipp’d at home,

    To teach him manners for the time to come.

    XXVI

    Don José and the Donna Inez led

    For some time an unhappy sort of life.

    Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead;

    They lived respectably as man and wife,

    Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred,

    And gave no outward signs of inward strife,

    Until at length the smother’d fire broke out,

    And put the business past all kind of doubt.

    XXVII

    For Inez call’d some druggists and physicians,

    And tried to prove her loving lord was mad;

    But as he had some lucid intermissions,

    She next decided he was only bad;

    Yet when they ask’d her for her depositions,

    No sort of explanation could be had,

    Save that her duty both to man and God

    Required this conduct—which seem’d very odd.

    XXVIII

    She kept a journal, where his faults were noted,

    And open’d certain trunks of books and letters,

    All which might, if occasion served, be quoted;

    And then she had all Seville for abettors,

    Besides her good old grandmother (who doted);

    The hearers of her case became repeaters,

    Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges,

    Some for amusement, others for old grudges.

    XXIX

    And then this best and meekest woman bore

    With such serenity her husband’s woes,

    Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore,

    Who saw their spouses kill’d, and nobly chose

    Never to say a word about them more—

    Calmly she heard each calumny that rose,

    And saw his agonies with such sublimity,

    That all the world exclaim’d, What magnanimity!

    XXX

    No doubt this patience, when the world is damning us,

    Is philosophic in oui former friends;

    ’Tis also pleasant to be deem’d magnanimous,

    The more so in obtaining our own ends;

    And what the lawyers call a ‘malus animus’

    Conduct like this by no means comprehends;

    Revenge in person’s certainly no virtue,

    But then ’tis not my fault, if others hurt you.

    XXXI

    And if our quarrels should rip up old stories,

    And help them with a lie or two additional,

    I’m not to blame, as you well know—no more is

    Anyone else—they were become traditional;

    Besides, their resurrection aids our glories

    By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all:

    And science profits by this resurrection—

    Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection.

    XXXII

    Their friends had tried at reconciliation,

    Then their relations, who made matters worse.

    (’Twere hard to tell upon a like occasion

    To whom it may be best to have recourse—

    I can’t say much for friend or yet relation):

    The lawyers did their utmost for divorce,

    But scarce a fee was paid on either side

    Before, unluckily, Don José died.

    XXXIII

    He died: and most unluckily, because,

    According to all hints I could collect

    From counsel learned in those kinds of laws

    (Although their talk’s obscure and circumspect),

    His death contrived to spoil a charming cause;

    A thousand pities also with respect

    To public feeling, which on this occasion

    Was manifested in a great sensation.

    XXXIV

    But ah! he died; and buried with him lay

    The public feeling and the lawyers’ fees:

    His house was sold, his servants sent away,

    A Jew took one of his two mistresses,

    A priest the other—at least so they say:

    I ask’d the doctors after his disease—

    He died of the slow fever call’d the tertian,

    And left his widow to her own aversion.

    XXXV

    Yet José was an honourable man,

    That I must say, who knew him very well;

    Therefore his frailties I’ll no further scan

    Indeed there were not many more to tell;

    And if his passions now and then outran

    Discretion, and were not so peaceable

    As Numa’s (who was also named Pompilius),

    He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious.

    XXXVI

    Whate’er might be his worthlessness or worth,

    Poor fellow! he had many things to wound him.

    Let’s own—since it can do no good on earth—

    It was a trying moment that which found him

    Standing alone beside his desolate hearth,

    Where all his household gods lay shiver’d round him:

    No choice was left his feelings or his pride,

    Save death or Doctors’ Commons—so he died.

    XXXVII

    Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir

    To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands,

    Which, with a long minority and care,

    Promised to turn out well in proper hands:

    Inez became sole guardian, which was fair,

    And answer’d but to nature’s just demands;

    An only son left with an only mother

    Is brought up much more wisely than another.

    XXXVIII

    Sagest of women, even of widows, she

    Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon,

    And worthy of the noblest pedigree

    (His sire was of Castile, his dam from Aragon.)

    Then for accomplishments of chivalry,

    In case our lord the king should go to war again,

    He learn’d the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery,

    And how to scale a fortress—or a nunnery.

    XXXIX

    But that which Donna Inez most desired,

    And saw into herself each day before all

    The learned tutors whom for him she hired,

    Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral:

    Much into all his studies she inquired,

    And so they were submitted first to her, all,

    Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery

    To Juan’s eyes, excepting natural history.

    XL

    The languages, especially the dead,

    The sciences, and most of all the abstruse,

    The arts, at least all such as could be said

    To be the most remote from common use,

    In all these he was much and deeply read;

    But not a page of anything that’s loose,

    Or hints continuation of the species,

    Was ever suffer’d, lest he should grow vicious.

    XLI

    His classic studies made a little puzzle.

    Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses,

    Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle,

    But never put on pantaloons or bodices;

    His reverend tutors had at times a tussle,

    And for their Aeneids, Iliads, and Odysseys,

    Were forced to make an odd sort of apology,

    For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology.

    XLII

    Ovid’s a rake, as half his verses show him,

    Anacreon’s morals are a still worse sample,

    Catullus scarcely has a decent poem,

    I don’t think Sappho’s Ode a good example,

    Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn

    Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample:

    But Virgil’s songs are pure, except that horrid one

    Beginning with Formosum Pastor Corydon.

    XLIII

    Lucretius’ irreligion is too strong

    For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food;

    I can’t help thinking Juvenal was wrong,

    Although no doubt his real intent was good.

    For speaking out so plainly in his song,

    So much indeed as to be downright rude;

    And then what proper person can be partial

    To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial?

    XLIV

    Juan was taught from out the best edition,

    Expurgated by learned men, who place,

    Judiciously, from out the schoolboy’s vision,

    The grosser parts; but, fearful to deface

    Too much their modest bard by this omission,

    And pitying sore his mutilated case,

    They only add them all in an appendix,

    Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index;

    XLV

    For there we have them all at one fell swoop,

    Instead of being scatter’d through the pages;

    They stand forth marshall’d in a handsome troop,

    To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages,

    Till some less rigid editor shall stoop

    To call them back into their separate cages,

    Instead of standing staring all together,

    Like garden gods—and not so decent either.

    XLVI

    The Missal too (it was the family Missal)

    Was ornamented in a sort of way

    Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all

    Kinds of grotesques illumined; and how they,

    Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all,

    Could turn their optics to the text and pray,

    Is more than I know—But Don Juan’s mother

    Kept this herself, and gave her son another.

    XLVII

    Sermons he read, and lectures he endured,

    And homilies, and lives of all the saints;

    To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured,

    He did not take such studies for restraints;

    But how faith is acquired, and then ensured.

    So well not one of the aforesaid paints

    As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions,

    Which make the reader envy his transgressions.

    XLVIII

    This, too, was a seal’d book to little Juan—

    I can’t but say that his mamma was right,

    If such an education was the true one.

    She scarcely trusted him from out her sight;

    Her maids were old, and if she took a new one,

    You might be sure she was a perfect fright;

    She did this during even her husband’s life—

    I recommend as much to every wife.

    XLIX

    Young Juan wax’d in goodliness and grace;

    At six a charming child, and at eleven

    With all the promise of as fine a face

    As e’er to man’s maturer growth was given:

    He studied steadily, and grew apace.

    And seem’d, at least, in the right road to heaven,

    For half his days were pass’d at church, the other

    Between his tutors, confessor, and mother.

    L

    At six, I said, he was a charming child,

    At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy;

    Although in infancy a little wild,

    They tamed him down amongst them: to destroy

    His natural spirit not in vain they toil’d,

    At least it seem’d so; and his mother’s joy

    Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady,

    Her young philosopher was grown already.

    LI

    I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still,

    But what I say is neither here nor there:

    I knew his father well, and have some skill

    In character—but it would not be fair

    From sire to son to augur good or ill:

    He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair—

    But scandal’s my aversion—I protest

    Against all evil-speaking, even in jest.

    LII

    For my part I say nothing—nothing—but

    This I will say—my reasons are my own—

    That if I had an only son to put

    To school (as God be praised that I have none),

    ’Tis not with Donna Inez I would shut

    Him up to learn his catechism alone,

    No—no—I’d send him out betimes to college,

    For there it was I pick’d up my own knowledge.

    LIII

    For there one learns—’tis not for me to boast,

    Though I acquired—but I pass over that,

    As well as all the Greek I since have lost:

    I say that there’s the place—but "Verbum sat,"

    I think I pick’d up too, as well as most,

    Knowledge of matters—but no matter what—

    I never married—but, I think, I know

    That sons should not be educated so.

    LIV

    Young Juan now was sixteen years of age,

    Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seem’d

    Active, though not so sprightly, as a page;

    And everybody but his mother deem’d

    Him almost man; but she flew in a rage

    And bit her lips (for else she might have scream’d)

    If any said so, for to be precocious

    Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious.

    LV

    Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all

    Selected for discretion and devotion,

    There was the Donna Julia, whom to call

    Pretty were but to give a feeble notion

    Of many charms in her as natural

    As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean,

    Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid

    (But this last simile is trite and stupid).

    LVI

    The darkness of her Oriental eye

    Accorded with her Moorish origin;

    (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by;

    In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.)

    When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly,

    Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia’s kin

    Some went to Africa, some stay’d in Spain,

    Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain.

    LVII

    She married (I forget the pedigree)

    With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down

    His blood less noble than such blood should be;

    At such alliances his sires would frown,

    In that point so precise in each degree

    That they bred in and in, as might be shown,

    Marrying their cousins,—nay, their aunts, and nieces,

    Which always spoils the breed, if it increases.

    LVIII

    This heathenish cross restored the breed again,

    Ruin’d its blood, but much improved its flesh;

    For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain

    Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh;

    The sons no more were short, the daughters plain:

    But there’s a rumour which I fain would hush,

    ’Tis said that Donna Julia’s grandmamma

    Produced her Don more heirs at love than law.

    LIX

    However this might be, the race went on

    Improving still through every generation,

    Until it centred in an only son,

    Who left an only daughter; my narration

    May have suggested that this single one

    Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion

    I shall have much to speak about), and she

    Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.

    LX

    Her eye (I’m very fond of handsome eyes)

    Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire

    Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise

    Flash’d an expression more of pride than ire,

    And love than either; and there would arise

    A something in them which was not desire,

    But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul

    Which struggled through and chasten’d down the whole.

    LXI

    Her glossy hair was cluster’d o’er a brow

    Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth;

    Her eyebrow’s shape was like th’ aërial bow.

    Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,

    Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow,

    As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth,

    Possess’d an air and grace by no means common:

    Her stature tall—I hate a dumpy woman.

    LXII

    Wedded she was some years, and to a man

    Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty;

    And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE

    ’Twere better to have TWO of five-and-twenty,

    Especially in countries near the sun:

    And now I think on ’t, "mi vien in mente,"

    Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue

    Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty.

    LXIII

    ’Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say,

    And all the fault of that indecent sun,

    Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay,

    But will keep baling, broiling, burning on,

    That howsoever people fast and pray,

    The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone:

    What men call gallantry, and gods adultery,

    Is much more common where the climate’s sultry.

    LXIV

    Happy the nations of the moral North!

    Where all is virtue, and the winter season

    Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth

    (’Twas snow that brought St. Anthony to reason);

    Where juries cast up what a wife is worth,

    By laying whate’er sum, in mulct, they please on

    The lover, who must pay a handsome price,

    Because it is a marketable vice.

    LXV

    Alfonso was the name of Julia’s lord,

    A man well looking for his years, and who

    Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr’d:

    They lived together, as most people do,

    Suffering each other’s foibles by accord,

    And not exactly either one or two;

    Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,

    For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

    LXVI

    Julia was—yet I never could see why—

    With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend;

    Between their tastes there was small sympathy,

    For not a line had Julia ever penn’d:

    Some people whisper (but, no doubt, they lie,

    For malice still imputes some private end)

    That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso’s marriage,

    Forgot with him her very prudent carriage;

    LXVII

    And that still keeping up the old connection,

    Which time had lately render’d much more chaste,

    She took his lady also in affection,

    And certainly this course was much the best:

    She flatter’d Julia with her sage protection,

    And complimented Don Alfonso’s taste;

    And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal,

    At least she left it a more slender handle.

    LXVIII

    I can’t tell whether Julia saw the affair

    With other people’s eyes, or if her own

    Discoveries made, but none could be aware

    Of this, at least no symptom e’er was shown;

    Perhaps she did not know, or did not care,

    Indifferent from the first, or callous grown:

    I’m really puzzled what to think or say,

    She kept her counsel in so close a way.

    LXIX

    Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child,

    Caress’d him often—such a thing might be

    Quite innocently done, and harmless styled,

    When she had twenty years, and thirteen he;

    But I am not so sure I should have smiled

    When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three;

    These few short years make wondrous alterations,

    Particularly amongst sunburnt nations.

    LXX

    Whate’er the cause might be, they had become

    Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy,

    Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb,

    And much embarrassment in either eye;

    There surely will be little doubt with some

    That Donna Julia knew the reason why,

    But as for Juan, he had no more notion

    Than he who never saw the sea of ocean.

    LXXI

    Yet Julia’s very coldness still was kind.

    And tremulously gentle her small hand

    Withdrew itself from his, but left behind

    A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland

    And slight, so very slight, that to the mind

    ’Twas but a doubt; but ne’er magician’s wand

    Wrought change with all Armida’s fairy art

    Like what this light touch left on Juan’s heart.

    LXXII

    And if she met him, though she smiled no more,

    She look’d a sadness sweeter than her smile,

    As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store

    She must not own, but cherish’d more the while

    For that compression in its burning core;

    Even innocence itself has many a wile,

    And will not dare to trust itself with truth,

    And love is taught hypocrisy from youth.

    LXXIII

    But passion most dissembles, yet betrays

    Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky

    Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays

    Its workings through the vainly guarded eye,

    And in whatever aspect it arrays

    Itself, ’tis still the same hypocrisy;

    Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate,

    Are masks it often Avears, and still too late.

    LXXIV

    Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,

    And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft,

    And burning blushes, though for no transgression,

    Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left;

    All these are little preludes to possession,

    Of which young passion cannot be bereft,

    And merely tend to show how greatly love is

    Embarrass’d at first starting with a novice.

    LXXV

    Poor Julia’s heart was in an awkward state;

    She felt it going, and resolved to make

    The noblest efforts for herself and mate,

    For honour’s, pride’s, religion’s, virtue’s sake;

    Her resolutions were most truly great,

    And almost might have made a Tarquin quake:

    She pray’d the Virgin Mary for her grace,

    As being the best judge of a lady’s case.

    LXXVI

    She vow’d she never would see Juan more,

    And next day paid a visit to his mother,

    And look’d extremely at the opening door,

    Which, by the Virgin’s grace, let in another;

    Grateful she was, and yet a little sore—

    Again it opens, it can be no other,

    ’Tis surely Juan now—No! I’m afraid

    That night the Virgin was no further pray’d.

    LXXVII

    She now determined that a virtuous woman

    Should rather face and overcome temptation,

    That flight was base and dastardly, and no man

    Should ever give her heart the least sensation;

    That is to say, a thought beyond the common

    Preference, that we must feel upon occasion

    For people who are pleasanter than others,

    But then they only seem so many brothers.

    LXXVIII

    And even if by chance—and who can tell?

    The devil’s so very sly—she should discover

    That all within was not so very well,

    And, if still free, that such or such a lover

    Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell

    Such thoughts, and be the better when they’re over;

    And if the man should ask, ’tis but denial:

    I recommend young ladies to make trial.

    LXXIX

    And then there are such things as love, divine,

    Bright and immaculate, unmix’d and pure,

    Such as the angels think so very fine,

    And matrons, wdio would be no less secure,

    Platonic, perfect, just such love as mine;

    Thus Julia said—and thought so, to be sure;

    And so I’d have her think, were I the man

    On whom her reveries celestial ran.

    LXXX

    Such love is innocent, and may exist

    Between young persons without any danger.

    A hand may first, and then a lip be kist;

    For my part, to such doings I’m a stranger,

    But hear these freedoms form the utmost list

    Of all o’er which such love may be a ranger:

    If people go beyond, ’tis quite a crime,

    But not my fault—I tell them all in time.

    LXXXI

    Love, then, but love within its proper limits,

    Was Julia’s innocent determination

    In young Don Juan’s favour, and to him its

    Exertion might be useful on occasion;

    And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its

    Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion

    He might be taught, by love and her together—

    I really don’t know what, nor Julia either.

    LXXXII

    Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced

    In mail of proof—her purity of soul—

    She, for the future of her strength convinced,

    And that her honour was a rock, or mole.

    Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed

    With any kind of troublesome control;

    But whether Julia to the task was equal

    Is that which must be mention’d in the sequel.

    LXXXIII

    Her plan she deem’d both innocent and feasible,

    And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen

    Not scandal’s fangs conld fix on much that’s seizable,

    Or if they did so, satisfied to mean

    Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable—

    A quiet conscience makes one so serene!

    Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded

    That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

    LXXXIV

    And if in the mean time her husband died,

    But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross

    Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she sigh’d)

    Never could she survive that common loss;

    But just suppose that moment should betide,

    I only say suppose it—inter nos.

    (This should be entre nous, for Julia thought

    In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught).

    LXXXV

    I only say, suppose this supposition:

    Juan being then grown up to man’s estate

    Would fully suit a widow of condition,

    Even seven years hence it would not be too late;

    And

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