Don Juan Part 36

If I might augur, I should rate but low Their chances; they 're too numerous, like the thirty Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty.

This is the literary lower empire, Where the praetorian bands take up the matter;-- A 'dreadful trade,' like his who 'gathers samphire,'

The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter, With the same feelings as you 'd coax a vampire.

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, I 'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, And show them what an intellectual war is.

I think I know a trick or two, would turn Their flanks;--but it is hardly worth my while With such small gear to give myself concern: Indeed I 've not the necessary bile; My natural temper 's really aught but stern, And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a smile; And then she drops a brief and modern curtsy, And glides away, a.s.sured she never hurts ye.

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril Amongst live poets and blue ladies, past With some small profit through that field so sterile, Being tired in time, and, neither least nor last, Left it before he had been treated very ill; And henceforth found himself more gaily cla.s.s'd Amongst the higher spirits of the day, The sun's true son, no vapour, but a ray.

His morns he pa.s.s'd in business--which, dissected, Was like all business a laborious nothing That leads to la.s.situde, the most infected And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing, And on our sofas makes us lie dejected, And talk in tender horrors of our loathing All kinds of toil, save for our country's good-- Which grows no better, though 't is time it should.

His afternoons he pa.s.s'd in visits, luncheons, Lounging and boxing; and the twilight hour In riding round those vegetable puncheons Call'd 'Parks,' where there is neither fruit nor flower Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings; But after all it is the only 'bower'

(In Moore's phrase), where the fashionable fair Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air.

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world!

Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar Through street and square fast flashing chariots hurl'd Like harness'd meteors; then along the floor Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd; Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, Which opens to the thousand happy few An earthly paradise of 'Or Molu.'

There stands the n.o.ble hostess, nor shall sink With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the waltz, The only dance which teaches girls to think, Makes one in love even with its very faults.

Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink, And long the latest of arrivals halts, 'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb, And gain an inch of staircase at a time.

Thrice happy he who, after a survey Of the good company, can win a corner, A door that's in or boudoir out of the way, Where he may fix himself like small 'Jack Horner,'

And let the Babel round run as it may, And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, Or an approver, or a mere spectator, Yawning a little as the night grows later.

But this won't do, save by and by; and he Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share, Must steer with care through all that glittering sea Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, to where He deems it is his proper place to be; Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air, Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille.

Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride, Let him take care that that which he pursues Is not at once too palpably descried.

Full many an eager gentleman oft rues His haste: impatience is a blundering guide, Amongst a people famous for reflection, Who like to play the fool with circ.u.mspection.

But, if you can contrive, get next at supper; Or, if forestalled, get opposite and ogle:-- O, ye ambrosial moments! always upper In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper, The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue! Ill Can tender souls relate the rise and fall Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball.

But these precautionary hints can touch Only the common run, who must pursue, And watch, and ward; whose plans a word too much Or little overturns; and not the few Or many (for the number's sometimes such) Whom a good mien, especially if new, Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense, Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since.

Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, n.o.ble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom, Before he can escape from so much danger As will environ a conspicuous man. Some Talk about poetry, and 'rack and manger,'

And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble;-- I wish they knew the life of a young n.o.ble.

They are young, but know not youth--it is antic.i.p.ated; Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou; Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated; Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to a Jew; Both senates see their nightly votes partic.i.p.ated Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew; And having voted, dined, drunk, gamed, and wh.o.r.ed, The family vault receives another lord.

'Where is the world?' cries Young, at eighty--'Where The world in which a man was born? 'Alas!

Where is the world of eight years past? 'T was there-- I look for it--'t is gone, a globe of gla.s.s!

Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere A silent change dissolves the glittering ma.s.s.

Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings.

Where is Napoleon the Grand? G.o.d knows.

Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell: Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those Who bound the bar or senate in their spell?

Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes?

And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved well?

Where are those martyr'd saints the Five per Cents?

And where--oh, where the devil are the rents?

Where 's Brummel? Dish'd. Where 's Long Pole Wellesley? Diddled.

Where 's Whitbread? Romilly? Where 's George the Third?

Where is his will? (That 's not so soon unriddled.) And where is 'Fum' the Fourth, our 'royal bird?'

Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard: 'Caw me, caw thee'--for six months hath been hatching This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching.

Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That?

The Honourable Mistresses and Misses?

Some laid aside like an old Opera hat, Married, unmarried, and remarried (this is An evolution oft performed of late).

Where are the Dublin shouts--and London hisses?

Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd as usual. Where My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were.

Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses?

Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is,-- Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies Of fashion,--say what streams now fill those channels?

Some die, some fly, some languish on the Continent, Because the times have hardly left them one tenant.

Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes, Have taken up at length with younger brothers: Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks: Some maids have been made wives, some merely mothers; Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks: In short, the list of alterations bothers.

There 's little strange in this, but something strange is The unusual quickness of these common changes.

Talk not of seventy years as age; in seven I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to The humblest individual under heaven, Than might suffice a moderate century through.

I knew that nought was lasting, but now even Change grows too changeable, without being new: Nought 's permanent among the human race, Except the Whigs not getting into place.

I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter, Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke (No matter which) turn politician stupider, If that can well be, than his wooden look.

But it is time that I should hoist my 'blue Peter,'

And sail for a new theme:--I have seen--and shook To see it--the king hiss'd, and then caress'd; But don't pretend to settle which was best.

I have seen the Landholders without a rap-- I have seen Joanna Southcote--I have seen-- The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap-- I have seen that sad affair of the late Queen-- I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's cap-- I have seen a Congress doing all that 's mean-- I have seen some nations like o'erloaded a.s.ses Kick off their burthens, meaning the high cla.s.ses.

I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and Interminable--not eternal--speakers-- I have seen the funds at war with house and land-- I have seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers-- I have seen the people ridden o'er like sand By slaves on horseback--I have seen malt liquors Exchanged for 'thin potations' by John Bull-- I have seen john half detect himself a fool.-

But 'carpe diem,' Juan, 'carpe, carpe!'

To-morrow sees another race as gay And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy.

'Life 's a poor player,'--then 'play out the play, Ye villains!' above all keep a sharp eye Much less on what you do than what you say: Be hypocritical, be cautious, be Not what you seem, but always what you see.

But how shall I relate in other cantos Of what befell our hero in the land, Which 't is the common cry and lie to vaunt as A moral country? But I hold my hand-- For I disdain to write an Atalantis; But 't is as well at once to understand, You are not a moral people, and you know it Without the aid of too sincere a poet.

What Juan saw and underwent shall be My topic, with of course the due restriction Which is required by proper courtesy; And recollect the work is only fiction, And that I sing of neither mine nor me, Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt This--when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out.

Whether he married with the third or fourth Offspring of some sage husband-hunting countess, Or whether with some virgin of more worth (I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties) He took to regularly peopling Earth, Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is,-- Or whether he was taken in for damages, For being too excursive in his homages,--

Is yet within the unread events of time.

Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back Against the same given quant.i.ty of rhyme, For being as much the subject of attack As ever yet was any work sublime, By those who love to say that white is black.

So much the better!--I may stand alone, But would not change my free thoughts for a throne.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Canto 12]

CANTO THE TWELTH.