Chapter 19

In one thing ne’ertheless ’tis fit to praise The Russian army upon this occasion, A virtue much in fashion now-a-days, And therefore worthy of commemoration: The topic ’s tender, so shall be my phrase— Perhaps the season’s chill, and their long station In winter’s depth, or want of rest and victual, Had made them chaste;—they ravish’d very little.

Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less Might here and there occur some violation In the other line;—but not to such excess As when the French, that dissipated nation, Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess, Except cold weather and commiseration; But all the ladies, save some twenty score, Were almost as much virgins as before.

Some odd mistakes, too, happen’d in the dark, Which show’d a want of lanterns, or of taste— Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark Their friends from foes,—besides such things from haste Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark Of light to save the venerably chaste: But six old damsels, each of seventy years, Were all deflower’d by different grenadiers.

But on the whole their continence was great; So that some disappointment there ensued To those who had felt the inconvenient state Of ‘single blessedness,’ and thought it good (Since it was not their fault, but only fate, To bear these crosses) for each waning prude To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding, Without the expense and the suspense of bedding.

Some voices of the buxom middle-aged Were also heard to wonder in the din (Widows of forty were these birds long caged) ‘Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!’ But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged, There was small leisure for superfluous sin; But whether they escaped or no, lies hid In darkness—I can only hope they did.

Suwarrow now was conqueror—a match For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch Blazed, and the cannon’s roar was scarce allay’d, With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch; And here exactly follows what he said:— ‘Glory to God and to the Empress!’ (Powers Eternal! such names mingled!) ‘Ismail ’s ours.’

Methinks these are the most tremendous words, Since ‘Mene, Mene, Tekel,’ and ‘Upharsin,’ Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. Heaven help me! I’m but little of a parson: What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord’s, Severe, sublime; the prophet wrote no farce on The fate of nations;—but this Russ so witty Could rhyme, like Nero, o’er a burning city.

He wrote this Polar melody, and set it, Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it— For I will teach, if possible, the stones To rise against earth’s tyrants. Never let it Be said that we still truckle unto thrones;— But ye—our children’s children! think how we Show’d what things were before the world was free!

That hour is not for us, but ’tis for you: And as, in the great joy of your millennium, You hardly will believe such things were true As now occur, I thought that I would pen you ’em; But may their very memory perish too!— Yet if perchance remember’d, still disdain you ’em More than you scorn the savages of yore, Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore.

And when you hear historians talk of thrones, And those that sate upon them, let it be As we now gaze upon the mammoth’s bones, ‘And wonder what old world such things could see, Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, The pleasant riddles of futurity— Guessing at what shall happily be hid, As the real purpose of a pyramid.

Reader! I have kept my word,—at least so far As the first Canto promised. You have now Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war— All very accurate, you must allow, And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar; For I have drawn much less with a long bow Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing, But Phoebus lends me now and then a string,

With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. What farther hath befallen or may befall The hero of this grand poetic riddle, I by and by may tell you, if at all: But now I choose to break off in the middle, Worn out with battering Ismail’s stubborn wall, While Juan is sent off with the despatch, For which all Petersburgh is on the watch.

This special honour was conferr’d, because He had behaved with courage and humanity— Which last men like, when they have time to pause From their ferocities produced by vanity. His little captive gain’d him some applause For saving her amidst the wild insanity Of carnage,—and I think he was more glad in her Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir.

The Moslem orphan went with her protector, For she was homeless, houseless, helpless; all Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, Had perish’d in the field or by the wall: Her very place of birth was but a spectre Of what it had been; there the Muezzin’s cal To prayer was heard no more!—and Juan wept, And made a vow to shield her, which he kept.

CANTO THE NINTH.

O, Wellington! (or ‘Villainton’—for Fame Sounds the heroic syllables both ways; France could not even conquer your great name, But punn’d it down to this facetious phrase— Beating or beaten she will laugh the same), You have obtain’d great pensions and much praise: Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, Humanity would rise, and thunder ‘Nay!’

I don’t think that you used Kinnaird quite well In Marinet’s affair—in fact, ’twas shabby, And like some other things won’t do to tell Upon your tomb in Westminster’s old abbey. Upon the rest ’tis not worth while to dwell, Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby; But though your years as man tend fast to zero, In fact your grace is still but a young hero.

Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much, Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more: You have repair’d Legitimacy’s crutch, A prop not quite so certain as before: The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore; And Waterloo has made the world your debtor (I wish your bards would sing it rather better).

You are ‘the best of cut-throats:’—do not start; The phrase is Shakspeare’s, and not misapplied: War ’s a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, Unless her cause by right be sanctified. If you have acted once a generous part, The world, not the world’s masters, will decide, And I shall be delighted to learn who, Save you and yours, have gain’d by Waterloo?

I am no flatterer—you’ve supp’d full of flattery: They say you like it too—’tis no great wonder. He whose whole life has been assault and battery, At last may get a little tired of thunder; And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he May like being praised for every lucky blunder, Call’d ‘Saviour of the Nations’—not yet saved, And ‘Europe’s Liberator’—still enslaved.

I’ve done. Now go and dine from off the plate Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, And send the sentinel before your gate A slice or two from your luxurious meals: He fought, but has not fed so well of late. Some hunger, too, they say the people feels:— There is no doubt that you deserve your ration, But pray give back a little to the nation.

I don’t mean to reflect—a man so great as You, my lord duke! is far above reflection: The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus, With modern history has but small connection: Though as an Irishman you love potatoes, You need not take them under your direction; And half a million for your Sabine farm Is rather dear!—I’m sure I mean no harm.

Great men have always scorn’d great recompenses: Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, Not leaving even his funeral expenses: George Washington had thanks and nought beside, Except the all-cloudless glory which few men’s is To free his country: Pitt too had his pride, And as a high-soul’d minister of state is Renown’d for ruining Great Britain gratis.

Never had mortal man such opportunity, Except Napoleon, or abused it more: You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore: And now—what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye? Now—that the rabble’s first vain shouts are o’er? Go! hear it in your famish’d country’s cries! Behold the world! and curse your victories!

As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes, But which ’tis time to teach the hireling tribe Who fatten on their country’s gore, and debts, Must be recited, and—without a bribe. You did great things; but not being great in mind, Have left undone the greatest—and mankind.

Death laughs—Go ponder o’er the skeleton With which men image out the unknown thing That hides the past world, like to a set sun Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring— Death laughs at all you weep for:—look upon This hourly dread of all! whose threaten’d sting Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath: Mark how its lipless mouth grins without breath!

Mark how it laughs and scorns at all you are! And yet was what you are: from ear to ear It laughs not—there is now no fleshy bar So call’d; the Antic long hath ceased to hear, But still he smiles; and whether near or far, He strips from man that mantle (far more dear Than even the tailor’s), his incarnate skin, White, black, or copper—the dead bones will grin.

And thus Death laughs,—it is sad merriment, But still it is so; and with such example Why should not Life be equally content With his superior, in a smile to trample Upon the nothings which are daily spent Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample Than the eternal deluge, which devours Suns as rays—worlds like atoms—years like hours?

‘To be, or not to be? that is the question,’ Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. I am neither Alexander nor Hephaestion, Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion; But would much rather have a sound digestion Than Buonaparte’s cancer: could I dash on Through fifty victories to shame or fame— Without a stomach what were a good name?

‘O dura ilia messorum!’—‘Oh Ye rigid guts of reapers!’ I translate For the great benefit of those who know What indigestion is—that inward fate Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow. A peasant’s sweat is worth his lord’s estate: Let this one toil for bread—that rack for rent, He who sleeps best may be the most content.

‘To be, or not to be?’—Ere I decide, I should be glad to know that which is being? ’Tis true we speculate both far and wide, And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing: For my part, I’ll enlist on neither side, Until I see both sides for once agreeing. For me, I sometimes think that life is death, Rather than life a mere affair of breath.

‘Que scais-je?’ was the motto of Montaigne, As also of the first academicians: That all is dubious which man may attain, Was one of their most favourite positions. There’s no such thing as certainty, that ’s plain As any of Mortality’s conditions; So little do we know what we’re about in This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting.

It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation; But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? Your wise men don’t know much of navigation; And swimming long in the abyss of thought Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers.

‘But heaven,’ as Cassio says, ‘is above all— No more of this, then,—let us pray!’ We have Souls to save, since Eve’s slip and Adam’s fall, Which tumbled all mankind into the grave, Besides fish, beasts, and birds. ‘The sparrow’s fall Is special providence,’ though how it gave Offence, we know not; probably it perch’d Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search’d.

O, ye immortal gods! what is theogony? O, thou too, mortal man! what is philanthropy? O, world! which was and is, what is cosmogony? Some people have accused me of misanthropy; And yet I know no more than the mahogany That forms this desk, of what they mean; lykanthropy I comprehend, for without transformation Men become wolves on any slight occasion.

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne’er Done anything exceedingly unkind,— And (though I could not now and then forbear Following the bent of body or of mind) Have always had a tendency to spare,— Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.—and here we’ll pause.

’Tis time we should proceed with our good poem,— For I maintain that it is really good, Not only in the body but the proem, However little both are understood Just now,—but by and by the Truth will show ’em Herself in her sublimest attitude: And till she doth, I fain must be content To share her beauty and her banishment.

Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader, yours) Was left upon his way to the chief city Of the immortal Peter’s polish’d boors Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty. I know its mighty empire now allures Much flattery—even Voltaire’s, and that ’s a pity. For me, I deem an absolute autocrat Not a barbarian, but much worse than that.

And I will war, at least in words (and—should My chance so happen—deeds), with all who war With Thought;—and of Thought’s foes by far most rude, Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. I know not who may conquer: if I could Have such a prescience, it should be no bar To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation Of every depotism in every nation.

It is not that I adulate the people: Without me, there are demagogues enough, And infidels, to pull down every steeple, And set up in their stead some proper stuff. Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell, As is the Christian dogma rather rough, I do not know;—I wish men to be free As much from mobs as kings—from you as me.

The consequence is, being of no party, I shall offend all parties: never mind! My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty Than if I sought to sail before the wind. He who has nought to gain can have small art: he Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind, May still expatiate freely, as will I, Nor give my voice to slavery’s jackal cry.

That ’s an appropriate simile, that jackal;— I’ve heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl By night, as do that mercenary pack all, Power’s base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, And scent the prey their masters would attack all. However, the poor jackals are less foul (As being the brave lions’ keen providers) Than human insects, catering for spiders.

Raise but an arm! ’twill brush their web away, And without that, their poison and their claws Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say (Or rather peoples)—go on without pause! The web of these tarantulas each day Increases, till you shall make common cause: None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, As yet are strongly stinging to be free.

Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, Was left upon his way with the despatch, Where blood was talk’d of as we would of water; And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch O’er silenced cities, merely served to flatter Fair Catherine’s pastime—who look’d on the match Between these nations as a main of cocks, Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.

And there in a kibitka he roll’d on (A cursed sort of carriage without springs, Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone), Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, And orders, and on all that he had done— And wishing that post-horses had the wings Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is.

At every jolt—and they were many—still He turn’d his eyes upon his little charge, As if he wish’d that she should fare less ill Than he, in these sad highways left at large To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature’s skill, Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge On her canals, where God takes sea and land, Fishery and farm, both into his own hand.

At least he pays no rent, and has best right To be the first of what we used to call ‘Gentlemen farmer’—a race worn out quite, Since lately there have been no rents at all, And ‘gentlemen’ are in a piteous plight, And ‘farmers’ can’t raise Ceres from her fall: She fell with Buonaparte—What strange thoughts Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats!

But Juan turn’d his eyes on the sweet child Whom he had saved from slaughter—what a trophy O! ye who build up monuments, defiled With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy, Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild, And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner! Because he could no more digest his dinner;—

O ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect, That one life saved, especially if young Or pretty, is a thing to recollect Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung From the manure of human clay, though deck’d With all the praises ever said or sung: Though hymn’d by every harp, unless within Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din.

O! ye great authors luminous, voluminous! Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes! Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine us! Whether you’re paid by government in bribes, To prove the public debt is not consuming us— Or, roughly treading on the ‘courtier’s kibes’ With clownish heel, your popular circulation Feeds you by printing half the realm’s starvation;—

O, ye great authors!—‘Apropos des bottes,’— I have forgotten what I meant to say, As sometimes have been greater sages’ lots; ’Twas something calculated to allay All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots: Certes it would have been but thrown away, And that ’s one comfort for my lost advice, Although no doubt it was beyond all price.

But let it go:—it will one day be found With other relics of ‘a former world,’ When this world shall be former, underground, Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp’d, and curl’d, Baked, fried, or burnt, turn’d inside-out, or drown’d, Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl’d First out of, and then back again to chaos, The superstratum which will overlay us.

So Cuvier says;—and then shall come again Unto the new creation, rising out From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain Of things destroy’d and left in airy doubt: Like to the notions we now entertain Of Titans, giants, fellows of about Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles.

Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up! How the new worldlings of the then new East Will wonder where such animals could sup! (For they themselves will be but of the least: Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, And every new creation hath decreased In size, from overworking the material— Men are but maggots of some huge Earth’s burial.)

How will—to these young people, just thrust out From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough, And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, Till all the arts at length are brought about, Especially of war and taxing,—how, I say, will these great relics, when they see ’em, Look like the monsters of a new museum?

But I am apt to grow too metaphysical: ‘The time is out of joint,’—and so am I; I quite forget this poem ’s merely quizzical, And deviate into matters rather dry. I ne’er decide what I shall say, and this I call Much too poetical: men should know why They write, and for what end; but, note or text, I never know the word which will come next.

So on I ramble, now and then narrating, Now pondering:—it is time we should narrate. I left Don Juan with his horses baiting— Now we’ll get o’er the ground at a great rate. I shall not be particular in stating His journey, we’ve so many tours of late: Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose That pleasant capital of painted snows;

Suppose him in a handsome uniform,— A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, Waving, like sails new shiver’d in a storm, Over a cock’d hat in a crowded room, And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, Of yellow casimere we may presume, White stocking drawn uncurdled as new milk O’er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk;

Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand, Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor— That great enchanter, at whose rod’s command Beauty springs forth, and Nature’s self turns paler, Seeing how Art can make her work more grand (When she don’t pin men’s limbs in like a gaoler),— Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He Seems Love turn’d a lieutenant of artillery:—

His bandage slipp’d down into a cravat; His wings subdued to epaulettes; his quiver Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever; His bow converted into a cock’d hat; But still so like, that Psyche were more clever Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid), If she had not mistaken him for Cupid.

The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper’d, and The empress smiled: the reigning favourite frown’d— I quite forget which of them was in hand Just then; as they are rather numerous found, Who took by turns that difficult command Since first her majesty was singly crown’d: But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, All fit to make a Patagonian jealous.

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, Blushing and beardless; and yet ne’ertheless There was a something in his turn of limb, And still more in his eye, which seem’d to express, That though he look’d one of the seraphim, There lurk’d a man beneath the spirit’s dress. Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff, Or Scherbatoff, or any other off Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough Within her bosom (which was not too tough) For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, Of him who, in the language of his station, Then held that ‘high official situation.’

O, gentle ladies! should you seek to know The import of this diplomatic phrase, Bid Ireland’s Londonderry’s Marquess show His parts of speech; and in the strange displays Of that odd string of words, all in a row, Which none divine, and every one obeys, Perhaps you may pick out some queer no meaning, Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning.

I think I can explain myself without That sad inexplicable beast of prey— That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, Did not his deeds unriddle them each day— That monstrous hieroglyphic—that long spout Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh! And here I must an anecdote relate, But luckily of no great length or weight.

An English lady ask’d of an Italian, What were the actual and official duties Of the strange thing some women set a value on, Which hovers oft about some married beauties, Called ‘Cavalier servente?’—a Pygmalion Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true ’tis) Beneath his art. The dame, press’d to disclose them, Said—‘Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.’