Part 25

Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique, And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, Who did not limit much his bills per week, Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it (His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek, Before him summ’d the awful scroll and read it); But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, Is free, the respiration’s worth the money.

On with the horses! Off to Canterbury! Tramp, tramp o’er pebble, and splash, splash through puddle; Hurrah! how swiftly speeds the post so merry! Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle Along the road, as if they went to bury Their fare; and also pause besides, to fuddle With ‘schnapps’—sad dogs! whom ‘Hundsfot,’ or ‘Verflucter,’ Affect no more than lightning a conductor.

Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits, Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry, As going at full speed—no matter where its Direction be, so ’tis but in a hurry, And merely for the sake of its own merits; For the less cause there is for all this flurry, The greater is the pleasure in arriving At the great end of travel—which is driving.

They saw at Canterbury the cathedral; Black Edward’s helm, and Becket’s bloody stone, Were pointed out as usual by the bedral, In the same quaint, uninterested tone:— There’s glory again for you, gentle reader! All Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias; Which form that bitter draught, the human species.

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:

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.

O! oh! through meadows managed like a garden, A paradise of hops and high production; For after years of travel by a bard in Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction, A green field is a sight which makes him pardon The absence of that more sublime construction, Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices, Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ices.

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.

What a delightful thing ’s a turnpike road! So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. Had such been cut in Phaeton’s time, the god Had told his son to satisfy his craving With the York mail;—but onward as we roll, ‘Surgit amari aliquid’—the toll!

Alas, how deeply painful is all payment! Take lives, take wives, take aught except men’s purses: As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, Such is the shortest way to general curses. They hate a murderer much less than a claimant On that sweet ore which every body nurses;— Kill a man’s family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches’ pocket.

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 Toward 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!

The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from A half-unquench’d volcano, o’er a space Which well beseem’d the ‘Devil’s drawing-room,’ As some have qualified that wondrous place: But Juan felt, though not approaching home, As one who, though he were not of the race, Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, Who butcher’d half the earth, and bullied t’ other.

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool’s head—and there is London Town!

But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke Appear’d to him but as the magic vapour Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke 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.

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, With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, And brush a web or two from off the walls.

O Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin With Carlton, or with other houses? Try Your head at harden’d and imperial sin. To mend the people ’s an absurdity, A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, Unless you make their betters better:—Fy! I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry.

Teach them the decencies of good threescore; Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses; Tell them that youth once gone returns no more, That hired huzzas redeem no land’s distresses; Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore, Too dull even for the dullest of excesses, The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all.

Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late, On life’s worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, To set up vain pretence of being great, ’Tis not so to be good; and be it stated, The worthiest kings have ever loved least state; And tell them—But you won’t, and I have prated Just now enough; but by and by I’ll prattle Like Roland’s horn in Roncesvalles’ battle.

CANTO THE ELEVENTH.

When Bishop Berkeley said ‘there was no matter,’ And proved it—’twas no matter what he said: They say his system ’tis in vain to batter, Too subtle for the airiest human head; And yet who can believe it? I would shatter Gladly all matters down to stone or lead, Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, And wear my head, denying that I wear it.

What a sublime discovery ’twas to make the Universe universal egotism, That all ’s ideal—all ourselves: I’ll stake the World (be it what you will) that that ’s no schism. O Doubt!—if thou be’st Doubt, for which some take thee; But which I doubt extremely—thou sole prism Of the Truth’s rays, spoil not my draught of spirit! Heaven’s brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it.

For ever and anon comes Indigestion, (Not the most ‘dainty Ariel’) and perplexes Our soarings with another sort of question: And that which after all my spirit vexes, Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on, Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, The world, which at the worst ’s a glorious blunder—

If it be chance; or if it be according To the old text, still better:—lest it should Turn out so, we’ll say nothing ’gainst the wording, As several people think such hazards rude. They’re right; our days are too brief for affording Space to dispute what no one ever could Decide, and every body one day will Know very clearly—or at least lie still.

And therefore will I leave off metaphysical Discussion, which is neither here nor there: If I agree that what is, is; then this I call Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair; The truth is, I’ve grown lately rather phthisical: I don’t know what the reason is—the air Perhaps; but as I suffer from the shocks Of illness, I grow much more orthodox.

The first attack at once proved the Divinity (But that I never doubted, nor the Devil); The next, the Virgin’s mystical virginity; The third, the usual Origin of Evil; The fourth at once establish’d the whole Trinity On so uncontrovertible a level, That I devoutly wish’d the three were four, On purpose to believe so much the more.

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, Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea In small-eyed China’s crockery-ware metropolis, Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, May not think much of London’s first appearance— But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence?

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 every thing around was calm and still, Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he Heard,—and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum Of cities, that boil 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!’

These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pads In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads, Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, In which the heedless gentleman who gads Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, May find himself within that isle of riches Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches.

Juan, who did not understand a word Of English, 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, And being somewhat choleric and sudden, Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture, And fired it into one assailant’s pudding— Who fell, as rolls an ox o’er in his pasture, And roar’d out, as he writhed his native mud in, 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! O 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 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 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 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 makes 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, 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);—

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,—

That ’s rather fine. The gentle sound of Thamis— Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream, Though 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 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 ’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 progenies Of this enormous city’s spreading span, ’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, 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. ’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 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 ’tis 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?

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, ’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.

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.