But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke Appear’d to him but as the magic vapour Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper): The gloomy clouds, which o’er it as a yoke Are bow’d, and put the sun out like a taper, Were nothing but the natural atmosphere, Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. He paused—and so will I; as doth a crew Before they give their broadside. By and by, My gentle countrymen, we will renew Our old acquaintance; and at least I’ll try To tell you truths you will not take as true, Because they are so;—a male Mrs. Fry, With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, And brush a web or two from off the walls. O Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin With Carlton, or with other houses? Try Your head at harden’d and imperial sin. To mend the people ’s an absurdity, A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, Unless you make their betters better:—Fy! I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. Teach them the decencies of good threescore; Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses; Tell them that youth once gone returns no more, That hired huzzas redeem no land’s distresses; Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore, Too dull even for the dullest of excesses, The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all. Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late, On life’s worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, To set up vain pretence of being great, ’Tis not so to be good; and be it stated, The worthiest kings have ever loved least state; And tell them—But you won’t, and I have prated Just now enough; but by and by I’ll prattle Like Roland’s horn in Roncesvalles’ battle. [Illustration] CANTO THE ELEVENTH. When Bishop Berkeley said ‘there was no matter,’ And proved it—’twas no matter what he said: They say his system ’tis in vain to batter, Too subtle for the airiest human head; And yet who can believe it? I would shatter Gladly all matters down to stone or lead, Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, And wear my head, denying that I wear it. What a sublime discovery ’twas to make the Universe universal egotism, That all ’s ideal—all ourselves: I’ll stake the World (be it what you will) that that ’s no schism. O Doubt!—if thou be’st Doubt, for which some take thee; But which I doubt extremely—thou sole prism Of the Truth’s rays, spoil not my draught of spirit! Heaven’s brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it. For ever and anon comes Indigestion, (Not the most ‘dainty Ariel’) and perplexes Our soarings with another sort of question: And that which after all my spirit vexes, Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on, Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, The world, which at the worst ’s a glorious blunder—