Don Juan Part 34

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 p.r.i.c.ks' 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 G.o.d 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 c.o.c.kney 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 s.p.a.ce 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 ma.s.s of brick, and smoke, and s.h.i.+pping, 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 h.o.a.ry 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, 'T is 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Canto 11]

CANTO THE ELEVENTH.

When Bishop Berkeley said 'there was no matter,'

And proved it--'t was no matter what he said: They say his system 't is 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 't was 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 s.e.xes, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 sc.u.m:--

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, 'T is 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,--'d.a.m.n 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 s.h.i.+bboleth, 'G.o.d d.a.m.n!'

And even that he had so rarely heard, He sometimes thought 't was only their 'Salam,'

Or 'G.o.d be with you!'--and 't is not absurd To think so: for half English as I am (To my misfortune), never can I say I heard them wish 'G.o.d 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 a.s.sailant'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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 a.s.sistance.

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 gla.s.s 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 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, all fancy, until fairly diddled, His pockets first and then his body riddled.

Don Juan, having done the best he could In all the circ.u.mstances 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 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 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,'