from Canto XI

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 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.

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:
    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.

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 lamp-lighting nation,
And when they grew so—on their new-found lanthorn,
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 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.

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