Le Leggi della Maschera richiedono che una persona mascherata non sia salutata per nome da uno che la conosce malgrado il suo travestimento.
In what manner the following Epistles came into my hands, it is not necessary for the public to know. It will be seen by Mr. FUDGE’S Second Letter, that he is one of those gentlemen whose Secret Services in Ireland, under the mild ministry of my Lord CASTLEREAGH, have been so amply and gratefully remunerated. Like his friend and associate, THOMAS REYNOLDS, Esq., he had retired upon the reward of his honest industry; but has lately been induced to appear again in active life, and superintend the training of that Delatorian Cohort which Lord SIDMOUTH, in his wisdom and benevolence, has organized.
Whether Mr. FUDGE, himself, has yet made any discoveries, does not appear from the following pages. But much may be expected from a person of his zeal and sagacity, and, indeed, to him, Lord SIDMOUTH, and the Greenland-bound ships, the eyes of all lovers of discoveries are now most anxiously directed.
I regret much that I have been obliged to omit Mr. BOB FUDGE’S Third Letter, concluding the adventures of his Day with the Dinner, Opera, etc.; –but, in consequence of some remarks upon Marinette’s thin drapery, which, it was thought, might give offence to certain well-meaning persons, the manuscript was sent back to Paris for his revision and had not returned when the last sheet was put to press.
It will not, I hope, be thought presumptuous, if I take this opportunity of complaining of a very serious injustice I have suffered from the public. Dr. KING wrote a treatise to prove that BENTLEY “was not the author of his own book,” and a similar absurdity has been asserted of me, in almost all the best-informed literary circles. With the name of the real author staring them in the face, they have yet persisted in attributing my works to other people; and the fame of the “Twopenny Post- Bag”–such as it is–having hovered doubtfully over various persons, has at last settled upon the head of a certain little gentleman, who wears it, I understand, as complacently as if it actually belonged to him.
I can only add, that if any lady or gentleman, curious in such matters, will take the trouble of calling at my lodgings, 245 Piccadilly, I shall have the honor of assuring them, in propria persona, that I am–his, or her,
Very obedient and very humble Servant,
April 17, 1818.
THOMAS BROWN THE YOUNGER.
THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS
FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY —-,
OF CLONKILTY, IN IRELAND.
Dear DOLL, while the tails of our horses are plaiting,
The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door,
Into very bad French is as usual translating
His English resolve not to give a sou more,
I sit down to write you a line–only think!–
A letter from France, with French pens and French ink,
How delightful! tho’, would you believe it, my dear?
I have seen nothing yet very wonderful here;
No adventure, no sentiment, far as we’ve come,
But the cornfields and trees quite as dull as at home;
And but for the post-boy, his boots and his queue,
I might just as well be at Clonkilty with you!
In vain, at DESSEIN’S, did I take from my trunk
That divine fellow, STERNE, and fall reading “The Monk;”
In vain did I think of his charming Dead Ass,
And remember the crust and the wallet–alas!
No monks can be had now for love or for money,
(All owing, Pa says, to that infidel BONEY;)
And, tho’ one little Neddy we saw in our drive
Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive!
By the by, tho’ at Calais, Papa had a touch
Of romance on the pier, which affected me much.
At the sight of that spot, where our darling DIXHUIT
Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet,
(Modelled out so exactly, and–God bless the mark!
‘Tis a foot, DOLLY, worthy so Grand a Monarque).
He exclaimed, “Oh, mon Roi!” and, with tear-dropping eye,
Stood to gaze on the spot–while some Jacobin, nigh,
Muttered out with a shrug (what an insolent thing!)
“Ma foi, he be right–’tis de Englishman’s King;
And dat gros pied de cochon–begar me vil say
Dat de foot look mosh better, if turned toder way.”
There’s the pillar, too–Lord! I had nearly forgot–
What a charming idea!–raised close to the spot;
The mode being now, (as you’ve heard, I suppose,)
To build tombs over legs and raise pillars to toes.
This is all that’s occurred sentimental as yet;
Except indeed some little flower-nymphs we’ve met,
Who disturb one’s romance with pecuniary views,
Flinging flowers in your path, and then–bawling for sous!
And some picturesque beggars, whose multitudes seem
To recall the good days of the ancien regime,
All as ragged and brisk, you’ll be happy to learn,
And as thin as they were in the time of poor STERNE.
Our party consists (in a neat Calais job)
Of Papa and myself, Mr. CONNOR and BOB.
You remember how sheepish BOB lookt at Kilrandy,
But, Lord! he’s quite altered–they’ve made him a Dandy;
A thing, you know, whiskered, great-coated, and laced,
Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist;
Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scholars,
With beads so immovably stuck in shirt-collars,
That seats, like our music-stools, soon must be found them,
To twirl, when the creatures may wish, to look round them,
In short, dear, “a Dandy” describes what I mean,
And BOB’s far the best of the genus I’ve seen:
An improving young man, fond of learning, ambitious,
And goes now to Paris to study French dishes.
Whose names–think, how quick! he already knows pat,
A la braise, petits pates, and–what d’ ye call that
They inflict on potatoes?–oh! maitre d’hotel—
I assure you, dear DOLLY, he knows them as well
As if nothing else all his life he had eat,
Tho’ a bit of them BOBBY has never touched yet;
But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks,
As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and books.
As to Pa, what d’ ye think?–mind, it’s all entre nous,
But you know, love, I never keep secrets from you–
Why, he’s writing a book–what! a tale? a romance?
No, we Gods, would it were!–but his travels in France;
At the special desire (he let out t’other day)
Of his great friend and patron, my Lord CASTLEREAGH,
Who said, “My dear FUDGE”–I forget the exact words,
And, it’s strange, no one ever remembers my Lord’s;
But ’twas something to say that, as all must allow
A good orthodox work is much wanting just now,
To expound to the world the new–thingummie–science,
Found out by the–what’s-its-name–Holy Alliance,
And prove to mankind that their rights are but folly,
Their freedom a joke (which it is, you know, DOLLY),
“There’s none,” said his Lordship, “if I may be judge,
Half so fit for this great undertaking as FUDGE!”
The matter’s soon, settled–Pa flies to the Row
(The first stage your tourists now usually go),
Settles all for his quarto–advertisements, praises–
Starts post from the door, with his tablets–French phrases–
“SCOTT’S Visit” of course–in short, everything he has
An author can want, except words and ideas:–
And, lo! the first thing, in the spring of the year,
Is PHIL. FUDGE at the front of a Quarto, my dear!
But, bless me, my paper’s near out, so I’d better
Draw fast to a close:–this exceeding long letter
You owe to a dejeuner a la fourchette,
Which BOBBY would have, and is hard at it yet.–
What’s next? oh? the tutor, the last of the party,
Young CONNOR:–they say he’s so like BONAPARTE,
His nose and his chin–which Papa rather dreads,
As the Bourbons, you know, are suppressing all heads
That resemble old NAP’S, and who knows but their honors
May think, in their fright, of suppressing poor CONNOR’S?
Au reste (as we say), the young lad’s well enough,
Only talks much of Athens, Rome, virtue and stuff;
A third cousin of ours, by the way–poor as Job
(Tho’ of royal descent by the side of Mamma),
And for charity made private tutor to BOB;
Entre nous, too, a Papist–how liberal of Pa!
This is all, dear,–forgive me for breaking off thus,
But BOB’S dejeuner‘s done, and Papa’s in a fuss.
How provoking of Pa! he will not let me stop
Just to run in and rummage some milliner’s shop;
And my debut in Paris, I blush to think on it,
Must now, DOLL, be made in a hideous low bonnet.
But Paris, dear Paris!–oh, there will be joy,
And romance, and high bonnets, and Madame Le Roi!
 To commemorate the landing of Louis le Desire from England, the impression of his foot is marked out on the pier at Calais, and a pillar with an inscription raised opposite to the spot.
 A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris.
LETTER II. FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE LORD VISCOUNT CASTLEREAGH.
At length, my Lord, I have the bliss
To date to you a line from this
Where, by plebeians low and scurvy,
The throne was turned quite topsy-turvy,
And Kingship, tumbled from its seat,
“Stood prostrate” at the people’s feet;
Where (still to use your Lordship’s tropes)
The level of obedience slopes
Upward and downward, as the stream
Of hydra faction kicks the beam!
Where the poor Palace changes masters
Quicker than a snake its skin,
And LOUIS is rolled out on castors,
While BONEY’S borne on shoulders in:–
But where, in every change, no doubt,
One special good your Lordship traces,–
That ’tis the Kings alone turn out,
The Ministers still keep their places.
How oft, dear Viscount CASTLEREAGH,
I’ve thought of thee upon the way,
As in my job (what place could be
More apt to wake a thought of thee?)–
Or, oftener far, when gravely sitting
Upon my dicky, (as is fitting
For him who writes a Tour, that he
May more of men and manners see.)
I’ve thought of thee and of thy glories,
Thou guest of Kings and King of Tories!
Reflecting how thy fame has grown
And spread, beyond man’s usual share,
At home, abroad, till thou art known,
Like Major SEMPLE, everywhere!
And marvelling with what powers of breath
Your Lordship, having speeched to death
Some hundreds of your fellow-men,
Next speeched to Sovereign’s ears,–and when
All Sovereigns else were dozed, at last
Speeched down the Sovereign of Belfast.
Oh! mid the praises and the trophies
Thou gain’st from Morosophs and Sophis;
Mid all the tributes to thy fame,
There’s one thou shouldst be chiefly pleased at–
That Ireland gives her snuff thy name,
And CASTLEREAGH’S the thing now sneezed at!
But hold, my pen!–a truce to praising–
Tho’ even your Lordship will allow
The theme’s temptations are amazing;
But time and ink run short, and now,
(As thou wouldst say, my guide and teacher
In these gay metaphorie fringes,
I must embark into the feature
On which this letter chiefly hinges😉
My Book, the Book that is to prove–
And will, (so help ye Sprites above,
That sit on clouds, as grave as judges,
Watching the labors of the FUDGES!)
Will prove that all the world, at present,
Is in a state extremely pleasant;
That Europe–thanks to royal swords
And bayonets, and the Duke commanding–
Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord’s,
Passeth all human understanding:
That France prefers her go-cart King
To such a coward scamp as BONEY;
Tho’ round, with each a leading-string.
There standeth many a Royal crony,
For fear the chubby, tottering thing
Should fall, if left there loney-poney;–
That England, too, the more her debts,
The more she spends, the richer gets;
And that the Irish, grateful nation!
Remember when by thee reigned over,
And bless thee for their flagellation,
As HELOISA did her lover!–
That Poland, left for Russia’s lunch
Upon the sideboard, snug reposes:
While Saxony’s as pleased as Punch,
And Norway “on a bed of roses!”
That, as for some few million souls,
Transferred by contract, bless the clods!
If half were strangled–Spaniards, Poles,
And Frenchmen–‘twouldn’t make much odds,
So Europe’s goodly Royal ones
Sit easy on their sacred thrones;
So FERDINAND embroiders gayly,
And Louis eats his salmi daily;
So time is left to Emperor SANDY
To be half Caesar and half Dandy;
And GEORGE the REGENT (who’d forget
That doughtiest chieftain of the set?)
Hath wherewithal for trinkets new,
For dragons, after Chinese models,
And chambers where Duke Ho and Soo
Might come and nine times knock their noddles!–
All this my Quarto’ll prove–much more
Than Quarto ever proved before:–
In reasoning with the Post I’ll vie,
My facts the Courier shall supply,
My jokes VANSITTART, PEELE my sense,
And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence!
My Journal, penned by fits and starts,
On BIDDY’S back or BOBBY’S shoulder,
(My son, my Lord, a youth of parts,
Who longs to be a small placeholder,)
Is–tho’ I say’t, that shouldn’t say–
Extremely good; and, by the way,
One extract from it–only one–
To show its spirit, and I’ve done.
“Jul. thirty-first.–Went, after snack,
“To the Cathedral of St. Denny;
“Sighed o’er the Kings of ages back,
“And–gave the old Concierge a penny.
“(Mem.–Must see Rheims, much famed, ’tis said,
“For making Kings and ginger-bread.)
“Was shown the tomb where lay, so stately,
“A little Bourbon, buried lately,
“Thrice high and puissant, we were told,
“Tho’ only twenty-four hours old!
“Hear this, thought I, ye Jacobins:
“Ye Burdetts, tremble in your skins!
“If Royalty, but aged a day,
“Can boast such high and puissant sway
“What impious hand its power would fix,
“Full fledged and wigged at fifty-six!”
The argument’s quite new, you see,
And proves exactly Q. E. D.
So now, with duty to the KEGENT,
I am dear Lord,
Your most obedient,
Hotel Breteuil, Rue Rivoli.
Neat lodgings–rather dear for me;
But BIDDY said she thought ‘twould look!
Genteeler thus to date my Book;
And BIDDY’S right–besides, it curries
Some favor with our friends at MURRAY’S,
Who scorn what any man can say,
That dates from Rue St. Honore!
 This excellent imitation of the noble Lord’s style shows how deeply Mr. Fudge must have studied his great original. Irish oratory, indeed, abounds with such startling peculiarities. Thus the eloquent Counsellor B—-, in describing some hypocritical pretender to charity, said, “He put his hand in his breeches-pocket, like a crocodile, and,” etc.
 See her Letters.
 It would be an edifying thing to write a history of the private amusements of sovereigns, tracing them down from the fly-sticking of Domitian, the mole-catching of Artabanus, the, hog-mimicking of Parmenides, the horse-currying of Aretas, to the petticoat-embroidering of Ferdinand, and the patience-playing of the Prince Regent!
 See the Quarterly Review for May, 1816 where Mr. Hobhouse is accused of having written his book “in a back street of the French capital.”
LETTER III. FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD —-, ESQ.
Oh Dick! you may talk of your writing and reading,
Your Logic and Greek, but there’s nothing like feeding;
And this is the place for it, DICKY, you dog,
Of all places on earth–the headquarters of Prog!
Talk of England–her famed Magna Charta, I swear, is
A humbug, a flam, to the Carte at old VERY’S;
And as for your Juries–who would not set o’er ’em
A Jury of Tasters, with woodcocks before ’em?
Give CARTWRIGHT his Parliaments, fresh every year;
But those friends of short Commons would never do here;
And, let ROMILLY speak as he will on the question.
No Digest of Law’s like the laws of digestion!
By the by, DICK, I fatten–but n’importe for that,
‘Tis the mode–your Legitimates always get fat.
There’s the REGENT, there’s LOUIS–and BONEY tried too,
But, tho’ somewhat imperial in paunch, ‘twouldn’t do:–
He improved indeed much in this point when he wed,
But he ne’er grew right royally fat in the head.
DICK, DICK, what a place is this Paris!–but stay–
As my raptures may bore you, I’ll just sketch a Day,
As we pass it, myself and some comrades I’ve got,
All thorough-bred Gnostics, who know what is what.
After dreaming some hours of the land of Cocaigne,
That Elysium of all that is friand and nice,
Where for hail they have bon-bons, and claret for rain,
And the skaters in winter show off on cream-ice;
Where so ready all nature its cookery yields,
Macaroni au parmesan grows in the fields;
Little birds fly about with the true pheasant taint,
And the geese are all born with a liver complaint!
I rise–put on neck-cloth–stiff, tight, as can be–
For a lad who goes into the world, DICK, like me,
Should have his neck tied up, you know–there’s no doubt of it–
Almost as tight as some lads who go out of it.
With whiskers well oiled, and with boots that “hold up
“The mirror to nature”–so bright you could sup
Off the leather like china; with coat, too, that draws
On the tailor, who suffers, a martyr’s applause!–
With head bridled up, like a four-in-hand leader,
And stays–devil’s in them–too tight for a feeder,
I strut to the old Cafe Hardy, which yet
Beats the field at a dejeuner a la fourchette.
There, DICK, what a breakfast!–oh! not like your ghost
Of a breakfast in England, your curst tea and toast;
But a side-board, you dog, where one’s eye roves about,
Like a turk’s in the Haram, and thence singles out
One’s pate of larks, just to tune up the throat,
One’s small limbs of chickens, done en papillote.
One’s erudite cutlets, drest all ways but plain,
Or one’s kidneys–imagine, DICK–done with champagne!
Then, some glasses of Beaune, to dilute–or, mayhap,
Chambertin,which you know’s the pet tipple of NAP,
And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler,
Much scruples to taste, but I’m not so partic’lar.–
Your coffee comes next, by prescription: and then DICK’s
The coffee’s ne’er-failing and glorious appendix,
(If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on’t,
I’d swallow e’en Watkins’, for sake of the end on’t,)
A neat glass of parfait-amour, which one sips
Just as if bottled velvet tipt over one’s lips.
This repast being ended, and paid for–(how odd!
Till a man’s used to paying, there’s something so queer in’t!)–
The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad,
And the world enough aired for us Nobs to appear in’t,
We lounge up the boulevards, where–oh! DICK, the phizzes,
The turn-outs, we meet–what a nation of quizzes!
Here toddles along some old figure of fun,
With a coat you might date Anno Domini 1.;
A laced hat, worsted stockings, and–noble old soul!
A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole;
Just such as our PRINCE, who nor reason nor fun dreads,
Inflicts, without even a court-martial, on hundreds.
Here trips a grisette, with a fond, roguish eye,
(Rather eatable things these grisettes, by the by);
And there an old demoiselle, almost as fond,
In a silk that has stood since the time of the Fronde.
There goes a French Dandy–ah, DICK! unlike some ones
We’ve seen about WHITE’S–the Mounseers are but rum ones;
Such hats!–fit for monkies–I’d back Mrs. DRAPER
To cut neater weather-boards out of brown paper:
And coats–how I wish, if it wouldn’t distress ’em,
They’d club for old BRUMMEL, from Calais, to dress ’em!
The collar sticks out from the neck such a space,
That you’d swear ’twas the plan of this head-lopping nation,
To leave there behind them a snug little place
For the head to drop into, on decapitation.
In short, what with mountebanks, counts and friseurs,
Some mummers by trade and the rest amateurs–
What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk breeches,
Old dustmen with swinging great opera-hats,
And shoeblacks, reclining by statues in niches,
There never was seen such a race of Jack Sprats!
From the Boulevards–but hearken!–yes–as I’m a sinner,
The clock is just striking the half-hour to dinner:
So no more at present–short time for adorning–
My Day must be finisht some other fine morning.
Now, hey for old BEAUVILLIERS’S larder, my boy!
And, once there, if the Goddess of Beauty and Joy
Were to write “Come and kiss me, dear BOB!” I’d not budge–
Not a step, DICK, as sure as my name is
 The Bill of Fare.–Very, a well-known Restaurateur.
 The favorite wine of Napoleon.
 A celebrated restaurateur.
LETTER IV. FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO —-
“Return!”–no, never, while the withering hand
Of bigot power is on that hapless land;
While, for the faith my fathers held to God,
Even in the fields where free those fathers trod,
I am proscribed, and–like the spot left bare
In Israel’s halls, to tell the proud and fair
Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been there–
On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace
The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!
No!–let them stay, who in their country’s pangs
See naught but food for factions and harangues;
Who yearly kneel before their masters’ doors
And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores:
Still let your . . . .
. . . . .
Still hope and suffer, all who can!–but I,
Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly.
But whither?–every where the scourge pursues–
Turn where he will, the wretched wanderer views,
In the bright, broken hopes of all his race,
Countless reflections of the Oppressor’s face.
Every where gallant hearts and spirits true,
Are served up victims to the vile and few;
While England, every where–the general foe
Of Truth and Freedom, wheresoe’er they glow–
Is first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow.
Oh, England! could such poor revenge atone
For wrongs, that well might claim the deadliest one;
Were it a vengeance, sweet enough to sate
The wretch who flies from thy intolerant hate,
To hear his curses on such barbarous sway
Echoed, where’er he bends his cheerless way;–
Could this content him, every lip he meets
Teems for his vengeance with such poisonous sweets;
Were this his luxury, never is thy name
Pronounced, but he doth banquet on thy shame;
Hears maledictions ring from every side
Upon that grasping power, that selfish pride,
Which vaunts its own and scorns all rights beside;
That low and desperate envy which to blast
A neighbor’s blessings risks the few thou hast;–
That monster, Self, too gross to be concealed,
Which ever lurks behind thy proffered shield;–
That faithless craft, which, in thy hour of need,
Can court the slave, can swear he shall be freed,
Yet basely spurns him, when thy point is gained,
Back to his masters, ready gagged and chained!
Worthy associate of that band of Kings,
That royal, ravening flock, whose vampire wings
O’er sleeping Europe treacherously brood,
And fan her into dreams of promist good,
Of hope, of freedom–but to drain her blood!
If thus to hear thee branded be a bliss
That Vengeance loves, there’s yet more sweet than this,
That ’twas an Irish head, an Irish heart,
Made thee the fallen and tarnisht thing thou art;
That, as the centaur gave the infected vest
In which he died, to rack his conqueror’s breast,
We sent thee CASTLEREAGH:–as heaps of dead
Have slain their slayers by the pest they spread,
So hath our land breathed out, thy fame to dim,
Thy strength to waste and rot thee soul and limb,
Her worst infections all condensed in him!
* * * * *
When will the world shake off such yokes? oh, when
Will that redeeming day shine out on men,
That shall behold them rise, erect and free
As Heaven and Nature meant mankind should be!
When Reason shall no longer blindly bow
To the vile pagod things, that o’er her brow,
Like him of Jaghernaut, drive trampling now;
Nor Conquest dare to desolate God’s earth;
Nor drunken Victory, with a NERO’S mirth,
Strike her lewd harp amidst a people’s groans;–
But, built on love, the world’s exalted thrones
Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given–
Those bright, those sole Legitimates of Heaven!
When will this be?–or, oh! is it, in truth,
But one of those sweet, day-break dreams of youth,
In which the Soul, as round her morning springs,
‘Twixt sleep and waking, see such dazzling things!
And must the hope, as vain as it is bright,
Be all resigned?–and are they only right,
Who say this world of thinking souls was made
To be by Kings partitioned, truckt and weighed
In scales that, ever since the world begun,
Have counted millions but as dust to one?
Are they the only wise, who laugh to scorn
The rights, the freedom to which man was born?
Who . . . . .
. . . . .
Who, proud to kiss each separate rod of power,
Bless, while he reigns, the minion of the hour;
Worship each would-be god, that o’er them moves,
And take the thundering of his brass for JOVE’S!
If this be wisdom, then farewell, my books,
Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye classic brooks.
Which fed my soul with currents, pure and fair,
Of living Truth that now must stagnate there!–
Instead of themes that touch the lyre with light,
Instead of Greece and her immortal fight
For Liberty which once awaked my strings,
Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings,
The High Legitimates, the Holy Band,
Who, bolder’ even than He of Sparta’s land,
Against whole millions, panting to be free,
Would guard the pass of right line tyranny.
Instead of him, the Athenian bard whose blade
Had stood the onset which his pen portrayed,
Welcome . . . .
. . . . .
And, ‘stead of ARISTIDES–woe the day
Such names should mingle!–welcome Castlereagh!
Here break we off, at this unhallowed name.
Like priests of old, when words ill-omened came.
My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell.
Thoughts that . . . .
. . . . .
Thoughts that–could patience hold–’twere wiser far
To leave still hid and burning where they are.
 “They used to leave a square yard of the wall of the house unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, either the fore- mentioned verse of the Psalmist (‘If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,’ etc.) or the words–‘The memory of the desolation.’”–Leo of Modena.
 I have thought it prudent to omit some parts of Mr. Phelim Connor’s letter. He is evidently an intemperate young man, and has associated with his cousins, the Fudges, to very little purpose.
 The late Lord C. of Ireland had a curious theory about names;–he held that every man with three names was a Jacobin.
LETTER V. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY —-.
What a time since I wrote!–I’m a sad, naughty girl–
For, tho’ like a tee-totum, I’m all in a twirl;–
Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum
Between all its twirls gives a letter to note ’em.
But, Lord, such a place! and then, DOLLY, my dresses,
My gowns, so divine!–there’s no language expresses,
Except just the two words “superbe, magnifique,”
The trimmings of that which I had home last week!
It is called–I forget–a la–something which sounded
Like alicampane–but in truth I’m confounded
And bothered, my dear, ‘twixt that troublesome boy’s
(BOB’S) cookery language, and Madame LE ROI’S:
What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal,
Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,
One’s hair and one’s cutlets both en papillote,
And a thousand more things I shall ne’er have by rote,
I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase,
Between beef a la Psyche and curls a la braise.–
But in short, dear, I’m trickt out quite a la Francaise,
With my bonnet–so beautiful!–high up and poking,
Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.
Where shall I begin with the endless delights
Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys and sights–
This dear busy place, where there’s nothing transacting
But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?
Imprimis, the Opera–mercy, my ears!
Brother BOBBY’S remark, t’other night, was a true one:–
“This must be the music,” said he, “of the spears,
For I’m curst if each note of it doesn’t run thro’ one!”
Pa says (and you know, love, his Book’s to make out
‘Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about)
That this passion for roaring has come in of late,
Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State.–
What a frightful idea, one’s mind to o’erwhelm!
What a chorus, dear DOLLY, would soon be let loose of it,
If, when of age, every man in the realm
Had a voice like old LAIS, and chose to make use of it!
No–never was known in this riotous sphere
Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.
So bad too, you’d swear that the God of both arts,
Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic
For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,
And composing a fine rumbling bass to a cholic!
But, the dancing–ah parlez-moi, DOLLY, de ca—
There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.
Such beauty–such grace–oh ye sylphs of romance!
Fly, fly to TITANIA, and ask her if she has
One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance
Like divine BIGOTTINI and sweet FANNY BIAS!
FANNY BIAS in FLORA–dear creature!–you’d swear,
When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,
That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,
And she only par complaisance touches the ground.
And when BIGOTTINI in PSYCHE dishevels
Her black flowing hair, and by daemons is driven,
Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,
That hold her and hug her, and keep her from heaven?
Then, the music–so softly its cadences die,
So divinely–oh, DOLLY! between you and I,
It’s as well for my peace that there’s nobody nigh
To make love to me then–you’ve a soul, and can judge
What a crisis ‘twould be for your friend BIDDY FUDGE!
The next place (which BOBBY has near lost his heart in)
They call it the Play-house–I think–of St. Martin;
Quite charming–and very religious–what folly
To say that the French are not pious, dear DOLLY,
Where here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,
The Testament turned into melodrames nightly;
And doubtless so fond they’re of scriptural facts,
They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.
Here DANIEL, in pantomime, bids bold defiance
To NEBUCHADNEZZAR and all his stuft lions,
While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,
In very thin clothing, and but little of it;–
Here BEGRAND, who shines in this scriptural path,
As the lovely SUSANNA, without even a relic
Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath
In a manner that, BOB says, is quite Eve-angelic!
But in short, dear, ‘twould take me a month to recite
All the exquisite places we’re at, day and night;
And, besides, ere I finish, I think you’ll be glad
Just to hear one delightful adventure I’ve had.
Last night, at the Beaujon, a place where–I doubt
If its charms I can paint–there are cars, that set out
From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air,
And rattle you down, DOLL–you hardly know where.
These vehicles, mind me, in which you go thro’
This delightfully dangerous journey, hold two,
Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether
You’ll venture down with him–you smile–’tis a match;
In an instant you’re seated, and down both together
Go thundering, as if you went post to old scratch!
Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remarkt
On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embarkt,
The impatience of some for the perilous flight,
The forced giggle of others, ‘twixt pleasure and fright,–
That, there came up–imagine, dear DOLL, if you can–
A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werterfaced man,
With mustachios that gave (what we read of so oft)
The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft,
As Hyenas in love may be fancied to look, or
A something between ABELARD and old BLUCHER!
Up he came, DOLL, to me, and uncovering his head,
(Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said,
“Ah! my dear–if Ma’mselle vil be so very good–
Just for von littel course”–tho’ I scarce understood
What he wisht me to do, I said, thank him, I would.
Off we set–and, tho’ ‘faith, dear, I hardly knew whether
My head or my heels were the uppermost then,
For ’twas like heaven and earth, DOLLY, coming together,–
Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again.
And oh! as I gazed on the features and air
Of the man, who for me all this peril defied,
I could fancy almost he and I were a pair
Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side,
Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a
Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara!
This achieved, thro’ the gardens we sauntered about,
Saw the fire-works, exclaimed “magnifique!” at each cracker,
And, when ’twas all o’er, the dear man saw us out
With the air I will say, of a Prince, to our fiacre.
Now, hear me–this Stranger,–it may be mere folly–
But who do you think we all think it is, DOLLY?
Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia,
Who’s here now incog.–he, who made so much fuss, you
Remember, in London, with BLUCHER and PLATOF,
When SAL was near kissing old BLUCHER’S cravat off!
Pa says he’s come here to look after his money,
(Not taking things now as he used under BONEY,)
Which suits with our friend, for BOB saw him, he swore,
Looking sharp to the silver received at the door.
Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen
(Which was plain in this sweet fellow’s face to be seen)
Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is,
Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris.
Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief
Should–unless ‘twould to utter despairing its folly push–
Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief
By rattling, as BOB says, “like shot thro’ a holly-bush.”
I must now bid adieu;–only think, DOLLY, think
If this should be the King–I have scarce slept a wink
With imagining how it will sound in the papers,
And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge,
When they read that Count RUPPIN, to drive away vapors,
Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss BIDDY FUDGE.
Nota Bene.–Papa’s almost certain ’tis he–
For he knows the Legitimate cut and could see,
In the way he went poising and managed to tower
So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power.
 The oldest, most celebrated, and most noisy of the singers at the French Opera.
 The Theatre de la Porte St. Martin which was built when the Opera House in the Palais Royal was burned down, in 1781.
 “The Old Testament,” says the theatrical Critic in the Gazette de France, “is a mine of gold for the managers of our small play-houses. A multitude crowd round the Theatre de la Gaiete every evening to see the Passage of the Red Sea.”
 A piece very popular last year, called “Daniel, ou La Fosse aux Lions.”
 Madame Begrand, a finely formed woman, who acts in “Susanna and the Elders,”–“L’Amour et la Folie.” etc.
 According to Dr. Cotterel the cars go at the rate of forty-eight miles an hour.
 His Majesty, who was at Paris under the travelling name of Count Ruppin, is known to have gone down the Beaujon very frequently.
LETTER VI. FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO HIS BROTHER TIM FUDGE, ESQ., BARRISTER AT LAW.
Yours of the 12th received, just now–
Thanks, for the hint, my trusty brother!
‘Tis truly pleasing to see how
We, FUDGES, stand by one another.
But never fear–I know my chap,
And he knows me too–verbum sap,
My Lord and I are kindred spirits,
Like in our ways as two young ferrets;
Both fashioned, as that supple race is,
To twist into all sorts of places;–
Creatures lengthy, lean and hungering,
Fond of blood and burrow-mongering.
As to my Book in 91,
Called “Down with Kings, or, Who’d have thought it?”
Bless you! the Book’s long dead and gone,–
Not even the Attorney-General bought it.
And tho’ some few seditious tricks
I played in ’95 and ‘6,
As you remind me in your letter,
His Lordship likes me all the better;–
We proselytes, that come with news full,
Are, as he says, so vastly useful!
REYNOLDS and I–(you know TOM REYNOLDS–
Drinks his claret, keeps his chaise–
Lucky the dog that first unkennels
Traitors and Luddites now-a-days;
Or who can help to bag a few,
When SIDMOUTH wants a death, or two;)
REYNOLDS and I and some few more,
All men like us of information,
Friends whom his Lordship keeps in store,
As under-saviors of the nation–
Have, formed a Club this season, where
His Lordship sometimes takes the chair,
And gives us many a bright oration
In praise of our sublime vocation;
Tracing it up to great King MIDAS,
Who, tho’ in fable typified as
A royal Ass, by grace, divine
And right of ears, most asinine,
Was yet no more, in fact historical,
Than an exceeding well-bred tyrant;
And these, his ears, but allegorical,
Meaning Informers, kept at high rent–
Gem’men, who touched the Treasury glisteners,
Like us, for being trusty listeners;
And picking up each tale and fragment,
For royal MIDAS’S Green Bag meant.
“And wherefore,” said this best of Peers,
“Should not the REGENT too have ears,
“To reach as far, as long and wide as
“Those of his model, good King MIDAS?”
This speech was thought extremely good,
And (rare for him) was understood–
Instant we drank “The REGENT’S Ears,”
With three times three illustrious cheers,
Which made the room resound like thunder–
“The REGENT’S Ears, and may he ne’er
“From foolish shame, like MIDAS, wear
“Old paltry wigs to keep them under!”
This touch at our old friends, the Whigs,
Made us as merry all as grigs.
In short (I’ll thank you not to mention
These things again), we get on gayly;
And thanks to pension and Suspension,
Our little Club increases daily.
CASTLES, and OLIVER, and such,
Who don’t as yet full salary touch,
Nor keep their chaise and pair, nor buy
Houses and lands, like TOM and I,
Of course don’t rank with us salvators,
But merely serve the Club as waiters,
Like Knights, too, we’ve our collar days,
(For us, I own, an awkward phrase,)
When, in our new costume adorned,–
The REGENT’S buff-and-blue coats turned—
We have the honor to give dinners
To the chief Rats in upper stations:
Your WEMYS, VAUGHANS,–half-fledged sinners,
Who shame us by their imitations;
Who turn, ’tis true–but what of that?
Give me the useful peaching Rat;
Not things as mute as Punch, when bought,
Whose wooden heads are all they’ve brought;
Who, false enough to shirk their friends,
But too faint-hearted to betray,
Are, after all their twists and bends,
But souls in Limbo, damned half way.
No, no, we nobler vermin are
A genus useful as we’re rare;
Midst all the things miraculous
Of which your natural histories brag,
The rarest must be Rats like us,
Who let the cat out of the bag.
Yet still these Tyros in the cause
Deserve, I own, no small applause;
And they’re by us received and treated
With all due honors–only seated
In the inverse scale of their reward,
The merely promised next my Lord;
Small pensions then, and so on, down,
Rat after rat, they graduate
Thro’ job, red ribbon and silk gown,
To Chancellorship and Marquisate.
This serves to nurse the ratting spirit;
The less the bribe the more the merit.
Our music’s good, you may be sure;
My Lord, you know, ‘s an amateur–
Takes every part with perfect ease,
Tho’ to the Base by nature suited;
And, formed for all, as best may please,
For whips and bolts, or chords and keys,
Turns from his victims to his glees,
And has them both well executed.
HERTFORD, who, tho’ no Rat himself,
Delights in all such liberal arts,
Drinks largely to the House of Guelph,
And superintends the Corni parts.
While CANNING, who’d be first by choice,
Consents to take an under voice;
And GRAVES, who well that signal knows,
Watches the Volti Subitos.
In short, as I’ve already hinted,
We take of late prodigiously;
But as our Club is somewhat stinted
For Gentlemen, like TOM and me,
We’ll take it kind if you’ll provide
A few Squireens from t’other side;–
Some of those loyal, cunning elves
(We often tell the tale with laughter),
Who used to hide the pikes themselves,
Then hang the fools who found them after.
I doubt not you could find us, too,
Some Orange Parsons that might do:
Among the rest, we’ve heard of one,
Who stuft a figure of himself
(Delicious thought!) and had it shot at,
To bring some Papists to the shelf,
That couldn’t otherwise be got at–
If he‘ll but join the Association,
We’ll vote him in by acclamation.
And now, my brother, guide and friend,
This somewhat tedious scrawl must end.
I’ve gone into this long detail,
Because I saw your nerves were shaken
With anxious fears lest I should fail
In this new, loyal, course I’ve taken.
But, bless your heart! you need not doubt–
We FUDGES know what we’re about.
Look round and say if you can see
A much more thriving family.
There’s JACK, the Doctor–night and day
Hundreds of patients so besiege him,
You’d swear that all the rich and gay
Fell sick on purpose to oblige him.
And while they think, the precious ninnies,
He’s counting o’er their pulse so steady,
The rogue but counts how many guineas
He’s fobbed for that day’s work already.
I’ll ne’er forget the old maid’s alarm,
When, feeling thus Miss Sukey Flirt, he
Said, as he dropt her shrivelled arm,
“Damned bad this morning–only thirty!”
Your dowagers, too, every one,
So generous are, when they call him in,
That he might now retire upon
The rheumatisms of three old women.
Then whatsoe’er your ailments are,
He can so learnedly explain ye’em–
Your cold of course is a catarrh,
Your headache is a hemi-cranium:–
His skill too in young ladies’ lungs,
The grace with which, most mild of men,
He begs them to put out their tongues.
Then bids them–put them in again;
In short, there’s nothing now like JACK!–
Take all your doctors great and small,
Of present times and ages back,
Dear Doctor FUDGE is worth them all.
So much for physic–then, in law too,
Counsellor TIM, to thee we bow;
Not one of us gives more eclat to
The immortal name of FUDGE than thou.
Not to expatiate on the art
With which you played the patriot’s part,
Till something good and snug should offer;–
Like one, who, by the way he acts
The enlightening part of candle-snuffer,
The manager’s keen eye attracts,
And is promoted thence by him
To strut in robes, like thee, my TIM!–
Who shall describe thy powers of face,
Thy well-fed zeal in every case,
Or wrong or right–but ten times warmer
(As suits thy calling) in the former–
Thy glorious, lawyer-like delight
In puzzling all that’s clear and right,
Which, tho’ conspicuous in thy youth,
Improves so with a wig and band on,
That all thy pride’s to waylay Truth,
And leave her not a leg to stand on.
Thy patent prime morality,–
Thy cases cited from the Bible–
Thy candor when it falls to thee
To help in trouncing for a libel;–
“God knows, I, from my soul, profess
“To hate all bigots and be-nighters!
“God knows, I love, to even excess,
“The sacred Freedom of the Press,
“My only aim’s to–crush the writers.”
These are the virtues, TIM, that draw
The briefs into thy bag so fast;
And these, oh TIM–if Law be Law–
Will raise thee to the Bench at last.
I blush to see this letter’s length–
But ’twas my wish to prove to thee
How full of hope, and wealth, and strength,
Are all our precious family.
And, should affairs go on as pleasant
As, thank the Fates, they do at present–
Should we but still enjoy the sway
Of SIDMOUTH and of CASTLEREAGH,
I hope, ere long, to see the day
When England’s wisest statesmen, judges,
Lawyers, peers, will all be–FUDGES!
Good-by–my paper’s out so nearly,
I’ve room only for
 Lord C.’s tribute to the character of his friend, Mr. Reynolds, will long be remembered with equal credit to both.
 It was not under wigs, but tiaras, that King Midas endeavored to conceal these appendages. The Noble Giver of the toast, however, had evidently, with his usual clearness, confounded King Midas, Mr. Liston, and the Prince Regent together.
 Mr. Fudge and his friends ought to go by this name–as the man who, some years since, saved the late Right Hon. George Rose from drowning, was ever after called Salvator Rosa.
 His Lordship, during one of the busiest periods of his Ministerial career, took lessons three times a week from a celebrated music-master, in glee-singing.
 How amply these two propensities of the Noble Lord would have been gratified among that ancient people of Etruria, who, as Aristotle tells us, used to whip their slaves once a year to the sound of flutes!
 The rapidity of this Noble Lord’s transformation, at the same instant, into a Lord of the Bed-chamber and an opponent of the Catholic Claims, was truly miraculous.
 Turn instantly–a frequent direction in music-books.
 The Irish diminutive of Squire.
LETTER VII. FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO–.
Before we sketch the Present–let us cast
A few, short, rapid glances to the Past.
When he, who had defied all Europe’s strength,
Beneath his own weak rashness sunk at length;–
When, loosed as if by magic from a chain
That seemed like Fate’s the world was free again,
And Europe saw, rejoicing in the sight,
The cause of Kings, for once, the cause of Right;–
Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to those
Who sighed for justice–liberty–repose,
And hoped the fall of one great vulture’s nest
Would ring its warning round, and scare the rest.
All then was bright with promise;–Kings began
To own a sympathy with suffering Man,
And man was grateful; Patriots of the South
Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor’s mouth,
And heard, like accents thawed in Northern air,
Unwonted words of freedom burst forth there!
Who did not hope, in that triumphant time,
When monarchs, after years of spoil and crime,
Met round the shrine of Peace, and Heaven lookt on;–
Who did not hope the lust of spoil was gone;
That that rapacious spirit, which had played
The game of Pilnitz o’er so oft, was laid;
And Europe’s Rulers, conscious of the past,
Would blush and deviate into right at last?
But no–the hearts, that nurst a hope so fair,
Had yet to learn what men on thrones can dare;
Had yet to know, of all earth’s ravening things,
The only quite untameable are Kings!
Scarce had they met when, to its nature true,
The instinct of their race broke out anew;
Promises, treaties, charters, all were vain,
And “Rapine! rapine!” was the cry again.
How quick they carved their victims, and how well,
Let Saxony, let injured Genoa tell;-
Let all the human stock that, day by day,
Was, at that Royal slave-mart, truckt away,–
The million souls that, in the face of heaven,
Were split to fractions, bartered, sold or given
To swell some despot Power, too huge before,
And weigh down Europe with one Mammoth more.
How safe the faith of Kings let France decide;–
Her charter broken, ere its ink had dried;–
Her Press enthralled–her Reason mockt again
With all the monkery it had spurned in vain;
Her crown disgraced by one, who dared to own
He thankt not France but England for his throne;
Her triumphs cast into the shade by those,
Who had grown old among her bitterest foes,
And now returned, beneath her conqueror’s shields,
Unblushing slaves! to claim her heroes’ fields;
To tread down every trophy of her fame,
And curse that glory which to them was shame!–
Let these–let all the damning deeds, that then
Were dared thro’ Europe, cry aloud to men,
With voice like that of crashing ice that rings
Round Alpine huts, the perfidy of Kings;
And tell the world, when hawks shall harmless bear
The shrinking dove, when wolves shall learn to spare
The helpless victim for whose blood they lusted,
Then and then only monarchs may be trusted.
It could not last–these horrors could not last–
France would herself have risen in might to cast
The insulters off–and oh! that then as now,
Chained to some distant islet’s rocky brow,
NAPOLEON ne’er had come to force, to blight,
Ere half matured, a cause so proudly bright;–
To palsy patriot arts with doubt and shame,
And write on Freedom’s flag a despot’s name;–
To rush into the list, unaskt, alone,
And make the stake of all the game of one!
Then would the world have seen again what power
A people can put forth in Freedom’s hour;
Then would the fire of France once more have blazed;–
For every single sword, reluctant raised
In the stale cause of an oppressive throne,
Millions would then have leaped forth in her own;
And never, never had the unholy stain
Of Bourbon feet disgraced her shores again.
But fate decreed not so–the Imperial Bird,
That, in his neighboring cage, unfeared, unstirred,
Had seemed to sleep with head beneath his wing,
Yet watched the moment for a daring spring;–
Well might he watch, when deeds were done, that made
His own transgressions whiten in their shade;
Well might he hope a world thus trampled o’er
By clumsy tyrants would be his once more:–
Forth from his cage the eagle burst; to light,
From steeple on to steeple winged his flight,
With calm and easy grandeur, to that throne
From which a Royal craven just had flown;
And resting there, as in his eyry, furled
Those wings, whose very rustling shook the world!
What was your fury then, ye crowned array,
Whose feast of spoil, whose plundering holiday
Was thus broke up, in all its greedy mirth,
By one bold chieftain’s stamp on Gallic earth!
Fierce was the cry, and fulminant the ban,–
“Assassinate, who will–enchain, who can,
“The vile, the faithless, outlawed, lowborn man!”
“Faithless!”–and this from you–from you, forsooth,
Ye pious Kings, pure paragons of truth,
Whose honesty all knew, for all had tried;
Whose true Swiss zeal had served on every side;
Whose fame for breaking faith so long was known,
Well might ye claim the craft as all your own,
And lash your lordly tails and fume to see
Such low-born apes of Royal perfidy!
Yes–yes–to you alone did it belong
To sin for ever, and yet ne’er do wrong,–
The frauds, the lies of Lords legitimate
Are but fine policy, deep strokes of state;
But let some upstart dare to soar so high
In Kingly craft, and “outlaw” is the cry!
What, tho’ long years of mutual treachery
Had peopled full your diplomatic shelves
With ghosts of treaties, murdered ‘mong yourselves;
Tho’ each by turns was knave and dupe–what then?
A holy League would set all straight again;
Like JUNO’S virtue, which a dip or two
In some blest fountain made as good as new!
Most faithful Russia–faithful to whoe’er
Could plunder best and give him amplest share;
Who, even when vanquisht, sure to gain his ends,
For want of foes to rob, made free with friends,
And, deepening still by amiable gradations,
When foes were stript of all, then fleeced relations!
Most mild and saintly Prussia–steeped to the ears
In persecuted Poland’s blood and tears,
And now, with all her harpy wings outspread
O’er severed Saxony’s devoted head!
Pure Austria too–whose history naught repeats
But broken leagues and subsidized defeats;
Whose faith, as Prince, extinguisht Venice shows,
Whose faith, as man, a widowed daughter knows!
And thou, oh England–who, tho’ once as shy
As cloistered maids, of shame or perfidy,
Art now broke in, and, thanks to CASTLEREAGH,
In all that’s worst and falsest lead’st the way!
Such was the pure divan, whose pens and wits
The escape from Elba frightened into fits;–
Such were the saints, who doomed NAPOLEON’S life,
In virtuous frenzy, to the assassin’s knife.
Disgusting crew!–who would not gladly fly
To open, downright, bold-faced tyranny,
To honest guilt, that dares do all but lie,
From the false, juggling craft of men like these,
Their canting crimes and varnisht villanies;–
These Holy Leaguers, who then loudest boast
Of faith and honor, when they’ve stained them most;
From whose affection men should shrink as loath
As from their hate, for they’ll be fleeced by both;
Who, even while plundering, forge Religion’s name
To frank their spoil, and without fear or shame
Call down the Holy Trinity to bless
Partition leagues and deeds of devilishness!
But hold–enough–soon would this swell of rage
O’erflow the boundaries of my scanty page;–
So, here I pause–farewell–another day,
Return we to those Lords of prayer and prey,
Whose loathsome cant, whose frauds by right divine,
Deserve a lash–oh! weightier far than mine!
 Napoleon’s Proclamation on landing from Elba.
 At the Peace of Tilsit, where he abandoned his ally, Prussia, to France, and received a portion of her territory.
 The seizure of Finland from his relative of Sweden.
 The usual preamble of these flagitious compacts. In the same spirit, Catherine, after the dreadful massacre of Warsaw, ordered a solemn “thanksgiving to God in all the churches, for the blessings conferred upon the Poles”; and commanded that each of them should “swear fidelity and loyalty to her, and to shed in her defence the last drop of their blood, as they should answer for it to God, and his terrible judgment, kissing the holy word and cross of their Saviour!”
LETTER VIII. FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD —-, ESQ.
Dear DICK, while old DONALDSON’S mending my stays,–
Which I knew would go smash with me one of these days,
And, at yesterday’s dinner, when, full to the throttle,
We lads had begun our dessert with a bottle
Of neat old Constantia, on my leaning back
Just to order another, by Jove, I went crack!–
Or, as honest TOM said, in his nautical phrase,
“Damn my eyes, BOB, in doubling the Cape you’ve missed
So, of course, as no gentleman’s seen out without them,
They’re now at the Schneider’s–and, while he’s about them,
Here goes for a letter, post-haste, neck and crop.
Let us see–in my last I was–where did I stop?
Oh! I know–at the Boulevards, as motley a road as
Man ever would wish a day’s lounging upon;
With its cafes and gardens, hotels and pagodas,
Its founts and old Counts sipping beer in the sun:
With its houses of all architectures you please,
From the Grecian and Gothic, DICK, down by degrees
To the pure Hottentot or the Brighton Chinese;
Where in temples antique you may breakfast or dinner it,
Lunch at a mosque and see Punch from a minaret.
Then, DICK, the mixture of bonnets and bowers.
Of foliage and frippery, fiacres and flowers,
Green-grocers, green gardens–one hardly knows whether
‘Tis country or town, they’re so messed up together!
And there, if one loves the romantic, one sees
Jew clothes-men, like shepherds, reclined under trees;
Or Quidnuncs, on Sunday, just fresh from the barber’s,
Enjoying their news and groseille in those arbors;
While gayly their wigs, like the tendrils, are curling,
And founts of red currant-juice round them are purling.
Here, DICK, arm in arm as we chattering stray,
And receive a few civil “Goddems” by the way,–
For, ’tis odd, these mounseers,–tho’ we’ve wasted our wealth
And our strength, till we’ve thrown ourselves into a phthisic;–
To cram down their throats an old King for their health.
As we whip little children to make them take physic;–
Yet, spite of our good-natured money and slaughter,
They hate us, as Beelzebub hates holy-water!
But who the deuce cares, DICK, as long as they nourish us
Neatly as now, and good cookery flourishes–
Long as, by bayonets protected, we Natties
May have our full fling at their salmis and pates?
And, truly, I always declared ‘twould be pity
To burn to the ground such a choice-feeding city.
Had Dad but his way, he’d have long ago blown
The whole batch to old Nick–and the people, I own,
If for no other cause than their curst monkey looks,
Well deserve a blow-up–but then, damn it, their Cooks!
As to Marshals, and Statesmen, and all their whole lineage,
For aught that I care, you may knock them to spinage;
But think, DICK, their Cooks–what a loss to mankind!
What a void in the world would their art leave behind!
Their chronometer spits–their intense salamanders–
Their ovens–their pots, that can soften old ganders,
All vanisht for ever,–their miracles o’er,
And the Marmite Perpetuelle bubbling no more!
Forbid it, forbid it, ye Holy Allies!
Take whatever ye fancy–take statues, take money–
But leave them, oh leave them, their Perigueux pies,
Their glorious goose-livers and high pickled tunny!
Tho’ many, I own, are the evils they’ve brought us,
Tho’ Royalty’s here on her very last legs,
Yet who can help loving the land that has taught us
Six hundred and eighty-five ways to dress eggs?
You see, DICK, in spite of them cries of “God-dam,”
“Coquin Anglais,” et cetera–how generous I am!
And now (to return, once again, to my “Day,”
Which will take us all night to get thro’ in this way.)
From the Boulevards we saunter thro’ many a street,
Crack jokes on the natives–mine, all very neat–
Leave the Signs of the Times to political fops,
And find twice as much fun in the Signs of the Shops;–
Here, a Louis Dix-huit–there, a Martinmas goose,
(Much in vogue since your eagles are gone out of use)–
Henri Quatres in shoals, and of Gods a great many,
But Saints are the most on hard duty of any:–
St. TONY, who used all temptations to spurn,
Here hangs o’er a beer-shop, and tempts in his turn;
While there St. VENECIA sits hemming and frilling her
Holy mouchoir o’er the door of some milliner;–
Saint AUSTIN’S the “outward and visible sign
“Of an inward” cheap dinner, and pint of small wine;
While St. DENYS hangs out o’er some hatter of ton,
And possessing, good bishop, no head of his own,
Takes an interest in Dandies, who’ve got–next to none!
Then we stare into shops–read the evening’s affiches—
Or, if some, who’re Lotharios in feeding, should wish
Just to flirt with a luncheon, (a devilish bad trick,
As it takes off the bloom of one’s appetite, DICK.)
To the Passage des–what d’ye call’t–des Panoramas
We quicken our pace, and there heartily cram as
Seducing young pates, as ever could cozen
One out of one’s appetite, down by the dozen.
We vary, of course–petits pates do one day,
The next we’ve our lunch with the Gauffrier Hollandais,
That popular artist, who brings out, like SCOTT,
His delightful productions so quick, hot and hot;
Not the worse for the exquisite comment that follows,–
Divine maresquino, which–Lord, how one swallows!
Once more, then, we saunter forth after our snack, or
Subscribe a few francs for the price of a fiacre,
And drive far away to the old Montagnes Russes,
Where we find a few twirls in the car of much use
To regenerate the hunger and thirst of us sinners,
Who’ve lapst into snacks–the perdition of dinners.
And here, DICK–in answer to one of your queries,
About which we Gourmands have had much discussion–
I’ve tried all these mountains, Swiss, French, and Ruggieri’s,
And think, for digestion, there’s none like the Russian;
So equal the motion–so gentle, tho’ fleet–
It in short such a light and salubrious scamper is,
That take whom you please–take old Louis DIX-HUIT,
And stuff him–ay, up to the neck–with stewed lampreys,
So wholesome these Mounts, such a solvent I’ve found them,
That, let me but rattle the Monarch well down them,
The fiend, Indigestion, would fly far away,
And the regicide lampreys be foiled of their prey!
Such, DICK, are the classical sports that content us,
Till five o’clock brings on that hour so momentous,
That epoch–but whoa! my lad–here comes the Schneider,
And, curse him, has made the stays three inches wider–
Too wide by an inch and a half–what a Guy!
But, no matter–’twill all be set right by-and-by.
As we’ve MASSINOT’s eloquent carte to eat still up.
An inch and a half’s but a trifle to fill up.
So–not to lose time, DICK–here goes for the task;
Au revoir, my old boy–of the Gods I but ask
That my life, like “the Leap of the German,” may be,
“Du lit a la table, d’la table du lit!”
 An English tailor at Paris.
 A ship is said to miss stays, when she does not obey the helm in tacking.
 The dandy term for a tailor.
 “Lemonade and eau-de-groseille are measured out at every corner of every street, from fantastic vessels, jingling with bells, to thirsty tradesmen or wearied messengers.”–See Lady Morgan’s lively description of the streets of Paris, in her very amusing work upon France, book vi.
 These gay, portable fountains, from which the groseille water is administered, are among the most characteristic ornaments of the streets of Paris.
 Veronica, the Saint of the Holy Handkerchief, is also, under the name of Venisse or Venecia, the tutelary saint of milliners.
 St. Denys walked three miles after his head was cut off.
 Off the Boulevards Italiens.
 In the Palais Royal; successor, I believe, to the Flamaud, so long celebrated for the moelleux of his Gaufres.
 Doctor Cotterel recommends, for this purpose, the Beaujon or French Mountains.
 A dish so indigestible that a late novelist at the end of his book, could imagine no more summary mode of getting rid of all his heroes and heroines than by a hearty supper of stewed lampreys.
 They killed Henry I. of England:-“a food [says Hume, gravely], which always agreed better with his palate than his constitution.”
 A famous Restaurateur–now Dupont.
LETTER IX. PROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE LORD VISCOUNT CASTLEREAGH.
My Lord, the Instructions, brought to-day,
“I shall in all my best obey.”
Your Lordship talks and writes so sensibly!
And–whatsoe’er some wags may say–
Oh! not at all incomprehensibly.
I feel the inquiries in your letter
About my health and French most flattering;
Thank ye, my French, tho’ somewhat better,
Is, on the whole, but weak and smattering:–
Nothing, of course, that can compare
With his who made the Congress stare
(A certain Lord we need not name),
Who, even in French, would have his trope,
And talk of “batir un systeme
“Sur l’equilibre de l’Europe!”
Sweet metaphor!–and then the Epistle,
Which bid the Saxon King go whistle,–
That tender letter to “Mon Prince”
Which showed alike thy French and sense;–
Oh no, my Lord–there’s none can do
Or say un-English things like you:
And, if the schemes that fill thy breast
Could but a vent congenial seek,
And use the tongue that suits them best,
What charming Turkish wouldst thou speak!
But as for me, a Frenchless grub,
At Congress never born to stammer,
Nor learn like thee, my Lord, to snub
Fallen Monarchs, out of CHAMBAUD’S grammar–
Bless you, you do not, can not, know
How far a little French will go;
For all one’s stock, one need but draw
On some half-dozen words like toese–
Comme ca–par-la–la-bas–ah ha!
They’ll take you all thro’ France with ease.
Your Lordship’s praises of the scraps
I sent you from my Journal lately,
(Enveloping a few laced caps
For Lady C,) delight me greatly.
Her flattering speech–“What pretty things
“One finds in Mr. FUDGE’s pages!”
Is praise which (as some poet sings)
Would pay one for the toils of ages.
Thus flattered, I presume to send
A few more extracts by a friend;
And I should hope they’ll be no less
Approved of than my last MS.–
The former ones, I fear, were creased,
As BIDDY round the caps would pin them;
But these will come to hand, at least
Unrumpled, for there’s–nothing in them.
Extracts from Mr. Fudge’s Journal, addressed to Lord C.
Went to the Mad-house–saw the man
Who thinks, poor wretch, that, while the Fiend
Of Discord here full riot ran,
He, like the rest, was guillotined;–
But that when, under BONEY’S reign,
(A more discreet, tho’ quite as strong one,)
The heads were all restored again,
He, in the scramble, got a wrong one.
Accordingly, he still cries out
This strange head fits him most unpleasantly;
And always runs, poor devil, about,
Inquiring for his own incessantly!
While to his case a tear I dropt,
And sauntered home, thought I–ye Gods!
How many heads might thus be swopt,
And, after all, not make much odds!
For instance, there’s VANSITTART’S head–
(“Tam carum” it may well be said)
If by some curious chance it came
To settle on BILL SOAMES’S shoulders,
The effect would turn out much the same
On all respectable cash-holders;
Except that while, in its new socket,
The head was planning schemes to win
A zig-zag way into one’s pocket,
The hands would plunge directly in.
Good Viscount SIDMOUTH, too, instead
Of his own grave, respected head,
Might wear (for aught I see that bars)
Old Lady WILHELMINA FRUMP’S–
So while the hand signed Circulars,
The head might lisp out “What is trumps?”–
The REGENT’S brains could we transfer
To some robust man-milliner,
The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbon
Would go, I doubt not, quite as glib on;
And, vice versa, take the pains
To give the PRINCE the shopman’s brains,
One only change from thence would flow,
Ribbons would not be wasted so.
‘Twas thus I pondered on, my Lord;
And, even at night, when laid in bed,
I found myself, before I snored,
Thus chopping, swopping head for head.
At length I thought, fantastic elf!
How such a change would suit myself.
‘Twixt sleep and waking, one by one,
With various pericraniums saddled,
At last I tried your Lordship’s on,
And then I grew completely addled–
Forgot all other heads, od rot ’em!
And slept, and dreamt that I was–BOTTOM.
Walked out with daughter BID–was shown
The House of Commons and the Throne,
Whose velvet cushion’s just the same
NAPOLEON sat on–what a shame!
Oh! can we wonder, best of speechers,
When LOUIS seated thus we see,
That France’s “fundamental features”
Are much the same they used to be?
However,–God preserve the Throne,
And cushion too–and keep them free;
From accidents, which have been known
To happen even to Royalty!
Read, at a stall (for oft one pops
On something at these stalls and shops,
That does to quote and gives one’s Book
A classical and knowing look.–
Indeed, I’ve found, in Latin, lately,
A course of stalls improves me greatly)–
‘Twas thus I read that in the East
A monarch’s fat‘s a serious matter;
And once in every year, at least,
He’s weighed–to see if he gets fatter:
Then, if a pound or two he be
Increased, there’s quite a jubilee!
Suppose, my Lord–and far from me
To treat such things with levity–
But just suppose the Regent’s weight
Were made thus an affair of state;
And, every sessions, at the close,–
‘Stead of a speech, which, all can see, is
Heavy and dull enough, God knows–
We were to try how heavy he is.
Much would it glad all hearts to hear–
That, while the Nation’s Revenue
Loses so many pounds a year,
The PRINCE, God bless him! gains a few.
With bales of muslin, chintzes, spices,
I see the Easterns weigh their Kings;–
But, for the REGENT, my advice is,
We should throw in much heavier things:
For instance—–‘s quarto volumes,
Which, tho’ not spices, serve to wrap them;
Dominie STODDART’S Daily columns,
“Prodigious!”–in, of course, we’d clap them–
Letters, that CARTWRIGHT’S pen indites,
In which, with logical confusion,
The Major like a Minor writes,
And never comes to a Conclusion:–
Lord SOMERS’S pamphlet–or his head–
(Ah! that were worth its weight in lead!)
Along with which we in may whip, sly,
The Speeches of Sir JOHN COX HIPPISLY;
That Baronet of many words,
Who loves so, in the House of Lords,
To whisper Bishops–and so nigh
Unto their wigs in whispering goes,
That you may always know him by
A patch of powder on his nose!–
If this won’t do, we in must cram
The “Reasons” of Lord BUCKINGHAM;
(A Book his Lordship means to write,
Entitled “Reasons for my Ratting”:)
Or, should these prove too small and light,
His rump’s a host–we’ll bundle that in!
And, still should all these masses fail
To stir the REGENT’S pondrous scale,
Why, then, my Lord, in heaven’s name,
Pitch in, without reserve or stint,
The whole of RAGLEY’S beauteous Dame–
If that won’t raise him, devil’s in it!
Consulted MURPHY’S TACITUS
About those famous spies at Rome,
Whom certain Whigs–to make a fuss–
Describe as much resembling us,
Informing gentlemen, at home.
But, bless the fools, they can’t be serious,
To say Lord SIDMOUTH’S like TIBERIUS!
What! he, the Peer, that injures no man,
Like that severe, blood-thirsty Roman!–
‘Tis true, the Tyrant lent an ear to
All sorts of spies–so doth the Peer, too.
‘Tis true, my Lord’s elect tell fibs,
And deal in perjury–ditto TIB’s.
‘Tis true, the Tyrant screened and hid
His rogues from justice–ditto SID.
‘Tis true the Peer is grave and glib
At moral speeches–ditto TIB.
‘Tis true the feats the Tyrant did
Were in his dotage–ditto SID.
So far, I own, the parallel
‘Twixt TIB and SIB goes vastly well;
But there are points in TIB that strike
My humble mind as much more like
Yourself, my dearest Lord, or him,
Of the India Board–that soul of whim!
Like him, TIBERIUS loved his joke,
On matters, too, where few can bear one;
E. g. a man cut up, or broke
Upon the wheel–a devilish fair one!
Your common fractures, wounds and fits,
Are nothing to such wholesale wits;
But, let the sufferer gasp for life,
The joke is then, worth any money;
And, if he writhe beneath a knife,–
Oh dear, that’s something quite too funny.
In this respect, my Lord, you see
The Roman wag and ours agree:
Now as to your resemblance–mum–
This parallel we need not follow:
Tho’ ’tis, in Ireland, said by some
Your Lordship beats TIBERIUS hollow;
Whips, chains–but these are things too serious
For me to mention or discuss;
Whene’er your Lordship acts TIBERIUS,
PHIL. FUDGE’S part is Tacitus!
Was thinking, had Lord SIDMOUTH got
Any good decent sort of Plot
Against the winter-time–if not,
Alas, alas, our ruin’s fated;
All done up and spiflicated!
Ministers and all their vassals,
Down from CASTLEREAGH to CASTLES,–
Unless we can kick up a riot,
Ne’er can hope for peace or quiet!
What’s to be done?–Spa-Fields was clever;
But even that brought gibes and mockings
Upon our heads–so, mem.–must never
Keep ammunition in old stockings;
For fear some wag should in his curst head
Take it to say our force was worsted.
Mem. too–when SID an army raises,
It must not be “incog.” like Bayes’s:
Nor must the General be a hobbling
Professor of the art of cobbling;
Lest men, who perpetrate such puns,
Should say, with Jacobinic grin,
He felt, from soleing Wellingtons,
A Wellington’s great soul within!
Nor must an old Apothecary
Go take the Tower, for lack of pence,
With (what these wags would call, so merry,)
Physical force and phial-ence!
No–no–our Plot, my Lord, must be
Next time contrived more skilfully.
John Bull, I grieve to say, is growing
So troublesomely sharp and knowing,
So wise–in short, so Jacobin–
‘Tis monstrous hard to take him in.
Heard of the fate of our Ambassador
In China, and was sorely nettled;
But think, my Lord, we should not pass it o’er
Till all this matter’s fairly settled;
And here’s the mode occurs to me:–
As none of our Nobility,
Tho’ for their own most gracious King
(They would kiss hands, or–anything),
Can be persuaded to go thro’
This farce-like trick of the Ko-tou;
And as these Mandarins won’t bend,
Without some mumming exhibition,
Suppose, my Lord, you were to send
GRIMALDI to them on a mission:
As Legate, JOE could play his part,
And if, in diplomatic art,
The “volto sciolto”‘s meritorius,
Let JOE but grin, he has it, glorious!
A title for him’s easily made;
And, by the by, one Christmas time,
If I remember right, he played
Lord MORLEY in some pantomime:–
As Earl of Morley then gazette him,
If t’other Earl of MORLEY’ll let him,
(And why should not the world be blest
“With two such stars, for East and West?)
Then, when before the Yellow Screen
He’s brought–and, sure, the very essence
Of etiquette would be that scene
Of JOE in the Celestial Presence!–
He thus should say:–“Duke Ho and Soo,
“I’ll play what tricks you please for you,
“If you’ll, in turn, but do for me
“A few small tricks you now shall see.
“If I consult your Emperor’s liking,
“At least you’ll do the same for my King.”
He then should give them nine such grins,
As would astound even Mandarins;
And throw such somersets before
The picture of King GEORGE (God bless him!)
As, should Duke Ho but try them o’er,
Would, by CONFUCIUS, much distress him!
I start this merely as a hint,
But think you’ll find some wisdom in’t;
And, should you follow up the job,
My son, my Lord (you know poor BOB),
Would in the suite be glad to go
And help his Excellency, JOE:–
At least, like noble AMHERST’S son,
The lad will do to practise on.
 The celebrated letter to Prince Hardenburgh (written, however, I believe, originally in English) in which his Lordship, professing to see “no moral or political objection” to the dismemberment of Saxony, denounced the unfortunate King as “not only the most devoted, but the most favored, of Bonaparte’s vassals”.
 This extraordinary madman is, I believe, in the Bicetre. He imagines, exactly as Mr. Fudge states it, that when the heads of those who had been guillotined were restored, he by mistake got some other person’s instead of his own.
 A celebrated pickpocket.
 I am afraid that Mr. Fudge alludes here to a very awkward accident, which is well known to have happened to poor Louis le Desire, some years since, at one of the Regent’s Fetes. He was sitting next our gracious Queen at the time.
 “The third day of the Feast the King causeth himself to be weighed with great care,”–F. Bernier’s “Voyage to Surat,” etc.
 “I remember,” says Bernier, “that all the Omrahs expressed great joy that the King weighed two pounds more now than the year preceding.”– Another author tells us that “Fatness, as well as a very large head, is considered, throughout India, as one of the most precious gifts of heaven.” An enormous skull is absolutely revered, and the happy owner is looked up to as a superior being. To a Prince a joulter head is invaluable.”–Oriental Field Sports.
 Major Cartwright.
 The name of the first worthy who set up the trade of informer at Rome (to whom our Olivers and Castleses ought to erect a statue) was Romanus Hispo.
 Short boots so called.
 The open countenance, recommended by Lord Chesterfield.
 Mr. Fudge is a little mistaken here. It was not Grimaldi, but some very inferior performer, who played this part of “Lord Morley” in the Pantomime,–so much to the horror of the distinguished Earl of that name.
LETTER X. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY —-.
Well, it isn’t the King, after all, my dear creature!
But don’t you go laugh, now–there’s nothing to quiz in’t–
For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature,
He might be a King, DOLL, tho’, hang him, he isn’t.
At first, I felt hurt, for I wisht it, I own,
If for no other cause but to vex Miss MALONE,–
(The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who’s here,
Showing off with such airs, and a real Cashmere,
While mine’s but a paltry, old rabbit-skin, dear!)
But Pa says, on deeply considering the thing,
“I am just as well pleased it should not be the King;
“As I think for my BIDDY, so gentille and jolie.
“Whose charms may their price in an honest way fetch,
“That a Brandenburgh”–(what is a Brandenburgh, DOLLY?)–
“Would be, after all, no such very great catch.
“If the REGENT indeed”–added he, looking sly–
(You remember that comical squint of his eye)
But I stopt him with “La, Pa, how can you say so,
“When the REGENT loves none but old women, you know!”
Which is fact, my dear DOLLY–we, girls of eighteen,
And so slim–Lord, he’d think us not fit to be seen:
And would like us much better as old-as, as old
As that Countess of DESMOND, of whom I’ve been told
That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten,
And was killed by a fall from a cherry-tree then!
What a frisky old girl! but–to come to my lover,
Who, tho’ not a King, is a hero I’ll swear,–
You shall hear all that’s happened, just briefly run over,
Since that happy night, when we whiskt thro’ the air!
Let me see–’twas on Saturday–yes, DOLLY, yes–
From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss;
When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage,
Whose journey, BOB says, is so like Love and Marriage,
“Beginning gay, desperate, dashing, down-hilly,
“And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!”
Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night thro’;
And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you,
With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet,
I set out with Papa, to see Louis DIX-HUIT
Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys,
Who get up a small concert of shrill Vive le Rois–
And how vastly genteeler, my dear, even this is,
Than vulgar Pall-Mall’s oratorio of hisses!
The gardens seemed full–so, of Course, we walkt o’er ’em,
‘Mong orange-trees, clipt into town-bred decorum,
And daphnes and vases and many a statue
There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you!
The ponds, too, we viewed–stood awhile on the brink
To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes–
“Live bullion,” says merciless BOB, “which, I think,
“Would, if coined, with a little mint sauce, be delicious!”
But what, DOLLY, what, is the gay orange-grove,
Or gold fishes, to her that’s in search of her love?
In vain did I wildly explore every chair
Where a thing like a man was–no lover sat there!
In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast
At the whiskers, mustachios and wigs that went past,
To obtain if I could but a glance at that curl,–
A glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl,
As the lock that, Pa says,is to Mussulman given,
For the angel to hold by that “lugs them to heaven!”
Alas, there went by me full many a quiz,
And mustachios in plenty, but nothing like his!
Disappointed, I found myself sighing out “well-a-day,”–
Thought of the words of TOM MOORE’S Irish Melody,
Something about the “green spot of delight”
(Which, you know, Captain MACKINTOSH sung to us one day):
Ah DOLLY, my “spot” was that Saturday night,
And its verdure, how fleeting, had withered by Sunday!
We dined at a tavern–La, what do I say?
If BOB was to know!–a Restaurateur’s, dear;
Where your properest ladies go dine every day,
And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer.
Fine BOB (for he’s really grown super-fine)
Condescended for once to make one of the party;
Of course, tho’ but three, we had dinner for nine,
And in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty.
Indeed, DOLL, I know not how ’tis, but, in grief,
I have always found eating a wondrous relief;
And BOB, who’s in love, said he felt the same, quite—
“My sighs,” said he, “ceased with the first glass I drank you;
“The lamb made me tranquil, the puffs made me light,
“And–now that all’s o’er–why, I’m–pretty well, thank you!”
To my great annoyance, we sat rather late;
For BOBBY and Pa had a furious debate
About singing and cookery–BOBBY, of course,
Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force;
And Pa saying, “God only knows which is worst,
“The French Singers or Cooks, but I wish us well over it–
“What with old LAI’S and VERY, I’m curst
“If my head or my stomach will ever recover it!”
‘Twas dark when we got to the Boulevards to stroll,
And in vain did I look ‘mong the street Macaronis,
When, sudden it struck me–last hope of my soul–
That some angel might take the dear man to TORTONI’S!
We entered–and, scarcely had BOB, with an air,
For a grappe a la jardiniere called to the waiters,
When, oh DOLL! I saw him–my hero was there
(For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters),
A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o’er him,
And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him!
Oh! DOLLY, these heroes–what creatures they are;
In the boudoir the same as in fields full of slaughter!
As cool in the Beaujon’s precipitous car,
As when safe at TORTONI’S, o’er iced currant water!
He joined us–imagine, dear creature, my ecstasy–
Joined by the man I’d have broken ten necks to see!
BOB wished to treat him with Punch a la glace,
But the sweet fellow swore that my beaute, my grace,
And my ja-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirled)
Were to him, “on de top of all Ponch in de vorld.”–
How pretty!–tho’ oft (as of course it must be)
Both his French and his English are Greek, DOLL, to me.
But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did;
And happier still, when ’twas fixt, ere we parted,
That, if the next day should be pastoral weather.
We all would set off, in French buggies, together,
To see Montmorency–that place which, you know,
Is so famous for cherries and JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU.
His card then he gave us–the name, rather creased–
But ’twas CALICOT–something–a Colonel, at least!
After which–sure there never was hero so civil–he
Saw us safe home to our door in Rue Rivoli,
Where his last words, as, at parting, he threw
A soft look o’er his shoulders, were–“How do you do!”
But, lord!–there’s Papa for the post–I’m so vext–
Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next.
That dear Sunday night–I was charmingly drest,
And–so providential!–was looking my best;
Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce–and my frills,
You’ve no notion how rich–(tho’ Pa has by the bills)
And you’d smile had you seen, when we sat rather near,
Colonel CALICOT eyeing the cambric, my dear.
Then the flowers in my bonnet–but, la! it’s in vain–
So, good-by, my sweet DOLL–I shall soon write again.
Nota bene–our love to all neighbors about–
Your Papa in particular–how is his gout?
P.S.–I’ve just opened my letter to say,
In your next you must tell me, (now do, DOLLY, pray,
For I hate to ask BOB, he’s so ready to quiz,)
What sort of a thing, dear, a Brandenburgh is.
 The cars, on return, are dragged up slowly by a chain.
 For this scrap of knowledge “Pa” was, I suspect, indebted to a note upon Volney’s “Ruins:”
“It is by this tuft of hair (on the crown of the head), worn by the majority of Mussulmans, that the Angel of the Tomb is to take the elect and carry them to Paradise.”
 A fashionable cafe glacier on the Italian Boulevards.
 “You eat your ice at Tortoni’s,” says Mr. Scott, “under a Grecian group.”
LETTER XI. FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO —-.
Yes, ’twas a cause, as noble and as great
As ever hero died to vindicate–
A Nation’s right to speak a Nation’s voice,
And own no power but of the Nation’s choice!
Such was the grand, the glorious cause that now
Hung trembling on NAPOLEON’S single brow;
Such the sublime arbitrament, that poured,
In patriot eyes, a light around his sword,
A hallowing light, which never, since the day
Of his young victories, had illumed its way!
Oh ’twas not then the time for tame debates,
Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates;
When he, who late had fled your Chieftain’s eye.
As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly,
Denounced against the land, that spurned his chain,
Myriads of swords to bind it fast again–
Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track
Thro’ your best blood his path of vengeance back;
When Europe’s Kings, that never yet combined
But (like those upper Stars, that, when conjoined,
Shed war and pestilence,) to scourge mankind,
Gathered around, with hosts from every shore,
Hating NAPOLEON much, but Freedom more,
And, in that coming strife, appalled to see
The world yet left one chance for liberty!–
No, ’twas not then the time to weave a net
Of bondage round your Chief; to curb and fret
Your veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight,
When every hope was in his speed and might–
To waste the hour of action in dispute,
And coolly plan how freedom’s boughs should shoot,
When your Invader’s axe was at the root!
No sacred Liberty! that God, who throws,
Thy light around, like His own sunshine, knows
How well I love thee and how deeply hate
All tyrants, upstart and Legitimate–
Yet, in that hour, were France my native land,
I would have followed, with quick heart and hand,
NAPOLEON, NERO–ay, no matter whom–
To snatch my country from that damning doom,
That deadliest curse that on the conquered waits–
A Conqueror’s satrap, throned within her gates!
True, he was false–despotic–all you please–
Had trampled down man’s holiest liberties–
Had, by a genius, formed for nobler things
Than lie within the grasp of vulgar Kings,
But raised the hopes of men–as eaglets fly
With tortoises aloft into the sky–
To dash them down again more shatteringly!
All this I own–but still
* * * * *
 See Aellan, lib. v. cap. 29.,–who tells us that these geese, from a consciousness of their own loquacity, always cross Mount Taurus with stones in their bills, to prevent any unlucky cackle from betraying them to the eagles.
LETTER XII. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY —-.
At last, DOLLY,–thanks to potent emetic,
Which BOBBY and Pa, grimace sympathetic,
Have swallowed this morning, to balance the bliss,
Of an eel matelote and a bisque d’ecrevisses—
I’ve a morning at home to myself, and sit down
To describe you our heavenly trip out of town.
How agog you must be for this letter, my dear!
Lady JANE, in the novel, less languisht to hear,
If that elegant cornet she met at Lord NEVILLE’S
Was actually dying with love or–blue devils.
But Love, DOLLY, Love is the theme I pursue;
With Blue Devils, thank heaven, I have nothing to do–
Except, indeed, dear Colonel CALICOT spies
Any imps of that color in certain blue eyes,
Which he stares at till I, DOLL, at his do the same;
Then he simpers–I blush–and would often exclaim,
If I knew but the French for it, “Lord, Sir, for shame!”
Well, the morning was lovely–the trees in full dress
For the happy occasion–the sunshine express—
Had we ordered it, dear, of the best poet going,
It scarce could be furnisht more golden and glowing.
Tho’ late when we started, the scent of the air
Was like GATTIE’S rose-water,–and, bright, here and there,
On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet,
Like my aunt’s diamond pin on her green tabbinet!
While the birds seemed to warble as blest on the boughs,
As if each a plumed Calicot had for her spouse;
And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows,
And–in short, need I tell you wherever one goes
With the creature one loves, ’tis couleur de rose;
And ah! I shall ne’er, lived I ever so long, see
A day such as that at divine Montmorency!
There was but one drawback–at first when we started,
The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted;
How cruel–young hearts of such moments to rob!
He went in Pa’s buggy, and I went with BOB:
And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to know
That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so.
For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of BONEY’S–
Served with him of course–nay, I’m sure they were cronies.
So martial his features! dear DOLL, you can trace
Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face
As you do on that pillar of glory and brass,
Which the poor DUC DE BERRI must hate so to pass!
It appears, too, he made–as most foreigners do–
About English affairs an odd blunder or two.
For example misled by the names, I dare say–
He confounded JACK CASTLES with LORD CASTLEREAGH;
And–sure such a blunder no mortal hit ever on–
Fancied the present Lord CAMDEN the clever one!
But politics ne’er were the sweet fellow’s trade;
‘Twas for war and the ladies my Colonel was made.
And oh! had you heard, as together we walkt
Thro’ that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talkt;
And how perfectly well he appeared, DOLL, to know
All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU?–
“‘Twas there,” said he–not that his words I can state–
‘Twas a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate;–
But “there,” said he, (pointing where, small and remote,
The dear Hermitage rose), “there his JULIE he wrote,–
“Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure;
“Then sauded it over with silver and azure,
“And–oh, what will genius and fancy not do!–
“Tied the leaves up together with nonpareille blue!”
What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions
From sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here!
Alas, that a man of such exquisite notions
Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!
“‘Twas here too perhaps,” Colonel CALICOT said–
As down the small garden he pensively led–
(Tho’ once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle
With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle)
“‘Twas here he received from the fair D’EPINAY
“(Who called him so sweetly her Bear, every day,)
“That dear flannel petticoat, pulled off to form
“A waistcoat, to keep the enthusiast warm!”
Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we pondered,
As, full of romance, thro’ that valley we wandered.
The flannel (one’s train of ideas, how odd it is!)
Led us to talk about other commodities,
Cambric, and silk, and–I ne’er shall forget,
For the sun was then hastening in pomp to its set.
And full on the Colonel’s dark whiskers shone down,
When he askt me, with eagerness,–who made my gown?
The question confused me–for, DOLL, you must know,
And I ought to have told my best friend long ago,
That, by Pa’s strict command, I no longer employ
That enchanting couturiere, Madame LE ROI;
But am forced now to have VICTORINE, who–deuce take her!–
It seems is, at present, the King’s mantua-maker–
I mean of his party–and, tho’ much the smartest,
LE ROI is condemned as a rank Bonapartist.
Think, DOLL, how confounded I lookt–so well knowing
The Colonel’s opinions–my cheeks were quite glowing;
I stammered out something–nay, even half named
The legitimate sempstress, when, loud, he exclaimed,
“Yes; yes, by the stitching ’tis plain to be seen
“It was made by that Bourbonite bitch, VICTORINE!”
What a word for a hero!–but heroes will err,
And I thought, dear, I’d tell you things just as they were.
Besides tho’ the word on good manners intrench,
I assure you ’tis not half so shocking in French.
But this cloud, tho’ embarrassing, soon past away,
And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day,
The thoughts that arise, when such dear fellows woo us,–
The nothings that then, love, are–everything to us–
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,
And what BOB calls the “Two-penny-post of the Eyes”–
Ah, DOLL! tho’ I know you’ve a heart, ’tis in vain,
To a heart so unpractised these things to explain.
They can only be felt, in their fulness divine,
By her who has wandered, at evening’s decline,
Thro’ a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!
But here I must finish–for BOB, my dear DOLLY,
Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,
Is seized with a fancy for churchyard reflections;
And, full of all yesterday’s rich recollections,
Is just setting off for Montmartre–“for there is,”
Said he, looking solemn, “the tomb of the VERYS!
“Long, long have I wisht as a votary true,
“O’er the grave of such talents to utter my moans;
“And, to-day–as my stomach is not in good cue
“For the flesh of the VERYS–I’ll visit their bones!”
He insists upon my going with him–how teasing!
This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lie
Unsealed in my drawer, that, if anything pleasing
Occurs while I’m out, I may tell you–good-by.
Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I’m ruined for ever–
I ne’er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never!
To think of the wretch–what a victim was I!
‘Tis too much to endure–I shall die, I shall die–
“My brain’s in a fever–my pulses beat quick–
I shall die or at least be exceedingly sick!
Oh! what do you think? after all my romancing,
My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing,
This Colonel–I scarce can commit it to paper–
This Colonel’s no more than a vile linen-draper!!
‘Tis true as I live–I had coaxt brother BOB so,
(You’ll hardly make out what I’m writing, I sob so,)
For some little gift on my birthday–September
The thirtieth, dear, I’m eighteen, you remember–
That BOB to a shop kindly ordered the coach,
(Ah! little I thought who the shopman would prove,)
To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche,
Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love–
(The most beautiful things–two Napoleons the price–
And one’s name in the corner embroidered so nice!)
Well, with heart full of pleasure, I entered the shop.
But–ye Gods, what a phantom!–I thought I should drop–
There he stood, my dear DOLLY–no room for a doubt–
There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand,
With a piece of French cambric, before him rolled out,
And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand!
Oh!–Papa, all along, knew the secret,’ is clear–
‘Twas a shopman he meant by a “Brandenburgh,” dear!
The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King,
And, when that too delightful illusion was past,
As a hero had worshipt–vile, treacherous thing–
To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!
My head swam around–the wretch smiled, I believe,
But his smiling, alas, could no longer deceive–
I fell back on BOB–my whole heart seemed to wither–
And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!
I only remember that BOB, as I caught him,
With cruel facetiousness said, “Curse the Kiddy!
“A stanch Revolutionist always I’ve thought him,
“But now I find out he’s a Counter one, BIDDY!”
Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known
To that saucy, satirical thing, Miss MALONE!
What a story ’twill be at Shandangan for ever!
What laughs and what quizzing she’ll have with the men!
It will spread thro’ the country–and never, oh! never
Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again!
Farewell–I shall do something desperate, I fear–
And, ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear,
One tear of compassion my DOLL will not grudge
To her poor–broken-hearted–young friend, BIDDY FUDGE.
Nota bene–I am sure you will hear, with delight,
That we’re going, all three, to see BRUNET to-night.
A laugh will revive me–and kind Mr. COX
(Do you know him?) has got us the Governor’s box.
 The column in the Place Vendome.
 Miss Biddy’s notions of French pronunciation may be perceived in the rhymes which she always selects for “Le Roi.”
 LE ROI, who was the Couturiere of the Empress Maria Louisa, is at present, of course, out of fashion, and is succeeded in her station by the Royalist mantua-maker, VICTORINE.
 It is the brother of the present excellent Restaurateur who lies entombed so magnificently in the Cimetiere Monmartre.