Don Juan Part 42

But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning The scanty but right-well thresh'd ears of truth; And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning, You may be Boaz, and I--modest Ruth.

Farther I 'd quote, but Scripture intervening Forbids. Its great impression in my youth Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries, 'That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies.'

But what we can we glean in this vile age Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist.

I must not quite omit the talking sage, Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist, Who, in his common-place book, had a page Prepared each morn for evenings. 'List, oh, list!'- 'Alas, poor ghost!'--What unexpected woes Await those who have studied their bon-mots!

Firstly, they must allure the conversation By many windings to their clever clinch; And secondly, must let slip no occasion, Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, But take an ell--and make a great sensation, If possible; and thirdly, never flinch When some smart talker puts them to the test, But seize the last word, which no doubt 's the best.

Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts; The party we have touch'd on were the guests: Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts To pa.s.s the Styx for more substantial feasts.

I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, Albeit all human history attests That happiness for man--the hungry sinner!- Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.

Witness the lands which 'flow'd with milk and honey,'

Held out unto the hungry Israelites; To this we have added since, the love of money, The only sort of pleasure which requites.

Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny; We tire of mistresses and parasites; But oh, ambrosial cas.h.!.+ Ah! who would lose thee?

When we no more can use, or even abuse thee!

The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport-- The first thing boys like after play and fruit; The middle-aged to make the day more short; For ennui is a growth of English root, Though nameless in our language:--we retort The fact for words, and let the French translate That awful yawn which sleep can not abate.

The elderly walk'd through the library, And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously, And made upon the hot-house several strictures, Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, Or on the morning papers read their lectures, Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, Longing at sixty for the hour of six.

But none were 'gene:' the great hour of union Was rung by dinner's knell; till then all were Masters of their own time--or in communion, Or solitary, as they chose to bear The hours, which how to pa.s.s is but to few known.

Each rose up at his own, and had to spare What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast When, where, and how he chose for that repast.

The ladies--some rouged, some a little pale-- Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, Or walk'd; if foul, they read, or told a tale, Sung, or rehea.r.s.ed the last dance from abroad; Discuss'd the fas.h.i.+on which might next prevail, And settled bonnets by the newest code, Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter, To make each correspondent a new debtor.

For some had absent lovers, all had friends.

The earth has nothing like a she epistle, And hardly heaven--because it never ends.

I love the mystery of a female missal, Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends, But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, When he allured poor Dolon:--you had better Take care what you reply to such a letter.

Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice;-- Save in the clubs no man of honour plays;-- Boats when 't was water, skating when 't was ice, And the hard frost destroy'd the scenting days: And angling, too, that solitary vice, Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says; The quaint, old, cruel c.o.xcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

With evening came the banquet and the wine; The conversazione; the duet, Attuned by voices more or less divine (My heart or head aches with the memory yet).

The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would s.h.i.+ne; But the two youngest loved more to be set Down to the harp--because to music's charms They added graceful necks, white hands and arms.

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days, For then the gentlemen were rather tired) Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze; Then there was small-talk ready when required; Flirtation--but decorous; the mere praise Of charms that should or should not be admired.

The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again, And then retreated soberly--at ten.

The politicians, in a nook apart, Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres; The wits watch'd every loophole for their art, To introduce a bon-mot head and ears; Small is the rest of those who would be smart, A moment's good thing may have cost them years Before they find an hour to introduce it; And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it.

But all was gentle and aristocratic In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and cold, As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic.

There now are no Squire Westerns as of old; And our Sophias are not so emphatic, But fair as then, or fairer to behold.

We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones, But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones.

They separated at an early hour; That is, ere midnight--which is London's noon: But in the country ladies seek their bower A little earlier than the waning moon.

Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower-- May the rose call back its true colour soon!

Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, And lower the price of rouge--at least some winters.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Canto 14]

CANTO THE FOURTEENTH.

If from great nature's or our own abyss Of thought we could but s.n.a.t.c.h a certainty, Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss-- But then 't would spoil much good philosophy.

One system eats another up, and this Much as old Saturn ate his progeny; For when his pious consort gave him stones In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.

But System doth reverse the t.i.tan's breakfast, And eats her parents, albeit the digestion Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast, After due search, your faith to any question?

Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one.

Nothing more true than not to trust your senses; And yet what are your other evidences?

For me, I know nought; nothing I deny, Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you, Except perhaps that you were born to die?

And both may after all turn out untrue.

An age may come, Font of Eternity, When nothing shall be either old or new.

Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is pa.s.s'd in sleep.

A sleep without dreams, after a rough day Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!

The very Suicide that pays his debt At once without instalments (an old way Of paying debts, which creditors regret) Lets out impatiently his rus.h.i.+ng breath, Less from disgust of life than dread of death.

'T is round him, near him, here, there, every where; And there 's a courage which grows out of fear, Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare The worst to know it:--when the mountains rear Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there You look down o'er the precipice, and drear The gulf of rock yawns,--you can't gaze a minute Without an awful wish to plunge within it.

'T is true, you don't--but, pale and struck with terror, Retire: but look into your past impression!

And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession, The lurking bias, be it truth or error, To the unknown; a secret prepossession, To plunge with all your fears--but where? You know not, And that's the reason why you do--or do not.

But what 's this to the purpose? you will say.

Gent. reader, nothing; a mere speculation, For which my sole excuse is--'t is my way; Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion I write what 's uppermost, without delay: This narrative is not meant for narration, But a mere airy and fantastic basis, To build up common things with common places.

You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 'Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows;'

And such a straw, borne on by human breath, Is poesy, according as the mind glows; A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, A shadow which the onward soul behind throws: And mine 's a bubble, not blown up for praise, But just to play with, as an infant plays.

The world is all before me--or behind; For I have seen a portion of that same, And quite enough for me to keep in mind;-- Of pa.s.sions, too, I have proved enough to blame, To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame; For I was rather famous in my time, Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme.

I have brought this world about my ears, and eke The other; that 's to say, the clergy, who Upon my head have bid their thunders break In pious libels by no means a few.

And yet I can't help scribbling once a week, Tiring old readers, nor discovering new.

In youth I wrote because my mind was full, And now because I feel it growing dull.

But 'why then publish?'--There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary.

I ask in turn,--Why do you play at cards?

Why drink? Why read?--To make some hour less dreary.

It occupies me to turn back regards On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink--I have had at least my dream.

I think that were I certain of success, I hardly could compose another line: So long I 've battled either more or less, That no defeat can drive me from the Nine.

This feeling 't is not easy to express, And yet 't is not affected, I opine.

In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing-- The one is winning, and the other losing.

Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: She gathers a repertory of facts, Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, But mostly sings of human things and acts-- And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction; For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts; And were her object only what 's call'd glory, With more ease too she 'd tell a different story.

Love, war, a tempest--surely there 's variety; Also a seasoning slight of lucubration; A bird's-eye view, too, of that wild, Society; A slight glance thrown on men of every station.

If you have nought else, here 's at least satiety Both in performance and in preparation; And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, Trade will be all the better for these Cantos.