For there are few things by mankind less brook'd, And womankind too, if we so may say, Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, Like 'Anthony's by Caesar,' by the few Who look upon them as they ought to do.
It was not envy- Adeline had none;
Her place was far beyond it, and her mind.
It was not scorn- which could not light on one Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find.
It was not jealousy, I think: but shun Following the 'ignes fatui' of mankind.
It was not- but 't is easier far, alas!
To say what it was not than what it was.
Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme Of such discussion. She was there a guest;
A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest.
Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled-She had so much, or little, of the child.
The dashing and proud air of Adeline Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays.
Juan was something she could not divine, Being no sibyl in the new world's ways;
Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, Because she did not pin her faith on feature.
His fame too,- for he had that kind of fame Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind, A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame, Half virtues and whole vices being combined;
Faults which attract because they are not tame;
Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind:-These seals upon her wax made no impression, Such was her coldness or her self-possession.
Juan knew nought of such a character-High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee;
Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere:
The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, Was Nature's all: Aurora could not be, Nor would be thus:- the difference in them Was such as lies between a flower and gem.
Having wound up with this sublime comparison, Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, And, as my friend Scott says, 'I sound my warison;'
Scott, the superlative of my comparative-Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen, Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share it, if There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, Of one or both of whom he seems the heir.
I say, in my slight way I may proceed To play upon the surface of humanity.
I write the world, nor care if the world read, At least for this I cannot spare its vanity.
My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I
Thought that it might turn out so- now I know it, But still I am, or was, a pretty poet.
The conference or congress (for it ended As congresses of late do) of the Lady Adeline and Don Juan rather blended Some acids with the sweets- for she was heady;
But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended, The silvery bell rang, not for 'dinner ready, But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to dress, Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less.
Great things were now to be achieved at table, With massy plate for armour, knives and forks For weapons; but what Muse since Homer 's able (His feasts are not the worst part of his works)
To draw up in array a single day-bill Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks, In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, There was a goodly 'soupe a la bonne femme,'
Though God knows whence it came from; there was, too, A turbot for relief of those who cram, Relieved with 'dindon a la Parigeux;'
How shall I get this gourmand stanza through?-'Soupe a la Beauveau,' whose relief was dory, Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory.
But I must crowd all into one grand mess Or mass; for should I stretch into detail, My Muse would run much more into excess, Than when some squeamish people deem her frail.
But though a 'bonne vivante,' I must confess Her stomach 's not her peccant part; this tale However doth require some slight refection, Just to relieve her spirits from dejection.
Fowls 'a la Conde,' slices eke of salmon, With 'sauces Genevoises,' and haunch of venison;
Wines too, which might again have slain young Ammon-A man like whom I hope we shan't see many soon;
They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on, Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison;
And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls.
Then there was God knows what 'a l'Allemande,'
'A l'Espagnole,' 'timballe,' and 'salpicon'-With things I can't withstand or understand, Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole;
And 'entremets' to piddle with at hand, Gently to lull down the subsiding soul;
While great Lucullus' Robe triumphal muffles (There 's fame) young partridge fillets, deck'd with truffles.
What are the fillets on the victor's brow To these? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch Which nodded to the nation's spoils below?
Where the triumphal chariots' haughty march?
Gone to where victories must like dinners go.
Farther I shall not follow the research:
But oh! ye modern heroes with your cartridges, When will your names lend lustre e'en to partridges?
Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, Follow'd by 'petits puits d'amour'- a dish Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, So every one may dress it to his wish, According to the best of dictionaries, Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish;
But even sans 'confitures,' it no less true is, There 's pretty picking in those 'petits puits.'
The mind is lost in mighty contemplation Of intellect expanded on two courses;
And indigestion's grand multiplication Requires arithmetic beyond my forces.
Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration, That cookery could have call'd forth such resources, As form a science and a nomenclature From out the commonest demands of nature?
The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled;
The diners of celebrity dined well;
The ladies with more moderation mingled In the feast, pecking less than I can tell;
