And thus at Venice landed to reclaim
His wife, religion, house, and Christian name.
But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so | Or else the people would perhaps have shot
Keen the desire to see his home again,
He thought himself in duty bound to do so,
And not be always thieving on the main;
Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe,
And so he hired a vessel come from Spain,
Bound for Corfu; she was a fine polacca,
Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with
tobacco.
Himself, and much (heaven knows how
gotten) cash,
He then embark'd, with risk of life and limb,
And got clear off, although the attempt was
rash;
He said that Providence protected him -
For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash
In our opinions:-well, the ship was trim,
Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on,
Except three days of calm when off Cape
Bonn.
They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading,
And self and live-stock, to another bottom, And pass'd for a true Turkey-merchant, trading
With goods of various names, but I've forgot 'em.
However, he got off by this evading,
His wife received, the patriarch re-baptized
him,
(He made the church a present by the way;)
He then threw off the garments which dis-
guised him,
And borrow'd the Count's small-clothes for
a day;
His friends the more for his long absence
prized him,
Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay,
With dinners, where he oft became the
laugh of them,
For stories, but I don't believe the half
Whate'er his youth had suffer'd, his old age With wealth and talking made him some amends;
Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage,
I've heard the Count and he were always
friends.
My pen is at the bottom of a page,
Which being finish'd here the story ends 3
'Tis to be wish'd it had been sooner done,
But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
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
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.
Tis pity learned virgins ever wed
With persons of no sort of education,
bred,
Or gentlemen, who, though well-born and
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
Don Jóse and his lady quarrell'd—why,
Not any of the many could divine,
try,
Though several thousand people chose to
'Twas surely no concern of theirs nor mine :
I loathe that low vice curiosity:
But if there's any thing in which I shine,
'Tis in arranging all my friends' affairs,
Not having, of my own, domestic cares.
And so I interfered, and with the best
kind;
Intentions, but their treatment was not
I think the foolish people were possess'd,
Don Jóse like a lineal son of Eve,
Went plucking various fruit without her For neither of them could I ever find,
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.
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 re-
alities,
And let few opportunities escape
Of getting her liege lord into a scrape.
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 unpre-
pared,
Although their porter afterwards confess'd
But that's no matter, and the worst behind,
For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs,
A pail of housemaid's water unawares.
A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
birth;
And mischief-making monkey from his
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
at home,
To school, or had him soundly whipp'd
To teach him manners for the time to come.
A thousand pities also with respect
All which might, if occasion served, be To public feeling, which on this occasion Was manifested in a great sensation.
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.
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!"
No doubt, this patience, when the world is damning us,
Is philosophic in our 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.
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
Any one 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 dis
Their friends had tried at reconciliation, Then their relations, who made matters
But ah! he died! and buried with him lay
The public feeling and the lawyer's 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 called the tertian,
And left his widow to her own aversion.
Yet Jóse 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 passion 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.
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.
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.
Sagest of women, even of widows, she
|So much indeed as to be downright rude;
Resolved that Juan should be quite a And then what proper person can be partial To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial?
|
