"Perhaps," thought he, "it is the country's wont
To welcome foreigners in this way: now
I recollect some innkeepers who don't
Differ, except in robbing with a bow,
In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front,
But what is to be done? I can't allow
The fellow to lie groaning on the road :
So take him up; I'll help you with the load."
But, ere they could perform this pious duty,
The dying man cried, "Hold! I've got my gruel! Oh! for a glass of max! We've miss'd our booty;
Let me die where I am!" And, as the fuel
Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty
The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill
His breath, he from his swelling throat untied
"Give Sal that!"—and died.
The cravat, stain'd with bloody drops, fell down
Before Don Juan's feet: he could not tell
Exactly why it was before him thrown,
Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell.
Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town,
A thorough varmint, and a real swell,
Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled—
His pockets first, and then his body riddled.
Don Juan, having done the best he could
In all the circumstances of the case,
As soon as "crowner's quest" allow'd, pursued
His travels to the capital apace ;—
Esteeming it a little hard he should
In twelve hours' time, and very little space,
Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native
In self-defence: this made him meditative.
He from the world had cut off a great man,
Who in his time had made heroic bustle.
Who in a row like Tom could lead the van,
Booze in the ken, or at the spelken hustle?
Who queer a flat? Who (spite of Bow-street's ban)
On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle?
Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing),
So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing? '
But Tom 's no more-and so no more of Tom.
Heroes must die; and by God's blessing, 't is
Not long before the niost 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;
Through "groves," so call'd as being void of trees
(Like lucus from no light); through prospects named
Mount Pleasant, as containing nought 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 proclaim'd;
Through "" rows
most modestly call'd "Paradise,"
Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice;
Through coaches, drays, chok'd 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 lamp-lighter's infusion
Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass-
(For in those days we had not got to gas);
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 chuse 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.
That's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis—
Who vindicates a moment too his stream-
Though hardly heard through multifarious "dam'mes."
The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam; -
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.
The Druids' groves are gone-so much the better:
Stone-Henge 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.
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 lamp-lighting nation, And when they grew so-on their new-found lantern, Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn.
A row of gentlemen along the streets
Suspended, may illuminate mankind,
As also bonfires made of country-seats;
But the old way is best for the purblind:
The other looks like phosphorus on sheets,
A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind,
Which, though 't is certain to perplex and frighten,
Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten.
But London's so well lit, that if Diogenes
Could recommence to hunt his honest man,
And found him not amidst the various progenies
Of this enormous city's spreading spawn,
'T were not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his
Yet undiscover'd treasure. What I can,
I've done to find the same throughout life's journey,
But see the world is only one attorney.
Over the stones still rattling, up Pall-Mall,
Through crowds and carriages-but waxing thinner
As thunder'd knockers broke the long-seal'd spell
Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner
Admitted a small party as night fell,—
Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner,
Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels,
St. James's Palace and St. James's "Hells." *
They reach'd the hotel; forth stream'd from the front door
A tide of well-clad waiters, and around
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 marriage :
But Juan now is stepping from his carriage
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.
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 :
'T was 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 turn'd his sovereign's head.
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,
Which serves our thinking people for a passion.
I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite
The contrary; but then 't 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 they start, What matters if the road be head or heart?
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.
They err'd, as aged men will do; but by
And by we 'll talk of that; and if we don't,
'T will 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 women is, they won't
Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it
So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.
And, after all, what is a lie? 'T is 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.
Praised be all liars and all lies!
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.
Don Juan was presented, and his dress
And mien excited general admiration
I don't know which was most adinired or less:
One monstrous diamond drew much observation, Which Catherine, 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 earn'd.
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