from Canto X

71

On with the horses! Off to Canterbury!
    Tramp, tramp, o’er pebble, and splash, splash, thro’ 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 “Ferflucter”
Affect no more than lightning a conductor.

72

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.

73

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 those sodas or magnesias,
Which form that bitter draught, the human species.

74

The effect on Juan was of course sublime:
    He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw
The casque, which never stooped, 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 asked why such a structure had been raised:

75

And being told it was “God’s house,” she said
     He was well lodged, but only wondered how
He suffered 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.

76

On, on! 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.

77

And when I think upon a pot of beer—
    But I won’t weep!—and so drive on, postillions!
As the smart boys spurred 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.

78

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!

79

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.

80

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!