Except the creak of wheels, which on their | And roared out, as he writhed his native mud in,
pivot he Heard-and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum Of cities, that boils over with their scum :—
I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit,
And lost in wonder of so great a nation, Gave way to't,since he could not overcome it. "And here," he cried, "is Freedom's chosen station;
Here peals the people's voice, nor can
entomb it
Racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection
Awaits it, each new meeting or election.
Here are chaste wives, pure lives; here people pay
But what they please; and if that things be dear,
'Tis only that they love to throw away Their cash, to show how much they have a-year.
Here laws are all inviolate; none lay Traps for the traveller; every highway's clear:
Here-" he was interrupted by a knife, With, “Damn your eyes! your money or your life!"
Unto his nearest follower or henchman,
"Oh Jack! I'm floor'd by that ere bloody
Frenchman!"
On which Jack and his train set off at
speed,
And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance,
Came up, all marvelling at such a deed,
And offering, as usual, late assistance.
Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed
As if his veins would pour out his existence,
Stood calling out for bandages and lint,
And wish'd he had been less hasty with
his flint.
"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
These freeborn sounds proceeded from four | Let me die where I am!" And, as the fuel Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and
In ambush laid, who had perceived him
Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads,
Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre,
In which the heedless gentleman who gids
Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter,
May find himself within that isle of riches
Exposed to lose his life a well as breeches.
Juan, who did not understand a word
Of English, save their shibboleth, "God
damu!"
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;-
The drops fell from his death-wound, and
he drew ill
His breath, he from his swelling throat
untied
A kerchief, crying "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 Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, His travels to the capital apace ;And, being somewhat choleric and sudden, Esteeming it a little hard he should Drew forth a pocket-pistol from his vesture, In twelve hours' time, and very little space, And fired it into one assailant's pudding-Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture, In self-defence; this made him meditative.
He from the world had cut off a great man, That's rather fine, the gentle sound of
Who in his time had made heroic bustle.
Thamis-
Who in a row like Tom could lead the van,
Booze in the ken, or at the spellken 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, '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;-
Through groves, so called as being void of
(Like lucus from no light); through pro-
spects named
containing nought to
please,
through little boxes
framed
Nor much to climb;
Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease,
With "To be let," upon their doors pro-
claim'd;
Through "Rows" most modestly call'd
Who vindicates a moment too his streamThough hardly heard through multifarious "damme's."
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 Druid's 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 col-
lection.
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,
Which Eve might quit without much And when they grew so sacrifice;
on their newfound lanthorn,
Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man
Of wheels, and roar of voices and confusion; A row of gentlemen along the streets
Here taverns wooing to a pint of "purl," | Suspended, may illuminate mankind,
There mails fast flying off like a delusion; As also bonfires made of country-seats;
There barbers' blocks with perriwigs 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
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
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 'tis 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 pro-
genies
Of this enormous city's spreading spawn,
Twere 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,
Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge. | 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
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?
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.
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 mar-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 women is, they won't
Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it
So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.
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.
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 turn'd his Sovereign's
head.
Some rumour also of some strange adven
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 'tis in the head;
Yet, as the consequences are as bright
As if they acted with the heart instead,
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.
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.
Don Juan was presented, and his dress
And mien excited general admiration—
I don't know which was most admired or less:
One monstrous diamond drew much obser-
vation,
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.
Besides the ministers and underlings,
Who must be courteous to the accredited
Diplomatists of rather wavering kings,
Juan, who was a little superficial,
And not in literature a great Drawcansir,
Examined by this learned and especial
Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer:
His duties warlike, loving, or official,
His steady application as a dancer,
Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene,
Which now he found was blue instead of
green.
However, he replied at hazard, with
A modest confidence and calm assurance,
Which lent his learned lucubrations pith,
And pass'd for arguments of good endurance.
That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith
(Who, at sixteen, translated "Hercules
Furens"
Into as furious English), with her best look,
Set down his sayings in her common-place
book.
Juan knew several languages—as well
He might and brought them up with
skill, in time
To save his fame with each accomplish'd
belle,
Who still regretted that he did not rhyme.
There wanted but this requisite to swell
His qualities (with them) into sublime:
Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Maevia Mannish,
Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish.
However, he did pretty well, and was
Admitted as an aspirant to all
The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass,
At great assemblies or in parties small,
He saw ten thousand living authors pass,
That being about their average numeral;
Also the eighty "greatest living poets,"
As every paltry magazine can show it's.
In twice five years the "greatest living
Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and
Campbell
Before and after; but now, grown more holy,
The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble
With poets almost clergymen, or wholly;
Then there's my
Sets up for being a sort of moral me;
He'll find it rather difficult some day
To turn out both, or either, it may be.
Some persons think that Coleridge hath the
sway;
gentle Euphues, who,
they say,
And Wordsworth has supporters, two or
three;
And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian, “Savage
Landor,'
Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander.
John Keats-who was kill'd off by one
critique,
Just as he really promised something great,
If not intelligible,-without Greek
Contrived to talk about the Gods of late,
Much as they might have been supposed
to speak.
Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate:
'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.
The list grows long of live and dead pre-
tenders
To that which none will gain-or none will
know
The conqueror at least; who, ere time
renders
His last award, will have the long grass
grow
Like to the champion in the fisty ring,
Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it, Above his burnt-out brain and sapless
Although 'tis an imaginary thing.
cinders.
Even I- albeit I'm sure I did not know it, If I might augur, I should rate but low
Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king-Their chances;-they're too numerous, like
Was reckon'd, a considerable time,
The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd
This is the literary lower empire,
Where the Praetorian 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.
|