The next, the Virgin’s mystical virginity;
The third, the usual origin of evil;
The fourth at once established the whole Trinity
On so uncontrovertible a level
That I devoutly wished the three were four,
On purpose to believe so much the more.
7
To our theme. The man who has stood on the Acropolis
And looked down over Attica, or he
Who has sailed 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?
8
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 everything 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 boils over with their scum.
9
I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation,
Walked 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.
10
‘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!’
11
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.
12
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 ‘salaam’
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 –
13
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 roared out, as he writhed his native mud in,
Unto his nearest follower or henchman,
‘Oh Jack! I’m floored by that ‘ere bloody Frenchman!’
14
On which Jack and his train set off at speed,
And Juan’s suite, late scattered 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 wished he had been less hasty with his flint.
15
‘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.’
16
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 missed 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.
17
The cravat stained 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.
18
Don Juan, having done the best he could
In all the circumstances of the case,
As soon as ‘crowner’s ‘quest’ allowed, 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.
19
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 to by spice so flash the muzzle?
Who on a lark with black-eyed Sal (his blowing)
So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing?
20
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;
21
Through groves, so called 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 proclaimed;
Through ‘Rows’ most modestly called ‘Paradise’,
Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice;
22
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 barber’s blocks with periwigs in curl
In windows; here the lamplighter’s infusion
Slowly distilled into the glimmering glass
(For in those days we had not got to gas).
23
Through this and much and m
ore 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 guidebook’s privilege. The sun
Had set some time, and night was on the ridge
Of twilight as the party crossed the bridge.
24
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.
25
The Druid’s 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.
26
The line of lights too up to Charing Cross,
Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation
Like gold as in comparison to dross,
Matched 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 lantern,
Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn.
27
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.
28
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,
’Twere not for want of lamps to aid in dodging his
Yet undiscovered treasure. What I can,
I’ve done to find the same throughout life’s journey,
But see the world is only one attorney.
29
Over the stones still rattling up Pall Mall
Through crowds and carriages, but waxing thinner
As thundered knockers broke the long-sealed 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.
30
They reached the hotel. Forth streamed 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
31
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.
32
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 accomplished, who was said
(In whispers) to have turned his Sovereign’s head.
33
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.
34
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?
35
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.
36
They erred, 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.
37
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.
38
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.
39
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 observation,
Which Catherine in a moment of ivresse
(In love or brandy’s fervent fermentation)
Bestowed upon him, as the public learned;
And, to say truth, it had been fairly earned.
40
Besides the ministers and underlings,
Who must be courteous to the accredited
D
iplomatists 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.
41
And insolence no doubt is what they are
Employed 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 ā bore),
If he found not this spawn of tax-born riches,
Like lap dogs, the least civil sons of bitches.
42
But Juan was received with much empressement.
These phrases of refinement I must borrow
From our next neighbour’s 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.
43
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
This subject quote, as it would be schismatic
In politesse and have a sound affronting in’t.
But damme’s quite ethereal, though too daring,
Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing.
44
For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home.
For true or false politeness (and scarce that
Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam –
The first the emblem (rarely though) of what
You leave behind; the next of much you come
To meet. However,’tis no time to chat
On general topics; poems must confine
Themselves to unity, like this of mine.
45
In the great world – which being interpreted
Meaneth the West or worst end of a city
And about twice two thousand people bred
By no means to be very wise or witty,
But to sit up while others lie in bed,
And look down on the universe with pity –
Juan, as an inveterate patrician,
Was well received by persons of condition.
46
He was a bachelor, which is a matter
Of import both to virgin and to bride:
The former’s hymeneal hopes to flatter,
And (should she not hold fast by love or pride)
’Tis also of some moment to the latter.
A rib’s a thorn in a wed gallant’s side,
Requires decorum and is apt to double
Don Juan Page 41