But what confused him more than smile or stare From all the ’squires and ’squiresses around, Who wonder’d at the abstraction of his air, Especially as he had been renown’d For some vivacity among the fair, Even in the country circle’s narrow bound (For little things upon my lord’s estate Were good small talk for others still less great)— Was, that he caught Aurora’s eye on his, And something like a smile upon her cheek. Now this he really rather took amiss: In those who rarely smile, their smiles bespeak A strong external motive; and in this Smile of Aurora’s there was nought to pique Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles Which some pretend to trace in ladies’ smiles. ’Twas a mere quiet smile of contemplation, Indicative of some surprise and pity; And Juan grew carnation with vexation, Which was not very wise, and still less witty, Since he had gain’d at least her observation, A most important outwork of the city— As Juan should have known, had not his senses By last night’s ghost been driven from their defences. But what was bad, she did not blush in turn, Nor seem embarrass’d—quite the contrary; Her aspect was as usual, still—not stern— And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye, Yet grew a little pale—with what? concern? I know not; but her colour ne’er was high— Though sometimes faintly flush’d—and always clear, As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. But Adeline was occupied by fame This day; and watching, witching, condescending To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game, And dignity with courtesy so blending, As all must blend whose part it is to aim (Especially as the sixth year is ending) At their lord’s, son’s, or similar connection’s Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections. Though this was most expedient on the whole, And usual—Juan, when he cast a glance On Adeline while playing her grand role, Which she went through as though it were a dance, Betraying only now and then her soul By a look scarce perceptibly askance (Of weariness or scorn), began to feel Some doubt how much of Adeline was real; So well she acted all and every part By turns—with that vivacious versatility, Which many people take for want of heart. They err—’tis merely what is call’d mobility, A thing of temperament and not of art, Though seeming so, from its supposed facility; And false—though true; for surely they’re sincerest Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest. This makes your actors, artists, and romancers, Heroes sometimes, though seldom—sages never; But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, Little that ’s great, but much of what is clever; Most orators, but very few financiers, Though all Exchequer chancellors endeavour, Of late years, to dispense with Cocker’s rigours, And grow quite figurative with their figures.