XXVI.

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.

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 'tis 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 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.

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 "Hells." (2)

XXX.

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

XXXI.

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.

XXXII.

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 accomplished, who was said (In whispers) to have turned his Sovereign's head.

XXXIII.

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.

XXXIV.

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?

XXXV.

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.