The Works of Lord Byron Volume VI Part 94

Oh! for a gla.s.s of _max_![567] 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.

XVII.

The cravat stained with b.l.o.o.d.y 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,[568] all fancy, until fairly diddled, His pockets first and then his body riddled.

XVIII.

Don Juan, having done the best he could In all the circ.u.mstances of the case, As soon as "Crowner's quest"[569] allowed, pursued His travels to the capital apace;-- Esteeming it a little hard he should In twelve hours' time, and very little s.p.a.ce, Have been obliged to slay a free-born native In self-defence: this made him meditative.

XIX.

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?[570] 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?[kl][571]

XX.

But Tom's no more--and so no more of Tom.

Heroes must die; and by G.o.d'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 make us wish ourselves in town at once;--

XXI.

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,"[572]

Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice;--[km]

XXII.

Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion; Here taverns wooing to a pint of "purl,"[573]

There mails fast flying off like a delusion; There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl In windows; here the lamplighter's infusion Slowly distilled into the glimmering gla.s.s (For in those days we had not got to gas--);[kn][574]

XXIII.

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 crossed the bridge.

XXIV.

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.

XXV.

The Druids' 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,[575] too (though some people quiz it), To me appears a stiff yet grand erection; But then the Abbey's worth the whole collection.

XXVI.

The line of lights,[576] 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 lamp-lighting nation, And when they grew so--on their new-found lantern, Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn.[577]

XXVII.

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.

XXVIII.

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 undiscovered treasure. What _I_ can, I've done to find the same throughout Life's journey, But see the World is only one attorney.

XXIX.

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 "h.e.l.ls."[578]

x.x.x.

They reached the hotel: forth streamed from the front door[ko]

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

x.x.xI.

Into one of the sweetest of hotels,[kp][579]

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 pa.s.s, And blazon o'er the door their names in bra.s.s.

x.x.xII.

Juan, whose was a delicate commission, Private, though publicly important, bore No t.i.tle 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 sh.o.r.e, Young, handsome, and accomplished, who was said (In whispers) to have turned his Sovereign's head.

x.x.xIII.

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[kq]

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 pa.s.sion.

x.x.xIV.

I don't mean that they are pa.s.sionless, 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?

x.x.xV.

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.

x.x.xVI.

They erred, as aged men will do; but by And by we'll talk of that; and if we don't, 'T will 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.

x.x.xVII.