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 't is 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 '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 span, '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 you start, What matters if the road be head or heart?
