But though three bishops told her the transgression, She show'd a great dislike to holy water: She also had no passion for confession: Perhaps she had nothing to confess: no matter: Whate'er the cause, the church made little of itShe still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. LVII. In fact, the only Christian she could bear Was Juan, whom she seem'd to have selected In place of what her home and friends once were. He naturally loved what he protected; And thus they form'd a rather curious pair: A guardian green in years, a ward connected In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender; And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender. LVIII. They journey'd on through Poland and through Warsaw, Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron: Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw Which gave her dukes the graceless name of 'Biron.** [saw 'Tis the same landscape which the modern Mars Who marcli'd to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren! To lose by one month's frost, some twenty years Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. LIX. Let this not coem an anti-climax: 'Oh! My Guard my old Guard!' exclaim'd the god of clay. Think of the thunderer's falling down below But should we wish to warm us on our way Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame. LX. From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, About philosophy, pursued his jaunt LXI. And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, Make my soul pass the equinoctial line Between the present and past worlds, and hover Upon their airy confines, half-seas over. In the Empress Ann's time, Biren, her favourite, assumed the name and arms of the Birons' of France, which families are yet extant with that of England. There are still the daughters of Courland of that name: one of them I remember seeing in England in the blessed year of the Allies-the Duchess of Sto whom the English Duchess of S-t presented me as a namesake. LXII. But Juan posted on through Mannheim, Bonn, Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre Of the good feudal times for ever gone, On which I have not time just now to lecture. From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, A city which presents to the inspector Eleven thousa 'd maidenheads of bone,* The greatest number flesh hath ever known. LXIII. From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches, Where juniper expresses its best juice, The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. Here he embark'd; and, with a flowing sail, sea, And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale; LXV. At length they rose, like a white wall, along LXVI. I've no great cause to love that spot of earth, Which holds what might have been the noblest nation; But though I owe it little but my birth, I feel a mix'd regret and veneration For its decaying fame and former worth, Seven years (the usual term of transportation) Of absence lay one's old resentments level, When a man's country's going to the devil. LXVII. Alas! could she but fully, truly know How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd; How eager all the earth is for the blow Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword; How all the nations deem her their worst foe, That worse than worst of foes, the once adored False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, And now would chain them, to the very mind. LXVIII. Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, Who is but first of slaves? The nations are *St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins were still extant in 1816, and may be so yet as much as ever. They saw at Canterbury the cathedral: In the same quaint, uninterested tone:- The effect on Juan was, of course, sublime; He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw That casque which never stoop'd except to Time. Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, Who died in the then great attempt to climb O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, And ask'd why such a structure had been raised. LXXV. And being told it was 'God's house,' she said He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how He suffer'd Infidels in His homestead, The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low His holy temples in the lands which bred The true Believers, and her infant brow Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. LXXVI. On! on I through meadows, managed like a garden, Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction, LXXVII. And when I think upon a pot of beer- But I won't weep -and so drive on, postilions! As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, Juan admired these highways of free millions; A country in all senses the most dear To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, Who 'kick against the pricks' just at this juncture, And for their pains get only a fresh puncture. LXXVIII. What a delightful thing's a turnpike road! LXXIX. Alas, how deeply painful is all payment! As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, LXXX. So said the Florentine; ye monarchs, hearken To your instructor. Juan now was borne, Just as the day began to wane and darken, O'er the high hill which looks, with pride or scorn, Towards the great city. Ye who have a spark in Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn, According as you take things well or ill:Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill! LXXXI. The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, And brush a web or two from off the walls. LXXXV. But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper): The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, Were nothing but the natural atmosphere, Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. LXXXIV. He paused-and so will I; as doth a crew Before they give their broadside. By and by, My gentle countrymen, we will renew Our old acquaintance; and at least I'll try To tell you truths you will not take as true, Because they are so. A male Mrs. Fry, Oh, Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, Teach them the decencies of good threescore: Too dull even for the dullest of excesses, LXXXVII. Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late Just now enough: but by-and-by I'll prattle, VII. To our theme: The man who has stood on the Acropolis, And look'd down over Attica; or he Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is, May not think much of London's first appearance ;| Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill: Sunset the time, the place the same declivity Which looks along that vale of good and ill Where London streets ferment in full activity; While everything around was calm and still, Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he Heard; and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum Juan, who did not understand a word Of Engh, save their shibboleth God damn! And even that he had so rarely heard, He sometimes thought 'twas only their 'Salam,' Or 'God be with you!' and 'tis not absurd To think so; for, half English as I am (To my misfortune), never can I say I heard them wish 'God with you,' save that way. Juan yet quickly understood their gesture ; On which Jack and his train set off at speed; And offering, as usual, late assistance. As if his veins would pour out his existence, 'Perhaps,' thought he, it is the country's wont But ere they could perform this pious duty, The dying man cried, 'Hold! I've got my gruel His breath, he from his swelling throat untied XVII. The cravat, stain'd with bloody drops, fell down A thorough varmint, and a real swell, Don Juan, having done the best he could In twelve hours' time, and very little space, |