Don Juan Part 32

CANTO THE TENTH.

When Newton saw an apple fall, he found In that slight startle from his contemplation-- 'T is said (for I 'll not answer above ground For any sage's creed or calculation)-- A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round In a most natural whirl, called 'gravitation;'

And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple.

Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, If this be true; for we must deem the mode In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road, A thing to counterbalance human woes: For ever since immortal man hath glow'd With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon.

And wherefore this exordium?--Why, just now, In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, My bosom underwent a glorious glow, And my internal spirit cut a caper: And though so much inferior, as I know, To those who, by the dint of gla.s.s and vapour, Discover stars and sail in the wind's eye, I wish to do as much by poesy.

In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail; but for The stars, I own my telescope is dim: But at least I have shunn'd the common sh.o.r.e, And leaving land far out of sight, would skim The ocean of eternity: the roar Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float Where s.h.i.+ps have founder'd, as doth many a boat.

We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush; And far be it from my Muses to presume (For I have more than one Muse at a push) To follow him beyond the drawing-room: It is enough that Fortune found him flush Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings.

But soon they grow again and leave their nest.

'Oh!' saith the Psalmist, 'that I had a dove's Pinions to flee away, and be at rest!'

And who that recollects young years and loves,-- Though h.o.a.ry now, and with a withering breast, And palsied fancy, which no longer roves Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere,--but would much rather Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather?

But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink, Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow, So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, Which threatens inundations deep and yellow!

Such difference doth a few months make. You 'd think Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow; No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys, Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys.

But coughs will come when sighs depart--and now And then before sighs cease; for oft the one Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun Of life reach'd ten o'clock: and while a glow, Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay, Thousands blaze, love, hope, die,--how happy they!

But Juan was not meant to die so soon.

We left him in the focus of such glory As may be won by favour of the moon Or ladies' fancies--rather transitory Perhaps; but who would scorn the month of June, Because December, with his breath so h.o.a.ry, Must come? Much rather should he court the ray, To h.o.a.rd up warmth against a wintry day.

Besides, he had some qualities which fix Middle-aged ladies even more than young: The former know what 's what; while new-fledged chicks Know little more of love than what is sung In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks) In visions of those skies from whence Love sprung.

Some reckon women by their suns or years, I rather think the moon should date the dears.

And why? because she 's changeable and chaste.

I know no other reason, whatsoe'er Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, May choose to tax me with; which is not fair, Nor flattering to 'their temper or their taste,'

As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air: However, I forgive him, and I trust He will forgive himself;--if not, I must.

Old enemies who have become new friends Should so continue--'t is a point of honour; And I know nothing which could make amends For a return to hatred: I would shun her Like garlic, howsoever she extends Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her.

Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes-- Converted foes should scorn to join with those.

This were the worst desertion:--renegadoes, Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie, Would scarcely join again the 'reformadoes,'

Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty: And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes, Whether in Caledon or Italy, Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize To pain, the moment when you cease to please.

The lawyer and the critic but behold The baser sides of literature and life, And nought remains unseen, but much untold, By those who scour those double vales of strife.

While common men grow ignorantly old, The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife, Dissecting the whole inside of a question, And with it all the process of digestion.

A legal broom 's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that 's the reason he himself 's so dirty; The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper Than can be hid by altering his s.h.i.+rt; he Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper, At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty, In all their habits;--not so you, I own; As Caesar wore his robe you wear your gown.

And all our little feuds, at least all mine, Dear Jefferson, once my most redoubted foe (As far as rhyme and criticism combine To make such puppets of us things below), Are over: Here 's a health to 'Auld Lang Syne!'

I do not know you, and may never know Your face--but you have acted on the whole Most n.o.bly, and I own it from my soul.

And when I use the phrase of 'Auld Lang Syne!'

'T is not address'd to you--the more 's the pity For me, for I would rather take my wine With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city.

But somehow,--it may seem a schoolboy's whine, And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred A whole one, and my heart flies to my head,--

As 'Auld Lang Syne' brings Scotland, one and all, Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams, The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black wall, All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, Like Banquo's offspring;--floating past me seems My childhood in this childishness of mine: I care not--'t is a glimpse of 'Auld Lang Syne.'

And though, as you remember, in a fit Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit, Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, Yet 't is in vain such sallies to permit, They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early: I 'scotch'd not kill'd' the Scotchman in my blood, And love the land of 'mountain and of flood.'

Don Juan, who was real, or ideal,-- For both are much the same, since what men think Exists when the once thinkers are less real Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal; And yet 't is very puzzling on the brink Of what is call'd eternity, to stare, And know no more of what is here, than there;--

Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian-- How we won't mention, why we need not say: Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion Of any slight temptation in their way; But his just now were spread as is a cus.h.i.+on Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honour; gay Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny.

The favour of the empress was agreeable; And though the duty wax'd a little hard, Young people at his time of life should be able To come off handsomely in that regard.

He was now growing up like a green tree, able For love, war, or ambition, which reward Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium Make some prefer the circulating medium.

About this time, as might have been antic.i.p.ated, Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated; Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples On our fresh feelings, but--as being partic.i.p.ated With all kinds of incorrigible samples Of frail humanity--must make us selfish, And shut our souls up in us like a sh.e.l.l-fish.

This we pa.s.s over. We will also pa.s.s The usual progress of intrigues between Unequal matches, such as are, alas!

A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, But one who is not so youthful as she was In all the royalty of sweet seventeen.

Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter,

And Death, the sovereign's sovereign, though the great Gracchus of all mortality, who levels With his Agrarian laws the high estate Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels, To one small gra.s.s-grown patch (which must await Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils Who never had a foot of land till now,-- Death 's a reformer, all men must allow.

He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter, In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry-- Which (though I hate to say a thing that 's bitter) Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, Through all the 'purple and fine linen,' fitter For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot-- And neutralize her outward show of scarlet.

And this same state we won't describe: we would Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection; But getting nigh grim Dante's 'obscure wood,'

That horrid equinox, that hateful section Of human years, that half-way house, that rude Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circ.u.mspection Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear;--

I won't describe,--that is, if I can help Description; and I won't reflect,--that is, If I can stave off thought, which--as a whelp Clings to its teat--sticks to me through the abyss Of this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp Holds by the rock; or as a lover's kiss Drains its first draught of lips:--but, as I said, I won't philosophise, and will be read.

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted,-- A thing which happens rarely: this he owed Much to his youth, and much to his reported Valour; much also to the blood he show'd, Like a race-horse; much to each dress he sported, Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd, As purple clouds befringe the sun; but most He owed to an old woman and his post.

He wrote to Spain:--and all his near relations, Perceiving fie was in a handsome way Of getting on himself, and finding stations For cousins also, answer'd the same day.

Several prepared themselves for emigrations; And eating ices, were o'erheard to say, That with the addition of a slight pelisse, Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a piece.

His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too, That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, Where his a.s.sets were waxing rather few, He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor,-- Replied, 'that she was glad to see him through Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker; As the sole sign of man's being in his senses Is, learning to reduce his past expenses.

'She also recommended him to G.o.d, And no less to G.o.d's Son, as well as Mother, Warn'd him against Greek wors.h.i.+p, which looks odd In Catholic eyes; but told him, too, to smother Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad; Inform'd him that he had a little brother Born in a second wedlock; and above All, praised the empress's maternal love.

'She could not too much give her approbation Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men Whose age, and what was better still, whose nation And climate, stopp'd all scandal (now and then):-- At home it might have given her some vexation; But where thermometers sunk down to ten, Or five, or one, or zero, she could never Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river.'

O for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise! Oh for trumps of cherubim!

Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, Drew quiet consolation through its hint, When she no more could read the pious print.

She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul, But went to heaven in as sincere a way As any body on the elected roll, Which portions out upon the judgment day Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll, Such as the conqueror William did repay His knights with, lotting others' properties Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees.

I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, Erneis, Radulphus--eight-and-forty manors (If that my memory doth not greatly err) Were their reward for following Billy's banners: And though I can't help thinking 't was scarce fair To strip the Saxons of their hydes, like tanners; Yet as they founded churches with the produce, You 'll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use.

The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times He felt like other plants called sensitive, Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes, Save such as Southey can afford to give.

Perhaps he long'd in bitter frosts for climes In which the Neva's ice would cease to live Before May-day: perhaps, despite his duty, In royalty's vast arms he sigh d for beauty:

Perhaps--but, sans perhaps, we need not seek For causes young or old: the canker-worm Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek, As well as further drain the wither'd form: Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week His bills in, and however we may storm, They must be paid: though six days smoothly run, The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun.