Chapter XIII: Canto THE TENTH (1)

When Newton saw an apple fall, he found In that slight startle from his contemplation— ’Tis said (for I’ll not answer above ground For any sage’s creed or calculation)— A mode of proving that the earth turn’d round In a most natural whirl, called ‘gravitation;’ And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple.

Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, If this be true; for we must deem the mode In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road, A thing to counterbalance human woes: For ever since immortal man hath glow’d With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon.

And wherefore this exordium?—Why, just now, In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, My bosom underwent a glorious glow, And my internal spirit cut a caper: And though so much inferior, as I know, To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour, Discover stars and sail in the wind’s eye, I wish to do as much by poesy.

In the wind’s eye I have sail’d, and sail; but for The stars, I own my telescope is dim: But at least I have shunn’d the common shore, And leaving land far out of sight, would skim The ocean of eternity: the roar Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float Where ships have founder’d, as doth many a boat.

We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush; And far be it from my Muses to presume (For I have more than one Muse at a push) To follow him beyond the drawing-room: It is enough that Fortune found him flush Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things Which for an instant clip enjoyment’s wings.

But soon they grow again and leave their nest. ‘Oh!’ saith the Psalmist, ‘that I had a dove’s Pinions to flee away, and be at rest!’ And who that recollects young years and loves,— Though hoary now, and with a withering breast, And palsied fancy, which no longer roves Beyond its dimm’d eye’s sphere,—but would much rather Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather?

But sighs subside, and tears (even widows’) shrink, Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow, So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, Which threatens inundations deep and yellow! Such difference doth a few months make. You’d think Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow; No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys, Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys.

But coughs will come when sighs depart—and now And then before sighs cease; for oft the one Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun Of life reach’d ten o’clock: and while a glow, Hectic and brief as summer’s day nigh done, O’erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay, Thousands blaze, love, hope, die,—how happy they!

But Juan was not meant to die so soon. We left him in the focus of such glory As may be won by favour of the moon Or ladies’ fancies—rather transitory Perhaps; but who would scorn the month of June, Because December, with his breath so hoary, Must come? Much rather should he court the ray, To hoard up warmth against a wintry day.

Besides, he had some qualities which fix Middle-aged ladies even more than young: The former know what ’s what; while new-fledged chicks Know little more of love than what is sung In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks) In visions of those skies from whence Love sprung. Some reckon women by their suns or years, I rather think the moon should date the dears.

And why? because she ’s changeable and chaste. I know no other reason, whatsoe’er Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, May choose to tax me with; which is not fair, Nor flattering to ‘their temper or their taste,’ As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air: However, I forgive him, and I trust He will forgive himself;—if not, I must.

Old enemies who have become new friends Should so continue—’tis a point of honour; And I know nothing which could make amends For a return to hatred: I would shun her Like garlic, howsoever she extends Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes— Converted foes should scorn to join with those.

This were the worst desertion:—renegadoes, Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie, Would scarcely join again the ‘reformadoes,’ Whom he forsook to fill the laureate’s sty: And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes, Whether in Caledon or Italy, Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize To pain, the moment when you cease to please.

The lawyer and the critic but behold The baser sides of literature and life, And nought remains unseen, but much untold, By those who scour those double vales of strife. While common men grow ignorantly old, The lawyer’s brief is like the surgeon’s knife, Dissecting the whole inside of a question, And with it all the process of digestion.

A legal broom ’s a moral chimney-sweeper, And that ’s the reason he himself ’s so dirty; The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper Than can be hid by altering his shirt; he Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper, At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty, In all their habits;—not so you, I own; As Caesar wore his robe you wear your gown.

And all our little feuds, at least all mine, Dear Jefferson, once my most redoubted foe (As far as rhyme and criticism combine To make such puppets of us things below), Are over: Here ’s a health to ‘Auld Lang Syne!’ I do not know you, and may never know Your face—but you have acted on the whole Most nobly, and I own it from my soul.

And when I use the phrase of ‘Auld Lang Syne!’ ’Tis not address’d to you—the more ’s the pity For me, for I would rather take my wine With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. But somehow,—it may seem a schoolboy’s whine, And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred A whole one, and my heart flies to my head,—

As ‘Auld Lang Syne’ brings Scotland, one and all, Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams, The Dee, the Don, Balgounie’s brig’s black wall, All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, Like Banquo’s offspring;—floating past me seems My childhood in this childishness of mine: I care not—’tis a glimpse of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’

And though, as you remember, in a fit Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, I rail’d at Scots to show my wrath and wit, Which must be own’d was sensitive and surly, Yet ’tis in vain such sallies to permit, They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early: I ‘scotch’d not kill’d’ the Scotchman in my blood, And love the land of ‘mountain and of flood.’

Don Juan, who was real, or ideal,— For both are much the same, since what men think Exists when the once thinkers are less real Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, And ’gainst the body makes a strong appeal; And yet ’tis very puzzling on the brink Of what is call’d eternity, to stare, And know no more of what is here, than there;—

Don Juan grew a very polish’d Russian— How we won’t mention, why we need not say: Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion Of any slight temptation in their way; But his just now were spread as is a cushion Smooth’d for a monarch’s seat of honour; gay Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny.

The favour of the empress was agreeable; And though the duty wax’d a little hard, Young people at his time of life should be able To come off handsomely in that regard. He was now growing up like a green tree, able For love, war, or ambition, which reward Their luckier votaries, till old age’s tedium Make some prefer the circulating medium.

About this time, as might have been anticipated, Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated; Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples On our fresh feelings, but—as being participated With all kinds of incorrigible samples Of frail humanity—must make us selfish, And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish.

This we pass over. We will also pass The usual progress of intrigues between Unequal matches, such as are, alas! A young lieutenant’s with a not old queen, But one who is not so youthful as she was In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, And wrinkles, the d—d democrats, won't flatter.

And Death, the sovereign’s sovereign, though the great Gracchus of all mortality, who levels With his Agrarian laws the high estate Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels, To one small grass-grown patch (which must await Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils Who never had a foot of land till now,— Death ’s a reformer, all men must allow.

He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter, In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry— Which (though I hate to say a thing that ’s bitter) Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, Through all the ‘purple and fine linen,’ fitter For Babylon’s than Russia’s royal harlot— And neutralize her outward show of scarlet.

And this same state we won’t describe: we would Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection; But getting nigh grim Dante’s ‘obscure wood,’ That horrid equinox, that hateful section Of human years, that half-way house, that rude Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection Life’s sad post-horses o’er the dreary frontier Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear;—

I won’t describe,—that is, if I can help Description; and I won’t reflect,—that is, If I can stave off thought, which—as a whelp Clings to its teat—sticks to me through the abyss Of this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp Holds by the rock; or as a lover’s kiss Drains its first draught of lips:—but, as I said, I won’t philosophise, and will be read.

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted,— A thing which happens rarely: this he owed Much to his youth, and much to his reported Valour; much also to the blood he show’d, Like a race-horse; much to each dress he sported, Which set the beauty off in which he glow’d, As purple clouds befringe the sun; but most He owed to an old woman and his post.

He wrote to Spain:—and all his near relations, Perceiving he was in a handsome way Of getting on himself, and finding stations For cousins also, answer’d the same day. Several prepared themselves for emigrations; And eating ices, were o’erheard to say, That with the addition of a slight pelisse, Madrid’s and Moscow’s climes were of a piece.

His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too, That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, Where his assets were waxing rather few, He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor,— Replied, ‘that she was glad to see him through Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker; As the sole sign of man’s being in his senses Is, learning to reduce his past expenses.

‘She also recommended him to God, And no less to God’s Son, as well as Mother, Warn’d him against Greek worship, which looks odd In Catholic eyes; but told him, too, to smother Outward dislike, which don’t look well abroad; Inform’d him that he had a little brother Born in a second wedlock; and above All, praised the empress’s maternal love.

‘She could not too much give her approbation Unto an empress, who preferr’d young men Whose age, and what was better still, whose nation And climate, stopp’d all scandal (now and then):— At home it might have given her some vexation; But where thermometers sunk down to ten, Or five, or one, or zero, she could never Believe that virtue thaw’d before the river.’

O for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise! Oh for trumps of cherubim! Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, Drew quiet consolation through its hint, When she no more could read the pious print.

She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul, But went to heaven in as sincere a way As any body on the elected roll, Which portions out upon the judgment day Heaven’s freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll, Such as the conqueror William did repay His knights with, lotting others’ properties Into some sixty thousand new knights’ fees.

I can’t complain, whose ancestors are there, Erneis, Radulphus—eight-and-forty manors (If that my memory doth not greatly err) Were their reward for following Billy’s banners: And though I can’t help thinking ’twas scarce fair To strip the Saxons of their hydes, like tanners; Yet as they founded churches with the produce, You’ll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use.

The gentle Juan flourish’d, though at times He felt like other plants called sensitive, Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes, Save such as Southey can afford to give. Perhaps he long’d in bitter frosts for climes In which the Neva’s ice would cease to live Before May-day: perhaps, despite his duty, In royalty’s vast arms he sigh’d for beauty:

Perhaps—but, sans perhaps, we need not seek For causes young or old: the canker-worm Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek, As well as further drain the wither’d form: Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week His bills in, and however we may storm, They must be paid: though six days smoothly run, The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun.

I don’t know how it was, but he grew sick: The empress was alarm’d, and her physician (The same who physick’d Peter) found the tick Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition Which augur’d of the dead, however quick Itself, and show’d a feverish disposition; At which the whole court was extremely troubled, The sovereign shock’d, and all his medicines doubled.

Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours: Some said he had been poison’d by Potemkin; Others talk’d learnedly of certain tumours, Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin; Some said ’twas a concoction of the humours, Which with the blood too readily will claim kin; Others again were ready to maintain, ‘’Twas only the fatigue of last campaign.’

But here is one prescription out of many: ‘Sodae sulphat. ʒvj., ʒss. Mannae optim. Aq. fervent. f. ℥iss. ʒij. tinct. Sennae Haustus’ (And here the surgeon came and cupp’d him) ‘℞ Pulv. Com gr. iij. Ipecacuanhae’ (With more beside if Juan had not stopp’d ’em). ‘Bolus Potassae Sulphuret. sumendus, Et haustus ter in die capiendus.’

This is the way physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem: but although we sneer In health—when ill, we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer: While that ‘hiatus maxime deflendus’ To be fill’d up by spade or mattock’s near, Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy.

Juan demurr’d at this first notice to Quit; and though death had threaten’d an ejection, His youth and constitution bore him through, And sent the doctors in a new direction. But still his state was delicate: the hue Of health but flicker’d with a faint reflection Along his wasted cheek, and seem’d to gravel The faculty—who said that he must travel.

The climate was too cold, they said, for him, Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, Who did not like at first to lose her minion: But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim, And drooping like an eagle’s with clipt pinion, She then resolved to send him on a mission, But in a style becoming his condition.

There was just then a kind of a discussion, A sort of treaty or negotiation Between the British cabinet and Russian, Maintain’d with all the due prevarication With which great states such things are apt to push on; Something about the Baltic’s navigation, Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, Which Britons deem their ‘uti possidetis.’

So Catherine, who had a handsome way Of fitting out her favourites, conferr’d This secret charge on Juan, to display At once her royal splendour, and reward His services. He kiss’d hands the next day, Received instructions how to play his card, Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours, Which show’d what great discernment was the donor’s.

But she was lucky, and luck ’s all. Your queens Are generally prosperous in reigning; Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means. But to continue: though her years were waning Her climacteric teased her like her teens; And though her dignity brook’d no complaining, So much did Juan’s setting off distress her, She could not find at first a fit successor.

But time, the comforter, will come at last; And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number Of candidates requesting to be placed, Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber:— Not that she meant to fix again in haste, Nor did she find the quantity encumber, But always choosing with deliberation, Kept the place open for their emulation.

While this high post of honour ’s in abeyance, For one or two days, reader, we request You’ll mount with our young hero the conveyance Which wafted him from Petersburgh: the best Barouche, which had the glory to display once The fair czarina’s autocratic crest, When, a new lphigene, she went to Tauris, Was given to her favourite, and now bore his.

A bull-dog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine, All private favourites of Don Juan;—for (Let deeper sages the true cause determine) He had a kind of inclination, or Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin, Live animals: an old maid of threescore For cats and birds more penchant ne’er display’d, Although he was not old, nor even a maid;—

The animals aforesaid occupied Their station: there were valets, secretaries, In other vehicles; but at his side Sat little Leila, who survived the parries He made ’gainst Cossacque sabres, in the wide Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies Her note, she don’t forget the infant girl Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl

Poor little thing! She was as fair as docile, And with that gentle, serious character, As rare in living beings as a fossile Man, ’midst thy mouldy mammoths, ‘grand Cuvier!’ Ill fitted was her ignorance to jostle With this o’erwhelming world, where all must err: But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore.

Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. I cannot tell exactly what it was; He was not yet quite old enough to prove Parental feelings, and the other class, Call’d brotherly affection, could not move His bosom,—for he never had a sister: Ah! if he had, how much he would have miss’d her!

And still less was it sensual; for besides That he was not an ancient debauchee (Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins’ salt tides, As acids rouse a dormant alkali), Although (’twill happen as our planet guides) His youth was not the chastest that might be, There was the purest Platonism at bottom Of all his feelings—only he forgot ’em.

Just now there was no peril of temptation; He loved the infant orphan he had saved, As patriots (now and then) may love a nation; His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved Owing to him;—as also her salvation Through his means and the church’s might be paved. But one thing ’s odd, which here must be inserted, The little Turk refused to be converted.

’Twas strange enough she should retain the impression Through such a scene of change, and dread, and slaughter; But though three bishops told her the transgression, She show’d a great dislike to holy water: She also had no passion for confession; Perhaps she had nothing to confess:—no matter, Whate’er the cause, the church made little of it— She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet.

In fact, the only Christian she could bear Was Juan; whom she seem’d to have selected In place of what her home and friends once were. He naturally loved what he protected: And thus they form’d a rather curious pair, A guardian green in years, a ward connected In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender; And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender.

They journey’d on through Poland and through Warsaw, Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron: Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw Which gave her dukes the graceless name of ‘Biron.’ ’Tis the same landscape which the modern Mars saw, Who march’d to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren! To lose by one month’s frost some twenty years Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers.

Let this not seem an anti-climax:—‘Oh! My guard! my old guard exclaim’d!’ exclaim’d that god of clay. Think of the Thunderer’s falling down below Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh! Alas, that glory should be chill’d by snow! But should we wish to warm us on our way Through Poland, there is Kosciusko’s name Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla’s flame.

From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt, Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, Has lately been the great Professor Kant. Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper About philosophy, pursued his jaunt To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions Have princes who spur more than their postilions.

And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, Until he reach’d the castellated Rhine:— Ye glorious Gothic scenes! how much ye strike All phantasies, not even excepting mine; A grey wall, a green ruin, rusty pike, Make my soul pass the equinoctial line Between the present and past worlds, and hover Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over.

But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre Of the good feudal times forever gone, On which I have not time just now to lecture. From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, A city which presents to the inspector Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, The greatest number flesh hath ever known.

From thence to Holland’s Hague and Helvoetsluys, That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches, Where juniper expresses its best juice, The poor man’s sparkling substitute for riches. Senates and sages have condemn’d its use— But to deny the mob a cordial, which is Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel, Good government has left them, seems but cruel.

Here he embark’d, and with a flowing sail Went bounding for the island of the free, Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale; High dash’d the spray, the bows dipp’d in the sea, And sea-sick passengers turn’d somewhat pale; But Juan, season’d, as he well might be, By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs Which pass’d, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs.

At length they rose, like a white wall along The blue sea’s border; and Don Juan felt— What even young strangers feel a little strong At the first sight of Albion’s chalky belt— A kind of pride that he should be among Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole, And made the very billows pay them toll.

I’ve no great cause to love that spot of earth, Which holds what might have been the noblest nation; But though I owe it little but my birth, I feel a mix’d regret and veneration For its decaying fame and former worth. Seven years (the usual term of transportation) Of absence lay one’s old resentments level, When a man’s country ’s going to the devil.

Alas! could she but fully, truly, know How her great name is now throughout abhorr’d: How eager all the earth is for the blow Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword; How all the nations deem her their worst foe, That worse than worst of foes, the once adored False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, And now would chain them, to the very mind:—

Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, Who is but first of slaves? The nations are In prison,—but the gaoler, what is he? No less a victim to the bolt and bar. Is the poor privilege to turn the key Upon the captive, freedom? He ’s as far From the enjoyment of the earth and air Who watches o’er the chain, as they who wear.

Don Juan now saw Albion’s earliest beauties, Thy cliffs, dear Dover! harbour, and hotel; Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties; Thy waiters running mucks at every bell; Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties To those who upon land or water dwell; And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed, Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted.

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.

Don Juan was presented, and his dress And mien excited general admiration— I don’t know which was more admired 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.

Besides the ministers and underlings, Who must be courteous to the accredited Diplomatists 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:

And insolence no doubt is what they are Employ’d 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 a bore), If he found not his spawn of taxborn riches, Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b—s.

But Juan was received with much ‘empressement:’— These phrases of refinement I must borrow From our next neighbours’ 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 The horrid sin—and what ’s still worse, the trouble.

But Juan was a bachelor—of arts, And parts, and hearts: he danced and sung, and had An air as sentimental as Mozart’s Softest of melodies; and could be sad Or cheerful, without any ‘flaws or starts,’ Just at the proper time; and though a lad, Had seen the world—which is a curious sight, And very much unlike what people write.

Fair virgins blush’d upon him; wedded dames Bloom’d also in less transitory hues; For both commodities dwell by the Thames, The painting and the painted; youth, ceruse, Against his heart preferr’d their usual claims, Such as no gentleman can quite refuse: Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers Inquired his income, and if he had brothers.

The milliners who furnish ‘drapery Misses’ Throughout the season, upon speculation Of payment ere the honey-moon’s last kisses Have waned into a crescent’s coruscation, Thought such an opportunity as this is, Of a rich foreigner’s initiation, Not to be overlook’d—and gave such credit, That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh’d, and paid it.

The Blues, that tender tribe who sigh o’er sonnets, And with the pages of the last Review Line the interior of their heads or bonnets, Advanced in all their azure’s highest hue: They talk’d bad French or Spanish, and upon its Late authors ask’d him for a hint or two; And which was softest, Russian or Castilian? And whether in his travels he saw Ilion?

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 its.

In twice five years the ‘greatest living poet,’ Like to the champion in the fisty ring, Is call’d on to support his claim, or show it, Although ’tis an imaginary thing. Even I—albeit I’m sure I did not know it, Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king— Was reckon’d a considerable time, The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme.

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero My Leipsic, and my Mount Saint Jean seems Cain: ‘La Belle Alliance’ of dunces down at zero, Now that the Lion ’s fall’n, may rise again: But I will fall at least as fell my hero; Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign; Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go, With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe.

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; And Pegasus hath a psalmodic amble Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, A modern Ancient Pistol—by the hilts?