The Works of Lord Byron Volume IV Part 32

LVII.

Laura, when dressed, was (as I sang before) A pretty woman as was ever seen, Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, Or frontispiece of a new Magazine,[224]

With all the fashions which the last month wore, Coloured, and silver paper leaved between That and the t.i.tle-page, for fear the Press Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress.

LVIII.

They went to the Ridotto;[225] 'tis a hall Where People dance, and sup, and dance again; Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball, But that's of no importance to my strain; 'Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain; The company is "mixed" (the phrase I quote is As much as saying, they're below your notice);

LIX.

For a "mixed company" implies that, save Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, Whom you may bow to without looking grave, The rest are but a vulgar set, the Bore Of public places, where they basely brave The fashionable stare of twenty score Of well-bred persons, called "_The World_;" but I, Although I know them, really don't know why.

LX.

This is the case in England; at least was During the dynasty of Dandies, now Perchance succeeded by some other cla.s.s Of imitated Imitators:--how[bn]

Irreparably soon decline, alas!

The Demagogues of fashion: all below Is frail; how easily the world is lost By Love, or War, and, now and then,--by Frost!

LXI.

Crushed was Napoleon by the northern Thor, Who knocked his army down with icy hammer, Stopped by the _Elements_[226]--like a Whaler--or A blundering novice in his new French grammar; Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, And as for Fortune--but I dare not d--n her, Because, were I to ponder to Infinity, The more I should believe in her Divinity.[227]

LXII.

She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage; I cannot say that she's done much for me yet; Not that I mean her bounties to disparage, We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet How much she'll make amends for past miscarriage; Meantime the G.o.ddess I'll no more importune, Unless to thank her when she's made my fortune.

LXIII.

To turn,--and to return;--the Devil take it!

This story slips for ever through my fingers, Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, It needs must be--and so it rather lingers; This form of verse began, I can't well break it, But must keep time and tune like public singers; But if I once get through my present measure, I'll take another when I'm next at leisure.

LXIV.

They went to the Ridotto ('tis a place To which I mean to go myself to-morrow,[228]

Just to divert my thoughts a little s.p.a.ce Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face May lurk beneath each mask; and as my sorrow Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find, Something shall leave it half an hour behind.)

LXV.

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips; To some she whispers, others speaks aloud; To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, Complains of warmth, and this complaint avowed, Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips; She then surveys, condemns, but pities still Her dearest friends for being dressed so ill.

LXVI.

One has false curls, another too much paint, A third--where did she buy that frightful turban?

A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint, A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane, And lo! an eighth appears,--"I'll see no more!"

For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score.

LXVII.

Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, Others were levelling their looks at her; She heard the men's half-whispered mode of praising And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir; The women only thought it quite amazing That, at her time of life, so many were Admirers still,--but "Men are so debased, Those brazen Creatures always suit their taste."

LXVIII.

For my part, now, I ne'er could understand Why naughty women--but I won't discuss A thing which is a scandal to the land, I only don't see why it should be thus; And if I were but in a gown and band, Just to ent.i.tle me to make a fuss, I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly Should quote in their next speeches from my homily.

LXIX.

While Laura thus was seen, and seeing, smiling, Talking, she knew not why, and cared not what, So that her female friends, with envy broiling, Beheld her airs, and triumph, and all that; And well-dressed males still kept before her filing, And pa.s.sing bowed and mingled with her chat; More than the rest one person seemed to stare With pertinacity that's rather rare.

LXX.

He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany; And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, Because the Turks so much admire philogyny,[bo]

Although their usage of their wives is sad; 'Tis said they use no better than a dog any Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad: They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, Four wives by law, and concubines "ad libitum."

LXXI.

They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, They scarcely can behold their male relations, So that their moments do not pa.s.s so gaily As is supposed the case with northern nations; Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely; And as the Turks abhor long conversations, Their days are either pa.s.sed in doing nothing, Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing.

LXXII.

They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism; Nor write, and so they don't affect the Muse; Were never caught in epigram or witticism, Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews,-- In Harams learning soon would make a pretty schism, But luckily these Beauties are no "Blues;"

No bustling _Botherby_[229] have they to show 'em "That charming pa.s.sage in the last new poem:"

LXXIII.

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, Who having angled all his life for Fame, And getting but a nibble at a time, Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same Small "Triton of the minnows," the sublime Of Mediocrity, the furious tame, The Echo's echo, usher of the school Of female wits, boy bards--in short, a fool!

LXXIV.

A stalking oracle of awful phrase, The approving _"Good!"_ (by no means good in law) Humming like flies around the newest blaze, The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, Gorging the little fame he gets all raw,[bp]

Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, And sweating plays so middling, bad were better.

LXXV.

One hates an author that's _all author_--fellows In foolscap uniforms turned up with ink, So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, One don't know what to say to them, or think, Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows; Of c.o.xcombry's worst c.o.xcombs e'en the pink Are preferable to these shreds of paper, These unquenched snuffings of the midnight taper.

LXXVI.

Of these same we see several, and of others.

Men of the world, who know the World like Men, Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers, Who think of something else besides the pen; But for the children of the "Mighty Mother's,"

The would-be wits, and can't-be gentlemen, I leave them to their daily "tea is ready,"[230]

Smug coterie, and literary lady.

LXXVII.

The poor dear Mussul_women_ whom I mention Have none of these instructive pleasant people, And _one_ would seem to them a new invention, Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple; I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension (Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) A missionary author--just to preach Our Christian usage of the parts of speech.

LXXVIII.