<< But droop not: Fortune at your time of life,
Although a female moderately fickle,
Will hardly leave you (as she's not your wife)
For any length of days in such a pickle.
To strive too with our fate were such a strife
As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle:
Men are the sport of circumstances, when
The circumstances seem the sport of men.»>
XVIII.

« Tis not,» said Juan, « for my present doom
I mourn, but for the past;-I loved a maid: >>
Ile paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom;

A single tear upon his eyelash staid A moment, and then dropp'd; «but to resume, 'Tis not my present lot, as I have said, Which I deplore so much; for I have borne Hardships which have the hardiest overworn,

XXI.

«You take things coolly, sir," said Juan. «Why,>> Replied the other, « what can a man do?

There still are many rainbows in your sky,

But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new, Commence with feelings warm and prospects high;

But time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly, like the snake. XXII.

«T is true, it gets another bright and fresh, Or fresher, brighter, but, the year gone through, This skin must go the way too of all flesh,

Or sometimes only wear a week or two. Love's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh; Ambition, avarice, vengeance, glory, glue The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days, Where still we flutter on for pence or praise.»> XXIII.

All this is very fine, and may be true,»
Said Juan; «but I really don't see how

It betters present times with me or you.»>
«No!» quoth the other; « yet you will allow
By setting things in their right point of view,
Knowledge, at least, is gain'd; for instance, now,
We know what slavery is, and our disasters
May teach us better to behave when masters.>>
XXIV.

« Would we were masters now, if but to try
Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here,»
Said Juan-swallowing a heart-burning sigh:
«Heav'n help the scholar whom his fortune sends here!»>
«Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by,»

Rejoin'd the other, « when our bad luck mends here; Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us)

I wish to G-d that somebody would buy us!

XXV.

<< But after all, what is our present state?
'Tis bad, and may be better-all men's lot.
Most men are slaves, none more so than the great,
To their own whims and passions, and what not;
Society itself, which should create

Kindness, destroys what little we had got:
To feel for Bone is the true social art
Of the world's stoics-men without a heart. »>

XXVI.

Just now a black old neutral personage

Of the third sex stepp'd up, and peering over The captives, seem'd to mark their looks, and age, And capabilities, as to discover

If they were fitted for the purposed cage:
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover,
Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor,
Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor,

XXVIL

As is a slave by his intended bidder.

'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider

Their passions, and are dextrous; some by features

Are bought up, others by a warlike leader,

Some by a place-as tend their years or natures: The most by ready cash-but all have prices,

XXVIII.

The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care,
Turn'd to the merchant, and began to bid
First but for one, and after for the pair;

They haggled, wrangled, swore, too-so they did!
As though they were in a mere christian fair,
Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid;
So that their bargain sounded like a battle
For this superior yoke of human cattle.
ΧΧΙΧ.

At last they settled into simple grumbling,

And pulling out reluctant purses, and Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling Some down, and weighing others in their hand, And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling,

Until the sum was accurately scanu'd,

And then the merchant, giving change and signing Receipts in full, began to think of dining.

XXX.

I wonder if his appetite was good;

Or, if it were, if also his digestion. Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, And conscience ask a curious sort of question, About the right divine how far we should

Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has oppress'd one, I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four.

XXXI.

Voltaire says « No;» he tells
you that Candide
Found life most tolerable after meals:
Ile 's wrong-unless man was a pig, indeed,
Repletion rather adds to what he feels;
Unless he's drunk, and then no doubt he's freed

From his own brain's oppression while it reels.

Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather
Ammon's (ill pleased with one world and one father);

XXXII.

I think with Alexander, that the act
Of eating, with another act or two,
Makes us feel our mortality in fact

Redoubled; when a roast and a ragout,
And fish and soup, by some side dishes back'd,
Can give us either pain or pleasure, who
Would pique himself on intellects, whose use
Depends so much upon the gastric juice?

XXXIII

The other evening (t was on Friday last)—
This is a fact, and no poetic fable-
Just as my great coat was about me cast,

My hat and gloves still lying on the table,

I heard a shot-'t was eight o'clock scarce past—
And running out as fast as I was able, 3

I found the military commandant
Stretch'd in the street, and able searce to pant.

XXXIV.

Poor fellow for some reason, surely bad,
They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there
To perish ou the pavement: so I had

Him borne into the house and up the stair,
And stripp'd, and look'd to--But why should I add
More circumstances? vain was every care;
The man was gone; in some Italian quarrel
Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 4

XXXV.

I gazed upon him, for I knew him well;
And, though I have seen many corpses, never
Saw one, whcm such an accident befel,

So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, and liver,

He seem'd to sleep, for you could scarcely tell

(As he bled inwardly, no hideous river
Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead:-
So as I gazed on him, I thought or said-
XXXVI.

«Can this be death? then what is life or death?
'Speak! but he spoke not: 'wake!' but still he slept.
But yesterday and who had mightier breath?
A thousand warriors by his word were kept
In awe: he said, as the centurion saith,

'Go, and he goeth; come,' and forth he stepp'd. The trump and bugle till he spake were dumbAnd now nought left him but the muffled drum,»

XXXVII.

And they who waited once and worshipp'd-they
With their rough faces throng'd about the bed,
To gaze once more on the commanding clay
Which for the last though not the first time bled:
And such an end! that he who many a day

Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled,
The foremost in the charge or in the sally,
Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley.
XXXVIII.

The scars of his old wounds were near his new,
Those honourable scars which brought him fame;
And horrid was the contrast to the view-

But let me quit the theme, as such things claim
Perhaps even more attention than is due

From me: I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same)
To try if I could wrench aught out of death
Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith;
XXXIX.

But it was all a mystery. Here we are,

And there we go:-but where? five bits of lead, Or three, or two, or one, send very far!

And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed?

Can every element our elements mar?

And air-earth-water-fire, live-and we dead? We, whose minds comprehend all things? No more— But let us to the story as before.

XL.

The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance
Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat,
Embark'd himself and them, and off they went thence
As fast as oars could pull and water float.
They look'd like persons being led to sentence,
Wondering what next, till the caique was brought
Up in a little creek below a wall
O'ertopp'd with cypresses dark-green and tall.

XLI.

Here their conductor tapping at the wicket
Of a small iron door, 't was open'd, and
He led them onward, first through a low thicket
Flank'd by large groves which tower'd on either hand
They almost lost their way, and had to pick it-
For night was closing ere they came to land.
The eunuch made a sign to those on board,
Who row'd off, leaving them without a word.

XLII.

As they were plodding on their winding way, Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth (Of which I might have a good deal to say,

There being no such profusion in the North Of oriental plants, « et cetera,>>

But that of late your scribblers think it worth Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works, Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks):

XLIII.

As they were threading on their way, there came Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he Whisper'd to his companion;-'t was the same

Which might have then occurr'd to you or me. «Methinks,» said he-« it would be no great shame If we should strike a stroke to set us free; Let's knock that old black fellow on the head, And march away-'t were easier done than said.» XLIV.

«Yes,» said the other, «and when done, what then: How get out? how the devil got we in? And when we once were fairly out, and when

From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin, To-morrow'd see us in some other den,

And worse off than we hitherto have been; Besides, I'm hungry, and just now would take, Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak.

XLV.

« We must be near some place of man's abode;
For the old negro's confidence in creeping,
With his two captives, by so queer a road,
Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping;
A single cry would bring them all abroad:

T is therefore better looking before leaping-
And there, you see, this turn has brought us through.
By Jove, a noble palace!-lighted too. »

XLVI.

It was indeed a wide extensive building

Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding And various hues, as is the Turkish wont,A gaudy taste; for they are little skill'd in

The arts of which these lands were once the font: Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. XLVII.

And nearer as they came, a genial savour

Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus, Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour, Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause, And put himself upon his good behaviour:

His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, Said, « In Heaven's name let 's get some supper now, And then I'm with you, if you 're for a row.»

XLVIII.

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 teaze on,
With arguments according to their << forte ;>>
But no one ever dreams of being short.

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, over-powering knell,
The tocsin of the soul-the dinner-bell.
L.

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 lacqueys 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.

II.

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, 't was open'd wide,
And a magnificent large hall display'd
The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade.

LII

I won't describe; description is my forte,
But every fool describes in these bright days
His wond'rous journey to some foreign court,
And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise-
Death to his publisher, to him 't is sport;

While nature, tortured twenty thousand ways,
Resigns herself with exemplary patience
To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations.
LIII.

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.

LIV.

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 any wise:
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.

LV.

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, 6
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 noise that is.

LVI.

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 splendor of the whole.
LVII.

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
spots which were her realms for evermore;
But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in

The

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.
LVII.

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.

LIX.

Alas! man makes that great which makes him little:
I grant you in a church 't is
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.
LX.

Babel was Nimrod's hunting-scat, 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;

'T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, And the calumniated Queen Semiramis,

LXI.

LXII.

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),
Beheve the Jews, those unbelievers, who
Must be believed, though they believe not you.

LXIII

Yet let them think that Horace has express'd
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 last; A moral (like all morals) melancholy, And« Et sepulcri immemor struis domos

Shows that we build when we should but entomb us.

LXIV.

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. LXV.

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 moveables were prodigally rich :

Sofas 't was half a sin to sit upon,

So costly were they; carpets every stitch
Of workmanship so rare, that made you wish
You could glide o'er them like a golden fish.

LXVI.

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, uiched in yonder
In that remote recess which you may see-
Or if you don't the fault is not in me :
LXVII.

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.

LXVIII.

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 trowsers 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.

LXIX.

While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend,
Tinted 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,
T would greatly tend to better their condition,
If they would condescend to circumcision.

LXX.

« 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.
LXXI.

« 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

LXXII.

LXXVII.

And then he swore; and, sighing, on he slipp'd
A pair of trowsers of flesh-colour'd silk;
Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'd,
Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk;
But, tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd,
Which-as we say-or as the Scotch say, whilk,
(The rhyme obliges me to this:-sometimes
Kings are not more imperative than rhymes) —
LXXVII.

Whilk, which (or what you please) was owing to
His garment's novelty, and his being awkward;
And yet at last he managed to get through

His toilet, though no doubt a little backward:
The negro Baba help'd a little too,

When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard; And, wrestling both his arms into a gown,

He paused and took a survey up and down.

LXXIX.

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 supp'd,
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.»
LXXIII.

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.»>

LXXIV.

«What you may be, I neither know nor care,»
Said Baba, «< but pray do as I desire;
I've no more time nor many words to spare.»>
«At least,» said Juan, « sure I may inquire
The cause of this odd travesty ?»-« Forbear,»
Said Baba, « to be curious: 't will transpire,
No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season:
I've no authority to tell the reason. »>

And you

LXXV.

<< 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, will find us not too 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.

LXXVI.

« I offer you a handsome suit of clothes:

A woman's, true, but then there is a cause

Was hardly long enough; but Baba found So many false long tresses all to spare,

That soon his head was most completely crown'd,

After the inanner then in fashion there;

And this addition with such gems was bound

As suited the ensemble of his toilet,

While Baba made him comb his head and oil it.

LXXX.

And now being femininely all array'd,

With some small aid from scissars, paint, and tweezers, He look'd in almost all respects a maid,

And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, « You see, sirs,

A perfect transformation here display'd;
And now, then, you must come along with, me, sirs,
That is the lady :»-clapping his hands twice,
Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice.

LXXXI.

You, sir,» said Baba, nodding to the one, Will please to accompany those gentlemen To supper; but you, worthy christian nun, Will follow me: no trifling, sir: for when I say a thing it must at once be done. What fear you? think you this a lion's den? Why 't is a palace, where the truly wise Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. LXXXII.

« You fool! I tell you no one means you harm.»> « So much the better,» Juan said, « for them: Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, Which is not quite so light as you may deem.

I yield thus far; but soon will break the charm,
If any take me for that which I seem;

So that I trust, for every body's sake,
That this disguise may lead to no mistake.»>

LXXXIII.

"

Blockhead! come on and see,» quoth Baba; while Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who,

Upon the metamorphosis in view.

Farewell!» they mutually exclaim'd: «<< this soil Seems fertile in adventures strange and new; One's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid,

By this old black enchanter's unsought aid.»>