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 Augustin in his fine Confessions,

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!), 'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut

Him up to learn his catechism alone,
No-no-I'd send him out betimes to college,

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.

L.

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 pairBut scandal's my aversion-I protest Against all evil-speaking, even in jest.

(1) See his Confessions, l. i. c. ix. By the representation which Saint Augustin gives of himself in his youth, it is easy to see that he was what we should call a rake. He avoided the school as the plague; he loved nothing but gaming and public shows; he robbed his father of every thing he could find; he invented a thousand lies to escape the rod, which they were obliged to make use of to punish his irregularities.-E.

(2) "Foreigners often ask, 'by what means an uninterrupted succession of men, qualified more or less eminently for the performance of united parliamentary and official duties, is secured?' First, I answer (with the prejudices, perhaps, of Eton and Oxford) that we owe it to our system of public schools and univer

sities. From these institutions is derived (in the language of the prayer of our collegiate churches) 'a due supply of men fitted to serve their country both in church and state.' public schools and universities that the youth of England are, by It is in her to undervalue, prepared for the duties of public life. There are a discipline which shallow judgments have sometimes attempted rare and splendid exceptions, to be sure; but in my conscience I believe that England would not be what she is, without her system of public education; and that no other country can become what England is, without the advantages of such a system.”—Canning.

(3) "Having surrendered the last symbol of power, the un

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, (1)
'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' aerial 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,

fortunate Boabdil continued on towards the Alpuxarras, that he might not behold the entrance of the Christians into his capital. His devoted band of cavaliers followed him in gloomy silence. Having ascended an eminence commanding the last view of Granada, they paused involuntarily to take a farewell gaze at their beloved city, which a few steps more would shut from their sight for ever. While they yet looked, a light cloud of smoke burst from the citadel; and presently a peal of artillery, faintly heard, told that the city was taken possession of, and the throne of the Moslem kings was lost for ever. The heart of Boabdil, softened by misfortunes, and overcharged with grief, could no longer contain itself. Allah achbar! God is great!' said he; but the words of resignation died upon his lips, and be burst into a flood of tears. The vizier, Aben Comixa, endeavoured to console his royal master, but the unhappy monarch

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. (2)
LXIII.

'T is 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 baking, 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 ('T was snow that brought St. Antony (3) to r son);

Where juries cast up what a wife is worth,

By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please The lover, who must pray 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;

was not to be comforted. Allah achbar!' exclaimed be, did misfortunes ever equal mine?' From this circumsta the hill took the name of Feg Allah achbar; but the poir view commanding the last prospect of Granada is known am Spaniards by the name of 'el ultimo suspiro del Moro,' or last sigh of the Moor." Washington Irving. (1) In the MS.

"I'll tell you too a secret-i silence! hush! which you 'll hush.”—E. (2) In the MS.

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 sun-burnt 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

'T was 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 wears, 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 trangression,
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. (1) 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 And if the man should ask, 't is but denial: [over; 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, who 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 kiss'd;
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, 't is 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, (1)
She, for the future of her strength convinced,

And that her honour was a rock, or mole, (2)
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 mentioned in the sequel.
LXXXIII.

Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible,
And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen,
Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that's
seizable;

Or if they did so, satisfied to mean

Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceA quiet conscience makes one so serene! [ableChristians 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 nought.) 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 in the interim (to pursue this vision)
The mischief, after all, could not be great,
For he would learn the rudiments of love,
I mean the seraph way of those above.

LXXXVI.

So much for Julia. Now we'll turn to Juan.
Poor little fellow! he had no idea

Of his own case, and never hit the true one;
In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea. (3)
He puzzled over what he found a new one,
But not as yet imagined it could be a
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming,
Which, with a little patience, might grow charming
LXXXVII.

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow,

His home deserted for the lonely wood, Tormented with a wound he could not know, His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude: I'm fond myself of solitude or so,

But then, I beg it may be understood,
By solitude I mean a sultan's, not
A hermit's, with a haram for a grot.
LXXXVIII.

"O Love! in such a wilderness as this,
Where transport and security entwine,
Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,

And here thou art a god indeed divine.” The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,(4) With the exception of the second line, For that same twining "transport and security" Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity.

(3) See Ovid. de Art. Amand. I. ii.-E.

(4) Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming-(I think) the opening of Canto Second-but quote from memory

LXXXIX.

The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals To the good sense and senses of mankind, The very thing which every body feels,

As all have found on trial, or may find, That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals

Or love. I won't say more about "entwined" Or "transport," as we knew all that before, But beg "security" will bolt the door.

XC.

Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks,
Thinking unutterable things; he threw
Himself at length within the leafy nooks
Where the wild branch of the cork-forest grew;
There poets find materials for their books,

And every now and then we read them through,
So that their plan and prosody are eligible,
Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible.
XCI.

He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued

His self-communion with his own high soul, Until his mighty heart, in its great mood,

Had mitigated part, though not the whole,

Of its disease; he did the best he could

With things not very subject to contro!,
And turn'd, without perceiving his condition,
Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician.

XCII.

He thought about himself, and the whole earth,
Of man the wonderful, and of the stars,
And now the deuce they ever could have birth;
And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars,
How many miles the moon might have in girth,
Of air-balloons, and of the many bars
To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;--
And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes.
XCIII.

In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern
Longings sublime, and aspirations high,
Which some are born with, but the most part learn
To plague themselves withal, they know not why:
Twas strange that one so young should thus concern
His brain about the action of the sky; (1)
If you think 'twas philosophy that this did,
I can't help thinking puberty assisted.

XCIV.

He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, And heard a voice in all the winds; and then

(1) In the MS.

"I say this by the way-so don't look stern,

But if you 're angry, reader, pass it by."-E.

(2) Juan Boscan Almogava, of Barcelona, died about the year 1543. In concert with his friend Garcilasso, he introduced the Italian style into Castilian poetry, and commenced his labours by writing sonnets in the manner of Petrarch.-E.

(3) Garcilasso de la Vega, of a noble family at Toledo, was a

He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers,
And how the goddesses came down to men :
He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours,

And when he look'd upon his watch again,
He found how much old Time had been a winner-
He also found that he had lost his dinner.

XCV.

Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book,
Boscan, (2) or Garcilasso; (3)--by the wind
Even as the page is rustled while we look,
So by the poesy of his own mind
Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook,

As if't were one whercon magicians bind
Their spells, and give them to the passing gale,
According to some good old woman's tale.
XLVI.

Thus would he while his lonely hours away
Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted;
Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay,

Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, A bosom whereon he his head might lay,

And hear the heart beat with the love it granted, With several other things, which I forget, Or which, at least, I need not mention yet.

XCVII.

Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries, Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes: She saw that Juan was not at his ease;

But that which chiefly may and must surprise, Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease

Her only son with question or surmise: Whether it was she did not see, or would not, Or, like all very clever people, could not.

XCVIII.

This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common;
For instance-gentlemen, whose ladies take
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman,
And break the--Which commandment is 't they
break ?

(I have forgot the number, and think no man

Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake:) I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous, They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. XCIX.

A real husband always is suspicious,

But still no less suspects in the wrong place, (4) Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace,

warrior as well as a poet. After serving with distinction in Germany, Africa, and Provence, he was killed, in 1536, by a stone thrown from a tower, which fell upon his head as he was leading on his battalion. Some of his poems have been lately translated into English by Mr. Wiffen.-E. (4) In the MS.

"A real wittol always is suspicious,

But always also hunts in the wrong place."-E.