Part 5

But now at thirty years my hair is grey (I wonder what it will be like at forty? I thought of a peruke the other day)— My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I Have squander’d my whole summer while ’twas May, And feel no more the spirit to retort; I Have spent my life, both interest and principal, And deem not, what I deem’d, my soul invincible.

No more—no more—Oh! never more on me The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, Which out of all the lovely things we see Extracts emotions beautiful and new, Hived in our bosoms like the bag o’ the bee: Think’st thou the honey with those objects grew? Alas! ’twas not in them, but in thy power To double even the sweetness of a flower.

No more—no more—Oh! never more, my heart, Canst thou be my sole world, my universe! Once all in all, but now a thing apart, Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse: The illusion ’s gone for ever, and thou art Insensible, I trust, but none the worse, And in thy stead I’ve got a deal of judgment, Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment.

My days of love are over; me no more The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, Can make the fool of which they made before,— In short, I must not lead the life I did do; The credulous hope of mutual minds is o’er, The copious use of claret is forbid too, So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.

Ambition was my idol, which was broken Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure; And the two last have left me many a token O’er which reflection may be made at leisure: Now, like Friar Bacon’s brazen head, I’ve spoken, ‘Time is, Time was, Time ’s past:’—a chymic treasure Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes— My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

What is the end of Fame? ’tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour; For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their ‘midnight taper,’ To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt’s King Cheops erected the first pyramid And largest, thinking it was just the thing To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; But somebody or other rummaging, Burglariously broke his coffin’s lid: Let not a monument give you or me hopes, Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.

But I being fond of true philosophy, Say very often to myself, ‘Alas! All things that have been born were born to die, And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass; You’ve pass’d your youth not so unpleasantly, And if you had it o’er again—’twould pass— So thank your stars that matters are no worse, And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.’

But for the present, gentle reader! and Still gentler purchaser! the bard—that ’s I— Must, with permission, shake you by the hand, And so ‘Your humble servant, and good-b’ye!’ We meet again, if we should understand Each other; and if not, I shall not try Your patience further than by this short sample— ’Twere well if others follow’d my example.

‘Go, little book, from this my solitude! I cast thee on the waters—go thy ways! And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, The world will find thee after many days.’ When Southey’s read, and Wordsworth understood, I can’t help putting in my claim to praise— The four first rhymes are Southey’s every line: For God’s sake, reader! take them not for mine.

CANTO THE SECOND.

O ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, It mends their morals, never mind the pain: The best of mothers and of educations In Juan’s case were but employ’d in vain, Since, in a way that ’s rather of the oddest, he Became divested of his native modesty.

Had he but been placed at a public school, In the third form, or even in the fourth, His daily task had kept his fancy cool, At least, had he been nurtured in the north; Spain may prove an exception to the rule, But then exceptions always prove its worth— A lad of sixteen causing a divorce Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

I can’t say that it puzzles me at all, If all things be consider’d: first, there was His lady—mother, mathematical, A—never mind; his tutor, an old ass; A pretty woman (that ’s quite natural, Or else the thing had hardly come to pass); A husband rather old, not much in unity With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.

Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis, And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails; The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, The priest instructs, and so our life exhales, A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.

I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz— A pretty town, I recollect it well— ’Tis there the mart of the colonial trade is (Or was, before Peru learn’d to rebel), And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies, Their very walk would make your bosom swell; I can’t describe it, though so much it strike, Nor liken it—I never saw the like:

An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle, No—none of these will do;—and then their garb! Their veil and petticoat—Alas! to dwell Upon such things would very near absorb A canto—then their feet and ankles,—well, Thank Heaven I’ve got no metaphor quite ready (And so, my sober Muse—come, let ’s be steady—

Chaste Muse!—well, if you must, you must)—the veil Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, While the o’erpowering eye, that turns you pale, Flashes into the heart:—All sunny land Of love! when I forget you, may I fail To—say my prayers—but never was there plann’d A dress through which the eyes give such a volley, Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.

But to our tale: the Donna Inez sent Her son to Cadiz only to embark; To stay there had not answer’d her intent, But why?—we leave the reader in the dark— ’Twas for a voyage that the young man was meant, As if a Spanish ship were Noah’s ark, To wean him from the wickedness of earth, And send him like a dove of promise forth.

Don Juan bade his valet pack his things According to direction, then received A lecture and some money: for four springs He was to travel; and though Inez grieved (As every kind of parting has its stings), She hoped he would improve—perhaps believed: A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) Of good advice—and two or three of credit.

In the mean time, to pass her hours away, Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school For naughty children, who would rather play (Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool; Infants of three years old were taught that day, Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool: The great success of Juan’s education, Spurr’d her to teach another generation.

Juan embark’d—the ship got under way, The wind was fair, the water passing rough: A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, As I, who’ve cross’d it oft, know well enough; And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray Flies in one’s face, and makes it weather-tough: And there he stood to take, and take again, His first—perhaps his last—farewell of Spain.

I can’t but say it is an awkward sight To see one’s native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new: I recollect Great Britain’s coast looks white, But almost every other country ’s blue, When gazing on them, mystified by distance, We enter on our nautical existence.

So Juan stood, bewilder’d on the deck: The wind sung, cordage strain’d, and sailors swore, And the ship creak’d, the town became a speck, From which away so fair and fast they bore. The best of remedies is a beef-steak Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before You sneer, and I assure you this is true, For I have found it answer—so may you.

Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern, Beheld his native Spain receding far: First partings form a lesson hard to learn, Even nations feel this when they go to war; There is a sort of unexprest concern, A kind of shock that sets one’s heart ajar: At leaving even the most unpleasant people And places, one keeps looking at the steeple.

But Juan had got many things to leave, His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, So that he had much better cause to grieve Than many persons more advanced in life; And if we now and then a sigh must heave At quitting even those we quit in strife, No doubt we weep for those the heart endears— That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears.

So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews By Babel’s waters, still remembering Sion: I’d weep,—but mine is not a weeping Muse, And such light griefs are not a thing to die on; Young men should travel, if but to amuse Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto.

And Juan wept, and much he sigh’d and thought, While his salt tears dropp’d into the salt sea, ‘Sweets to the sweet’ (I like so much to quote; You must excuse this extract, ’tis where she, The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought Flowers to the grave); and, sobbing often, he Reflected on his present situation, And seriously resolved on reformation.

‘Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!’ he cried, ‘Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, But die, as many an exiled heart hath died, Of its own thirst to see again thy shore: Farewell, where Guadalquivir’s waters glide! Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o’er, Farewell, too, dearest Julia!—(Here he drew Her letter out again, and read it through.)

‘And, oh! if e’er I should forget, I swear— But that ’s impossible, and cannot be— Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air, Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair! Or think of any thing excepting thee; A mind diseased no remedy can physic (Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick).

‘Sooner shall heaven kiss earth (here he fell sicker), O, Julia! what is every other wo? (For God’s sake let me have a glass of liquor; Pedro, Battista, help me down below.) Julia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker)— O, Julia! (this curst vessel pitches so)— Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!’ (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart, Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends, Beyond the best apothecary’s art, The loss of love, the treachery of friends, Or death of those we dote on, when a part Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends: No doubt he would have been much more pathetic, But the sea acted as a strong emetic.

Love ’s a capricious power: I’ve known it hold Out through a fever caused by its own heat, But be much puzzled by a cough and cold, And find a quincy very hard to treat; Against all noble maladies he ’s bold, But vulgar illnesses don’t like to meet, Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh, Nor inflammations redden his blind eye.

But worst of all is nausea, or a pain About the lower region of the bowels; Love, who heroically breathes a vein, Shrinks from the application of hot towels, And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect, how else Could Juan’s passion, while the billows roar, Resist his stomach, ne’er at sea before?

The ship, call’d the most holy ‘Trinidada,’ Was steering duly for the port Leghorn; For there the Spanish family Moncada Were settled long ere Juan’s sire was born: They were relations, and for them he had a Letter of introduction, which the morn Of his departure had been sent him by His Spanish friends for those in Italy.

His suite consisted of three servants and A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, Who several languages did understand, But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow, And rocking in his hammock, long’d for land, His headache being increased by every billow; And the waves oozing through the port-hole made His berth a little damp, and him afraid.

’Twas not without some reason, for the wind Increased at night, until it blew a gale; And though ’twas not much to a naval mind, Some landsmen would have look’d a little pale, For sailors are, in fact, a different kind: At sunset they began to take in sail, For the sky show’d it would come on to blow, And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.

At one o’clock the wind with sudden shift Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, Started the stern-post, also shatter’d the Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift Herself from out her present jeopardy, The rudder tore away: ’twas time to sound The pumps, and there were four feet water found.

One gang of people instantly was put Upon the pumps and the remainder set To get up part of the cargo, and what not; But they could not come at the leak as yet; At last they did get at it really, but Still their salvation was an even bet: The water rush’d through in a way quite puzzling, While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin,

Into the opening; but all such ingredients Would have been vain, and they must have gone down, Despite of all their efforts and expedients, But for the pumps: I’m glad to make them known To all the brother tars who may have need hence, For fifty tons of water were upthrown By them per hour, and they had all been undone, But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London.

As day advanced the weather seem’d to abate, And then the leak they reckon’d to reduce, And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in use. The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose, A gust—which all descriptive power transcends— Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends.

There she lay motionless, and seem’d upset; The water left the hold, and wash’d the decks, And made a scene men do not soon forget; For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, Or any other thing that brings regret, Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks: Thus drownings are much talk’d of by the divers, And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors.

Immediately the masts were cut away, Both main and mizen; first the mizen went, The main-mast follow’d: but the ship still lay Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they Eased her at last (although we never meant To part with all till every hope was blighted), And then with violence the old ship righted.

It may be easily supposed, while this Was going on, some people were unquiet, That passengers would find it much amiss To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet; That even the able seaman, deeming his Days nearly o’er, might be disposed to riot, As upon such occasions tars will ask For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask.

There’s nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms As rum and true religion: thus it was, Some plunder’d, some drank spirits, some sung psalms, The high wind made the treble, and as bas The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured the qualms Of all the luckless landsmen’s sea-sick maws: Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, Clamour’d in chorus to the roaring ocean.

Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, Got to the spirit-room, and stood before It with a pair of pistols; and their fears, As if Death were more dreadful by his door Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears, Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, Thought it would be becoming to die drunk.

‘Give us more grog,’ they cried, ‘for it will be All one an hour hence.’ Juan answer’d, ‘No! ’Tis true that death awaits both you and me, But let us die like men, not sink below Like brutes;’—and thus his dangerous post kept he, And none liked to anticipate the blow; And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, Was for some rum a disappointed suitor.

The good old gentleman was quite aghast, And made a loud and pious lamentation; Repented all his sins, and made a last Irrevocable vow of reformation; Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past) To quit his academic occupation, In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, To follow Juan’s wake, like Sancho Panca.

But now there came a flash of hope once more; Day broke, and the wind lull’d: the masts were gone, The leak increased; shoals round her, but no shore, The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. They tried the pumps again, and though before Their desperate efforts seem’d all useless grown, A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale— The stronger pump’d, the weaker thrumm’d a sail.

Under the vessel’s keel the sail was past, And for the moment it had some effect; But with a leak, and not a stick of mast, Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect? But still ’tis best to struggle to the last, ’Tis never too late to be wholly wreck’d: And though ’tis true that man can only die once, ’Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons.

There winds and waves had hurl’d them, and from thence, Without their will, they carried them away; For they were forced with steering to dispense, And never had as yet a quiet day On which they might repose, or even commence A jurymast or rudder, or could say The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck, Still swam—though not exactly like a duck.

The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, But the ship labour’d so, they scarce could hope To weather out much longer; the distress Was also great with which they had to cope For want of water, and their solid mess Was scant enough: in vain the telescope Was used—nor sail nor shore appear’d in sight, Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night.

Again the weather threaten’d,—again blew A gale, and in the fore and after hold Water appear’d; yet, though the people knew All this, the most were patient, and some bold, Until the chains and leathers were worn through Of all our pumps:—a wreck complete she roll’d, At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are Like human beings during civil war.

Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears In his rough eyes, and told the captain he Could do no more: he was a man in years, And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea, And if he wept at length, they were not fears That made his eyelids as a woman’s be, But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children,— Two things for dying people quite bewildering.

The ship was evidently settling now Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone, Some went to prayers again, and made a vow Of candles to their saints—but there were none To pay them with; and some look’d o’er the bow; Some hoisted out the boats; and there was one That begg’d Pedrillo for an absolution, Who told him to be damn’d—in his confusion.

Some lash’d them in their hammocks; some put on Their best clothes, as if going to a fair; Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, And gnash’d their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair; And others went on as they had begun, Getting the boats out, being well aware That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, Unless with breakers close beneath her lee.