XX.

But Tom's no more-and so no more of Tom. Heroes must die; and, by God's blessing, 'tis Not long before the most of them go home. Hail! Thamis, hail! Upon thy verge it is That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum

In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, Through Kennington and all the other 'tons,' Which make us wish ourselves in town at once:

XXI.

Through Groves, so call'd as being void of trees (Like lucus, from no light); through prospects named

Mount Pleasant, as containing naught to please, Nor much to climb; through little boxes framed Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease,

With 'To be let' upon their doors proclaimed; Through 'Rows' most modestly call'd 'Paradise,' Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice: XXII

Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes. and a whirl

Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion:
Here taverns wooing to a pint of 'purl :'.

There mails fast flying off like a delusion:
There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl
In windows: here the lamplighter's infusion
Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass
(For in those days we had not got to gas) ;-

XXIII.

Through this, and much, and more, is the approach

Of travellers to mighty Babylon:

Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach,
With slight exceptions all the ways seem one.
I could say more, but do not choose to encroach
Upon the Guide-book's privilege. The sun
Had set some time, and night was on the ridge
Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge.

XXIV,

That's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis→→ Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream→→→ Though hardly heard through multifarious 'dlamme's.'

The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam,

dered it unnecessary to translate the above good and true English, spoken in its original purity by the select mobility and their patrons. The following is a stanza of a song which was very popular, at least in my early days:

On the high toby-spice flash the muzzle,
In spite of each gallows old scout:

If you at the spellken can't hustle,
You'll be hobbled in making a clout.

Then your Blowing will wax gallows haughty,
When she hears of your scaly mistake,
She'll surely turn snitch for the forty,

That her Jack may be regular weight.'

The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where fame is

A spectral resident-whose pallid beam
In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile-
Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle.
XXV.

The Druids' groves are gone-so much the better:
Stonehenge is not-but what the devil is it?
But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter,
That madmen may not bite you, on a visit.
The Bench, too, seats or suits full many a debtor:
The Mansion House, too (though some people
quiz it),

To me appears a stiff yet grand erection;
But then the Abbey's worth the whole collection.
XXVI.

The line of lights, too, up to Charing Cross,
Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation,
Like gold as in comparison to dross,

Match'd with the Continent's illumination, Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss.

The French were not yet a lamplighting nation; And when they grew so on their new-found

The mob stood, and, as usual, several score Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound In decent London, when the daylight's o'er; Commodious but immoral, they are found Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriageBut Juan now, in stepping from his carriage XXXI.

Into one of the sweetest of hotels,

Especially for foreigners-and mostly

For those whom favour or whom fortune swells,
And cannot find a bill's small items costly.
There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells
(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie)
Until to some conspicuous square they pass,
And blazon o'er the door their names in brass,
XXXII.

Juan, whose was a delicate commission,
Private, though publicly important, bore
No title to point out, with due precision,

The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 'Twas merely known that, on a secret mission, A foreigner of rank had graced our shore, Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who was said (In whispers) to have turned his sovereign's head.

XXXIII.

Some rumour, also, of some strange adventures
Had gone before him, and his wars and loves;
And as romantic heads are pretty painters,
And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves
Into the excursive, breaking the indentures
Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves,
He found himself extremely in the fashion,
Whic
seryes our thinking people for a passion.
XXXIV.

I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite
The contrary; but then 'is in the head.
Yet as the consequences are as bright

As if they acted with the heart instead,
What, after all, can signify the site

Of ladies' lucubrations? So they lead
In safety to the place for which you start,
What matters if the road be head or heart?
XXXV.

Juan presented, in the proper place,

To proper placemen, every Russ credential; And was received with all the due grimace

By those who govern in the mood potential;
Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face,
Thought (what in state affairs is most essential)
That they as easily might do the youngster,
As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster.
XXXVI.

They err'd, as aged men will do: but by-
And-by we'll talk of that: and if we don't,
'Twill be because our notion is not high
Of politicians and their double front,
Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie.

Now what I love in woman is, they wont

Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it
So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.
XXXVII.

And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but
The truth in masquerade; and I defy

Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put
A fact without some leaven of a lie.
The very shadow of true Truth would shut
Up annals, revelations, poesy,
And prophecy-except it should be dated
Some years before the incidents related.
XXXVIII.

Praised be all liars and all lies! Who now
Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy?
She rings the world's 'Te Deum,' and her brow
Blushes for those who will not ;-but to sigh
Is idle. Let us, like most others, bow,
Kiss hands, feet, any part of majesty,
After the good example of 'Green Erin,'
Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for

wearing.

XXXIX.

Don Juan was presented, and his dress

And mien excited general admiration

I don't know which was more admired, or less; One monstrous diamond drew much observation, Which Catharine in a moment of ivresse

(In love or brandy's fervent fermentation) Bestow'd upon him, as the public learn'd; And, to say truth, it had been fairly earned

XL.

Besides the ministers and underlings,

Who must be courteous to the accredited Diplomatists of rather wavering kings,

Until their royal riddle's fully read; The very clerks-those somewhat dirty springs Of office, or the house of office, fed By foul corruption into streams-even they Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay:

XLI.

And insolence, no doubt, is what they are
Employ'd for, since it is their daily labour,

In the dear offices of peace or war;

And should you doubt, pray ask of your next neighbour,

When for a passport, or some other bar

To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore),
If he found not in this spawn of taxborn riches,
Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b-S.
XLII.

But Juan was received with much empressement :—
These phrases of refinement I must borrow
From our next neighbours' land, where, like a
chessman,

There is a move set down for joy or sorrow,
Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man.
In islands, is, it seems, downright and thorough,
More than on continents-as if the sea

(See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free.

XLIII.

And yet the British Damme' 's rather Attic:
Your continental oaths are but incontinent,
And turn on things which no aristocratic
Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't
anent⭑

Anent' was a Scotch phrase, meaning 'concerning'-' with regard to.' It has been made English by the Scotch novels; and, as the Frenchman said, if it be not, ought to be, English,'

John Keats-who was kill'd off by one critique,
Just as he really promised something great,
If not intelligible-without Greek,

Contriv'd to talk about the gods of late,
Much as they might have been supposed to speak.+
Poor fellow! his was ar untoward fate!

'Tis strange the mind, that fiery particle, Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article. LXI.

The list grows long of live and dead pretenders To that which none will gain-or none will know The conqueror at least; who, cre Time renders

His last award, will have the long grass grow Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders. If I might augur, I should rate but low

Barry Cornwall (Procter) had been so called by a reviewer. Divine particulam aure

Their chances: they are too numerous, like the thirty

Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty.

LXII.

This is the literary lower empire,

Where the prætorian bands take up the matter:
A 'dreadful trade,' like his who 'gathers samphire,
The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter,
With the same feelings as you'd coax a vampire.
Now, were I once at home, and in good satire,
I'd try conclusions with those Janizaries,
And show them what an intellectual way is.
LXIII.

I think I know a trick or two would turn
Their flanks; but it is hardly worth, my while,
With such small gear to give myself concern:
Indeed, I've not the necessary bile.
My natural temper's really aught but stern,

And even my Muse's worst reproof's a smile;
And then she drops a brief and modern curtsey.
And glides away, assured she never hurts ye.

LXIV.

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril

Amongst live poets and blue ladies, past With some small profit through that field so sterile, Being tired in time, and neither least nor last, Left it before he had been treated very ill;

And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd Amongst the higher spirits of the day, The sun's true son, no vapour, but a ray.

LXV.

His morns he pass'd in business-which dissected,
Was like all business-a laborious nothing,
That leads to lassitude, the most infected
And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing,
And on our sofas makes us lie dejected,

And talk in tender horrors of our loathing
All kinds of toil, save for our country's good-
Which grows no better, though 'tis time it should.

LXVI.

His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons,
Lounging, and boxing; and the twilight hour
In riding round those vegetable puncheons
Call'd Parks, where there is neither fruit nor
flower,

Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings;

But, after all, it is the only bower' (In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air

LXVII.

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world; Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then

roar

[hurl'd Through street and square fast flashing chariots Like harness'd meteors; then along the floor Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd; Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, Which opens to the thousand happy few, An earthly paradise of 'Or Molu."

LXVIII.

There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink With the three thousandth curtsey; there the waltz,

The only dance which teaches girls to think,

Makes one in love even with its very faults. Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink, And long the latest of arrivals halts,

'Midst royal dukes, and dames condemn'd to climb, And gain an inch of staircase at a time. LXIX.

Thrice happy he who, after a survey

Of the good company, can win a corner, A door that's in, or boudoir out, of the way, Where he may fix himself like smail 'Jack Horner,'

And let the Babel round run as it may,

And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, Or an approver, or a mere spectator, Yawning a little as the night grows later.

LXX.

But this won't do, save by and by; and he
Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share,
Must steer with care through all that glittering sea
Of gems, and plumes, and pearls, and silks, to

where

He deems it is his proper place to be;

Dissolving in the waltz, to some soft air,
Or proudlier prancing, with mercurial skill,
Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille.
LXXI.

Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views
Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride,
Let him take care that that which he pursues
Is not at once too palpably descried.
Full many an eager gentleman oft rues

His haste: impatience is a blundering guide,
Amongst a people famous for reflection,
Who like to play the fool with circumspection.
LXXII.

But if you can contrive, get next at supper;
Or, if forestall'd, get opposite and ogle:
Oh, ye ambrosial moments! always upper
In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle,*
Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper,

The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue !

Can tender souls relate the rise and fall
Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball.

LXXIII.

But these precautionary hints can touch Only the common run, who must pursue,

And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble ;I wish they knew the life of a young noble.

LXXV.

They are young, but know not youth-it is anticipated;

Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou; Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated; Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to, a Jew:

Both senates see their nightly votes participated Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew; And having voted, dined, drunk, gamed, and whored,

The family vault receives another lord.

LXXVI.

'Where is the world? cries Young, at eighty. 'Where

The world in which a man was born? Alas, Where is the world of eight years past? 'Twas there

I look for it-'tis gone, a globe of glass Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings.

LXXVII.

Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knows:
Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell :
Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those

Who bound the bar or senate in their spell? Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes? And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved well? [Cents? Where are those martyr'd saints, the Five per And where-oh, where the devil are the Rents?

LXXVIII.

Where's Brummel Dish'd. Where's Long Pole Wellesley? Diddled.

Where's Whitbread? Romilly? Where's George the Third?

Where is his will? (That's not so soon unriddled.) And where is 'Fum' the Fourth, our 'royal

And watch and ward; whose plans a word too

much

Or little overturns; and not the few

Or many (for the number's sometimes such)
Whom a good mien, especially if new,

Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense,
Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since.
LXXIV.

Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome,

Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, Like other slaves, of course must pay his ransom, Before he can escape from so much danger As will environ a conspicuous man. Some Talk about poetry, and 'rack and manger.'

Scotch for goblin.

LXXIX.

Where is Lord This, and where my Lady That?

The Honourable Mistresses and Misses? Some laid aside, like an old opera hat, Married, unmarried, and remarried (this is An evolution oft performed of late):

Where are the Dublin shouts-and London hisses? Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd, as usual. Where My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were.

LXXX.

Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses?
Divorced, or doing thereanent. Ye annals
So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is-
Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels