Part 45

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?