The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

Le Leggi della Maschera richiedono che una persona mascherata non sia salutata per nome da uno che la conosce malgrado il suo travestimento. Castiglione.

LETTER I. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ---, OF CLONKILTY, IN IRELAND.

Amiens.

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! though, 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 corn-fields 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, though one little Neddy we saw in our drive
Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive!

By the by, though, 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 ,
(Modell'd out so exactly, and—God bless the mark!
'Tis a foot, Dolly, worthy so Grand a Monarque),

He exclaim'd, “Oh, mon Roi!” and, with tear-dropping eye,
Stood to gaze on the spot—while some Jacobin, nigh,
Mutter'd 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 turn'd toder way.”
There's the pillar, too—Lord! I had nearly forgot—
What a charming idea!—rais'd 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 occurr'd sentimental as yet;
Except, indeed, some little flow'r-nymphs we've met,
Who disturb one's romance with pecuniary views,
Flinging flow'rs 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 dear Sterne.

Our party consists (in a neat Calais job)
Of Papa and myself, Mr. Connor and Bob.
You remember how sheepish Bob look'd at Kilrandy,
But, Lord! he's quite alter'd—they've made him a Dandy;
A thing, you know, whisker'd, great-coated, and laced,
Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist:
Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scholars,
With heads, 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,
À la braise, petits pâtés, and—what d'ye call that

They inflict on potatoes?—oh! maitre d' hôtel—
I assure you, dear Dolly, he knows them as well
As if nothing else all his life he had eat,
Though a bit of them Bobby has never touch'd 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, ye 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 C*stl*r---gh,
Who said, “My dear Fudge”—I forget th' 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, ev'ry thing 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 déjeûner à 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 honours
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
(Though of royal descent by the side of Mamma),
And for charity made private tutor to Bob;—
Entre nous, too, a Papist—how lib'ral of Pa!

This is all, dear,—forgive me for breaking off thus,
But Bob's déjeûner's done, and Papa's in a fuss.

B. F.

P. S.

How provoking of Pa! he will not let me stop
Just to run in and rummage some milliner's shop;
And my début 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 Desiré 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.

Ci-git la jambe de, &c. &c.

A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris.

100

LETTER II. FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ. TO THE LORD VISCOUNT C*ST---R---GH.

Paris.

At length, my Lord, I have the bliss
To date to you a line from this
“Demoraliz'd” metropolis;
Where, by plebeians low and scurvy,
The throne was turn'd 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!

101

Where the poor Palace changes masters
Quicker than a snake its skin,
And Louis is roll'd 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 C---gh,
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, every where!

102

And marv'lling with what pow'rs of breath
Your Lordship, having speech'd to death
Some hundreds of your fellow-men,
Next speech'd to Sovereigns' ears,—and when
All Sovereigns else were doz'd, at last
Speech'd 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 should'st be chiefly pleas'd at—
That Ireland gives her snuff thy name,
And C---gh's the thing now sneez'd at!

But hold, my pen!—a truce to praising—
Though ev'n your Lordship will allow
The theme's temptations are amazing;
But time and ink run short, and now,

103

(As thou wouldst say, my guide and teacher
In these gay metaphoric 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 labours of the Fudges!)
Will prove that all the world, at present,
Is in a state extremely pleasant;
That Europe—thanks to royal swords
And bay'nets, 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;
Though 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;

104

And that the Irish, grateful nation!
Remember when by thee reign'd over,
And bless thee for their flagellation,
As Heloisa did her lover! —
That Poland, left for Russia's lunch
Upon the side-board, snug reposes:
While Saxony's as pleased as Punch,
And Norway “on a bed of roses!”
That, as for some few million souls,
Transferr'd 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 gaily ,
And Louis eats his salmi , daily;

105

So time is left to Emperor Sandy
To be half Cæsar and half Dandy;
And G---ge the R*g---t (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 reas'ning with the Post I'll vie,
My facts the Courier shall supply,
My jokes V---ns---t, P---le my sense,
And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence!

My Journal, penn'd 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 place-holder,)
Is—though 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.

106

“Jul. thirty-first.—Went, after snack,
“To the Cathedral of St. Denny;
“Sigh'd o'er the Kings of ages back,
“And—gave the old Concierge a penny.
“(Mem.—Must see Rheims, much fam'd, 'tis said,
“For making Kings and gingerbread.)
“Was shown the tomb where lay, so stately,
“A little Bourbon, buried lately,
“Thrice high and puissant, we were told,
“Though 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 pow'r would fix,
“Full fledg'd and wigg'd at fifty-six!”

The argument's quite new, you see,
And proves exactly Q. E. D.

107

So now, with duty to the R*g---t,
I am, dear Lord,
Your most obedient,

P. F.

Hôtel 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 favour with our friends at Murray's,
Who scorn what any man can say,
That dates from Rue St. Honoré!

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,” &c. &c.

The title of the chief magistrate of Belfast, before whom his Lordship (with the “studium immane loquendi” attributed by Ovid to that chattering and rapacious class of birds, the pies) delivered sundry long and self-gratulatory orations, on his return from the Continent. It was at one of these Irish dinners that his gallant brother, Lord S., proposed the health of “The best cavalry officer in Europe—the Regent!”

Verbatim from one of the noble Viscount's Speeches— “And now, Sir, I must embark into the feature on which this question chiefly hinges.”

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 P---e R---t!

Οψα τε, οια εδονσι διοτρεφεες βασιληες

Homer, Odyss. 3.

So described on the coffin: “très-haute et puissante Princesse, agée d'un jour.”

There is a fulness and breadth in this portrait of Royalty, which reminds us of what Pliny says, in speaking of Trajan's great qualities:—“nonne longè lateque Principem ostentant?”

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.”

108

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 head-quarters of Prog!
Talk of England—her famed Magna Charta, I swear, is
A humbug, a flam, to the Carte at old Véry'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;

109

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 R*g---t, there's Louis—and Boney tried too,
But, tho' somewhat imperial in paunch, 'twouldn't do:—
He improv'd, 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,

110

Where for hail they have bon-bons, and claret for rain,
And the skaiters 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 oil'd, 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!—

111

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 Café Hardy, which yet
Beats the field at a déjeûner à la fourchette.
There, Dick, what a breakfast!—oh, not like your ghost
Of a breakfast in England, your curst tea and toast ;

112

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 paté 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,

113

(If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on't,
I'd swallow ev'n W*tk*ns', for sake of the end on't,)
A neat glass of parfait-amour, which one sips
Just as if bottled velvet tipp'd over one's lips.
This repast being ended, and paid for—(how odd!
Till a man's us'd to paying, there's something so queer in't!)—
The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad,
And the world enough air'd for us, Nobs, to appear in't,
We lounge up the Boulevards, where—oh, Dick, the phyzzes,
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 lac'd hat, worsted stockings, and—noble old soul!
A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole;
Just such as our Pr---ce, who nor reason nor fun dreads,
Inflicts, without ev'n a court-martial, on hundreds.

114

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 Br*mm*l, 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—

115

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 finish'd some other fine morning.
Now, hey for old Beauvilliers' 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
R. Fudge.

The Bill of Fare.—Véry, a well-known Restaurateur.

Mr. Bob alludes particularly, I presume, to the famous Jury Dégustateur, which used to assemble at the Hotel of M. Grimod de la Reynière, and of which this modern Archestratus has given an account in his Almanach des Gourmands, cinquième, année, p. 78.

The fairy-land of cookery and gourmandise; “Pais, où le ciel offre les viandes toutes cuites, et où, comme on parle, les alouèttes tombent toutes roties. Du Latin, coquère.” —Duchat.

The process by which the liver of the unfortunate goose is enlarged, in order to produce that richest of all dainties, the foie gras, of which such renowned patés are made at Strasbourg and Toulouse, is thus described in the Cours Gastronomique: —“On déplume l'estomac des oies; on attache ensuite ces animaux aux chenets d'une cheminée, et on les nourrit devant le feu. La captivité et la chaleur donnent à ces volatiles, une maladie hépatique, qui fait gonfler leur foie,” &c. p. 206.

Is Mr. Bob aware that his contempt for tea renders him liable to a charge of atheism? Such, at least, is the opinion cited in Christian, Falster. Amœnitat. Philolog.—“Atheum interpretabatur hominem ad herbâ The aversum.” He would not, I think, have been so irreverent to this beverage of scholars, if he had read Peter Petit's Poem in praise of Tea, addressed to the learned Huet—or the Epigraphe which Pechlinus wrote for an altar he meant to dedicate to this herb—or the Anacreontics of Peter Francius, in which he calls Tea

Θεαν, θεην, θεαιναν.

The following passage from one of these Anacreontics will, I have no doubt, be gratifying to all true Theists.

Θεοις, θεων τε πατρι,
Εν χρυσεοις σκυφοισι
Διδοι το νεκταρ Ηβη.
Σε μοι διακονοιντο
Σκυφοις εν μυρρινοισι,
Τω καλλει πρεπουσαι
Καλαις χερεσσι κουραι

Which may be thus translated:—

Yes, let Hebe, ever young,
High in heav'n her nectar hold,
And to Jove's immortal throng
Pour the tide in cups of gold—
I'll not envy heaven's Princes,
While, with snowy hands, for me,
Kate the china tea-cup rinses,
And pours out her best Bohea!

The favourite wine of Napoleon.

Velours en bouteille.

It was said by Wicquefort, more than a hundred years ago, “Le Roi d'Angleterre fait seul plus de chevaliers que tous les autres Rois de la Chrétienté ensemble.”—What would he say now?

A celebrated restaurateur.

116

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,
Ev'n in the fields where free those fathers trod,
I am proscrib'd, 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 nought but food for factions and harangues;
Who yearly kneel before their masters' doors,
And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores:

117

Still let your [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
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 th' Oppressor's face.
Every where gallant hearts, and spirits true,
Are serv'd up victims to the vile and few;
While E*gl---d, every where—the general foe
Of Truth and Freedom, wheresoe'er they glow—
Is first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow.

Oh, E*gl---d! 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,

118

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
Pronounc'd, 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 neighbour's blessings, risks the few thou hast;—
That monster, Self, too gross to be conceal'd,
Which ever lurks behind thy proffer'd 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 gain'd,
Back to his masters, ready gagg'd and chain'd!
Worthy associate of that band of Kings,
That royal, rav'ning flock, whose vampire wings
O'er sleeping Europe treacherously brood,
And fan her into dreams of promis'd 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,

119

That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart,
Made thee the fall'n and tarnish'd thing thou art;
That, as the centaur gave th' infected vest
In which he died, to rack his conqueror's breast,
We sent thee C---gh:—as heaps of dead
Have slain their slayers by the pest they spread,
So hath our land breath'd out, thy fame to dim,
Thy strength to waste, and rot thee, soul and limb,
Her worst infections all condens'd in him! [OMITTED]
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 Heav'n 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

120

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, sees 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 partition'd, truck'd, and weigh'd
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 [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
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,

121

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 awak'd my strings,
Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings,
The High Legitimates, the Holy Band,
Who, bolder ev'n than He of Sparta's land,
Against whole millions, panting to be free,
Would guard the pass of right-line tyranny.
Instead of him, th' Athenian bard, whose blade
Had stood the onset which his pen pourtray'd,
Welcome [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
And, 'stead of Aristides—woe the day
Such names should mingle!—welcome C---gh!

Here break we off, at this unhallow'd name
Like priests of old, when words ill-omen'd came.

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My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell,
Thoughts that [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Thoughts that—could patience hold—'twere wiser far
To leave still hid and burning where they are.

“They used to leave a yard square 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,’ &c.) 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.

------ Membra et Herculeos toros
Urit lues Nessea. ------
Ille, ille victor vincitur.

Senec. Hercul. Œt.

The late Lord C. of Ireland had a curious theory about names;—he held that every man with three names was a jacobin. His instances in Ireland were numerous:—viz. Archibald Hamilton Rowan, Theobald Wolfe Tone, James Napper Tandy, John Philpot Curran, &c. &c. and, in England, he produced as examples Charles James Fox, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, John Horne Tooke, Francis Burdett Jones, &c. &c.

The Romans called a thief “homo trium literarum.”

Tun' trium literarum homo
Me vituperas? Fur.

Plautus, Aulular. Act ii. Scene 4.

Dissaldeus supposes this word to be a glossema:—that is, he thinks “Fur” has made his escape from the margin into the text.

123

LETTER V. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ---.

What a time since I wrote!—I'm a sad, naughty girl—
For, though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl;—
Yet ev'n (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 call'd—I forget—à la—something which sounded
Like alicampane—but, in truth, I'm confounded
And bother'd, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's
(Bob's) cookery language, and Madame le Roi's:

124

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 diff'rence, at least as to phrase,
Between beef à la Psyche and curls à la braise.—
But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite à la Francaise,
With my bonnet—so beautiful!—high up and poking,
Like things that are put to keep chimnies from smoking.

Where shall I begin with the endless delights
Of this Eden of milliners, monkies, 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 through one!”

125

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 Laïs , 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 base to a cholic!

But, the dancing—ah parlez-moi, Dolly, de ca—
There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.

126

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 dæmons 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!

127

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,
When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,
The Testament turn'd into melo-drames 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 stuff'd lions,

128

While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,
In very thin clothing, and but little of it;—
Here Bégrand , who shines in this scriptural path,
As the lovely Susanna, without ev'n 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.

129

These vehicles, mind me, in which you go through
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 thund'ring, as if you went post to old scratch!
Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remark'd
On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embark'd,
The impatience of some for the perilous flight,
The forc'd giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright,—
That there came up—imagine, dear Doll, if you can—
A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werter-fac'd man,
With mustachios that gave (what we read of so oft)
The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft,
As Hyænas 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,

130

“Ah! my dear—if Ma'mselle vil be so very good—
Just for von littel course”—though I scarce understood
What he wish'd me to do, I said, thank him, I would.
Off we set—and, though 'faith, dear, I hardly knew whether
My head or my heels were the uppermost then,
For 'twas like heav'n and earth, Dolly, coming together,—
Yet, spite of the danger, we dar'd it again.
And oh! as I gaz'd 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 achiev'd, through the gardens we saunter'd about,
Saw the fire-works, exclaim'd “magnifique!” at each cracker,

131

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 such a fuss, you
Remember, in London, with Blucher and Platoff,
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 us'd under Boney,)
Which suits with our friend, for Bob saw him, he swore,
Looking sharp to the silver receiv'd 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)

132

Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is,
Us'd three times a day with young ladies in Paris.
Some Doctor, indeed, has declar'd 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 through 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 vapours,
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 manag'd 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 Théâtre de la Porte St. Martin, which was built when the Opera House in the Palais Royal was burned down, in 1781.—A few days after this dreadful fire, which lasted more than a week, and in which several persons perished, the Parisian élégantes displayed flame-coloured dresses, “couleur de feu d'Opéra!” —Dulaure, Curiosités de Paris.

“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 Théâtre de la Gaieté every evening to see the Passage of the Red Sea.”

In the play-bill of one of these sacred melo-drames at Vienna, we find “The Voice of G*d, by M. Schwartz.”

A piece very popular last year, called “Daniel, ou La Fosse aux Lions.” The following scene will give an idea of the daring sublimity of these scriptural pantomimes. “Scene 20.—La fournaise devient un berceau de nuages azurés, au fond duquel est un grouppe de nuages plus lumineux, et au milieu ‘Jehovah’ au centre d'un cercle de rayons brillans, qui annonce la présence de l'Éternel.”

Madame Bégrand, a finely formed woman, who acts in “Susanna and the Elders,”—“L'Amour et la Folie,” &c. &c

The Promenades Aëriennes, or French Mountains.— See a description of this singular and fantastic place of amusement in a pamphlet, truly worthy of it, by “F. F. Cotterel. Médecin, Docteur de la Faculté de Paris,” &c. &c.

According to Dr. Cotterel the cars go at the rate of forty-eight miles an hour.

In the Café attached to these gardens there are to be (as Doctor Cotterel informs us) “douze nègres, très-alertes, qui contrasteront par l'ébène de leur peau avec le teint de lis et de roses de nos belles. Les glaces et les sorbets, servis par une main bien noire, fera davantage ressortir l'albâtre des bras arrondis de celles-ci.”—P. 22.

His Majesty, who was at Paris under the travelling name of Count Ruppin, is known to have gone down the Beaujon very frequently.

133

LETTER VI. FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ. TO HIS BROTHER TIM FUDGE, ESQ. BARRISTER AT LAW.

Yours of the 12th receiv'd 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 fashion'd, 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,
Call'd “Down with Kings, or, Who'd have thought it?”

134

Bless you, the Book's long dead and gone,—
Not ev'n th' Attorney-General bought it.
And, though some few seditious tricks
I play'd 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 S---d---th 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-saviours of the nation—
Have form'd a Club this season, where
His Lordship sometimes takes the chair,

135

And gives us many a bright oration
In praise of our sublime vocation;
Tracing it up to great King Midas,
Who, though 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 touch'd 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 R*g---t too have ears ,

136

“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 R*g---t's Ears,”
With three times three illustrious cheers,
Which made the room resound like thunder—
“The R*g---t'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 gaily;
And, thanks to pension and Suspension,
Our little Club increases daily.

137

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 adorn'd,—
The R*g---t's buff-and-blue coats turn'd—
We have the honour to give dinners
To the chief Rats in upper stations ;
Your W---ys, V---ns,—half-fledg'd 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,

138

Are, after all their twists and bends,
But souls in Limbo, damn'd 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 receiv'd and treated
With all due honours—only seated
In th' inverse scale of their reward,
The merely promis'd next my Lord;
Small pensions then, and so on, down,
Rat after rat, they graduate
Through job, red ribbon, and silk gown,
To Chanc'llorship 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 —

139

Takes every part with perfect ease,
Though to the Base by nature suited;
And, form'd 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.
H---t---d, who, tho' no Rat himself,
Delights in all such liberal arts,
Drinks largely to the House of Guelph,
And superintends the Corni parts.
While C*nn---g , who'd be first by choice,
Consents to take an under voice;

140

And Gr*v*s , 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 'tother side;—
Some of those loyal, cunning elves
(We often tell the tale with laughter),
Who us'd 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,
The Reverend—something—Hamilton,
Who stuff'd a figure of himself
(Delicious thought!) and had it shot at,

141

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 crawl 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 fobb'd, for that day's work, already.

142

I'll ne'er forget th' old maid's alarm,
When, feeling thus Miss Sukey Flirt, he
Said, as he dropp'd her shrivell'd arm,
“Damn'd bad this morning—only thirty!”

Your dowagers, too, every one,
So gen'rous 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 headach 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;

143

Not one of us gives more eclat to
Th' immortal name of Fudge than thou.
Not to expatiate on the art
With which you play'd the patriot's part,
Till something good and snug should offer;—
Like one, who, by the way he acts
Th' enlight'ning 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 pow'rs of face,
Thy well-fee'd 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, though 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 candour, when it falls to thee
To help in trouncing for a libel;—

144

“God knows, I, from my soul, profess
“To hate all bigots and benighters!
“God knows, I love, to ev'n 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 S---dm---h and of C---gh,
I hope, ere long, to see the day
When England's wisest statesmen, judges,
Lawyers, peers, will all be—Fudges!

Good-bye—my paper's out so nearly,
I've only room for

Yours sincerely.

Lord C.'s tribute to the character of his friend, Mr. Reynolds, will long be remembered with equal credit to both.

This interpretation of the fable of Midas's ears seems the most probable of any, and is thus stated in Hoffmann:— “Hâc allegoriâ significatum, Midam, utpote tynannum, subauscultatores dimittere solitum, per quos, quæcunque per omnem regionem vel fierent, vel dicerentur, cognosceret, nimirum illis utens aurium vice.”

Brossette, in a note on this line of Boileau,

“Midas, le Roi Midas, a des oreilles d'Ane,”

tells us, that “M. Perrault le Médecin voulut faire à notre auteur un crime d'état de ce vers, comme d'une maligne allusion au Roi.” I trust, however, that no one will suspect the line in the text of any such indecorous allusion.

It was not under wigs, but tiaras, that King Midas endeavoured to conceal these appendages:

Tempora purpureis tentat velare tiaris.

Ovid.

The Noble Giver of the toast, however, had evidently, with his usual clearness, confounded King Midas, Mr. Liston, and the P---e R*g---t 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.

This intimacy between the Rats and Informers is just as it should be—“verè dulce sodalitium.”

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!

This Right Hon. Gentleman ought to give up his present alliance with Lord C., if upon no other principle than that which is inculcated in the following arrangement between two Ladies of Fashion:—

Says Clarinda, “though tears it may cost,
It is time we should part, my dear Sue;
For your character's totally lost,
And I have not sufficient for two!”

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.

145

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, loos'd, as if by magic, from a chain
That seem'd 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 sigh'd for justice—liberty—repose,
And hop'd 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,

146

And heard, like accents thaw'd 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 Heav'n look'd on,—
Who did not hope the lust of spoil was gone;
That that rapacious spirit, which had play'd
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 nurs'd 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 carv'd their victims, and how well,
Let Saxony, let injur'd Genoa tell;—
Let all the human stock that, day by day,
Was, at that Royal slave-mart, truck'd away,—

147

The million souls that, in the face of heaven,
Were split to fractions , barter'd, 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 enthrall'd—her Reason mock'd again
With all the monkery it had spurn'd in vain;
Her crown disgrac'd by one, who dar'd to own
He thank'd 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 return'd, beneath her conquerors' 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 dar'd through Europe, cry aloud to men,

148

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 ris'n, in might, to cast
Th' insulters off—and oh! that then, as now,
Chain'd to some distant islet's rocky brow,
Napoleon ne'er had come to force, to blight,
Ere half matur'd, 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 lists, unask'd, 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 blaz'd;—
For every single sword, reluctant rais'd

149

In the stale cause of an oppressive throne,
Millions would then have leap'd forth in her own;
And never, never had th' unholy stain
Of Bourbon feet disgrac'd her shores again.

But fate decreed not so—th' Imperial Bird,
That, in his neighbouring cage, unfear'd, unstirr'd,
Had seem'd to sleep with head beneath his wing,
Yet watch'd 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 wing'd his flight,
With calm and easy grandeur, to that throne
From which a Royal craven just had flown;
And resting there, as in his ærie, furl'd
Those wings, whose very rustling shook the world!

150

What was your fury then, ye crown'd 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, outlaw'd, low-born 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 serv'd 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, though long years of mutual treachery

151

Had peopled full your diplomatic shelves
With ghosts of treaties, murder'd 'mong yourselves;
Though 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 bless'd fountain made as good as new!
Most faithful Russia—faithful to whoe'er
Could plunder best, and give him amplest share;
Who, ev'n when vanquish'd, 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 fleec'd relations!
Most mild and saintly Prussia—steep'd to th' ears
In persecuted Poland's blood and tears,
And now, with all her harpy wings outspread
O'er sever'd Saxony's devoted head!
Pure Austria too—whose hist'ry nought repeats
But broken leagues and subsidiz'd defeats;

152

Whose faith, as Prince, extinguish'd Venice shows,
Whose faith, as man, a widow'd daughter knows!
And thou, oh England—who, though once as shy
As cloister'd maids, of shame or perfidy,
Art now broke in, and, thanks to C---gh,
In all that's worst and falsest lead'st the way!

Such was the pure divan, whose pens and wits
Th' escape from Elba frighten'd into fits;—
Such were the saints, who doom'd Napoleon's life,
In virtuous frenzy, to th' assassin's knife.
Disgusting crew!—who would not gladly fly
To open, downright, bold-fac'd tyranny,
To honest guilt, that dares do all but lie,
From the false, juggling craft of men like these,
Their canting crimes and varnish'd villanies;—
These Holy Leaguers, who then loudest boast
Of faith and honour, when they've stain'd them most;
From whose affection men should shrink as loath
As from their hate, for they'll be fleec'd by both;
Who, ev'n while plund'ring, forge Religion's name
To frank their spoil, and, without fear or shame,

153

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 pray'r and prey,
Whose loathsome cant, whose frauds by right divine
Deserve a lash—oh! weightier far than mine!

“Whilst the Congress was re-constructing Europe—not according to rights, natural affiances, language, habits, or laws; but by tables of finance, which divided and subdivided her population into souls, demi-souls, and even fractions, according to a scale of the direct duties or taxes, which could be levied by the acquiring state,” &c. —Sketch of the Military and Political Power of Russia. The words on the protocol are ames, demi-ames, &c.

“L'aigle volera de clocher en clocher, jusqu'aux tours de Notre-Dame.”—Napoleon's Proclamation on landing from Elba.

Singulis annis in quodam Atticæ fonte lota virginitatem recuperâsse fingitur.

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!”

154

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,
“D---n my eyes, Bob, in doubling the Cape you've miss'd stays.”
So, of course, as no gentleman's seen out without them,
They're now at the Schneider's —and, while he's about them,

155

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 cafés 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 mess'd up together!
And there, if one loves the romantic, one sees
Jew clothes-men, like shepherds, reclin'd under trees;
Or Quidnuncs, on Sunday, just fresh from the barber's,
Enjoying their news and groseille in those arbours;

156

While gaily 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 “God-dems” by the way,—
For, 'tis odd, these mounseers,—though 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-natur'd 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—

157

Long as, by bay'nets protected, we, Natties,
May have our full fling at their salmis and pâtés?
And, truly, I always declar'd '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 vanish'd for ever—their miracles o'er,
And the Marmite Perpétuelle bubbling no more!

158

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!
Though many, I own, are the evils they've brought us,
Though 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 their cries of “God-dam,”
“Coquin Anglais,” et cæt'ra—how generous I am!
And now (to return, once again, to my “Day,”
Which will take us all night to get through in this way,)

159

From the Boulevards we saunter through 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;

160

While St. Denys hangs out o'er some hatter of ton,
And possessing, good bishop, no head of his own ,
Takes an int'rest 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 pâtés as ever could cozen
One out of one's appetite, down by the dozen.
We vary, of course—petits pâtés do one day,
The next we've our lunch with the Gauffrier Hollandais ,

161

That popular artist, who brings out, like Sc*tt,
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 regen'rate the hunger and thirst of us sinners,
Who've laps'd 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;

162

So equal the motion—so gentle, though fleet—
It, in short, such a light and salubrious scamper is,
That take whom you please—take old L---s D---xh---t,
And stuff him—ay, up to the neck—with stew'd 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!

163

Such, Dick, are the classical sports that content us,
Till five o'clock brings on that hour so momentous ,
That epoch—but woa! 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.

164

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 à la table, d'la table au lit!”

R. F.

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.

“Cette merveilleuse Marmite Perpétuelle, sur le feu depuis près d'un siècle; qui a donné le jour à plus de 300,000 chapons.” —Alman. de Gourmands, Quatrième Année, p. 152.

Le thon mariné, one of the most favourite and indigestible hors-d'œuvres. This fish is taken chiefly in the Golfe de Lyon. “La tête et le dessous du ventre sont les parties les plus recherchées des gourmets.” —Cours Gastronomique, p. 252.

The exact number mentioned by M. de la Reynière— “On connoit en France 685 manières différentes d'accommoder les œufs; sans compter celles que nos savans imaginent chaque jour.”

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. The mot of a woman of wit upon this legend is well known: —“Je le crois bien; en pareil cas, il n'y a que le premier pas qui coute.”

Off the Boulevards Italiens.

In the Palais Royal; successor, I believe, to the Flamand, so long celebrated for the moëlleux of his Gaufres.

Doctor Cotterel recommends, for this purpose, the Beaujon or French Mountains, and calls them “une médecine aérienne, couleur de rose;” but I own I prefer the authority of Mr. Bob, who seems, from the following note found in his own hand-writing, to have studied all these mountains very carefully:—

Memoranda—The Swiss little notice deserves,
While the fall at Ruggieri's is death to weak nerves;
And (whate'er Doctor Cott'rel may write on the question)
The turn at the Beaujon's too sharp for digestion.

I doubt whether Mr. Bob is quite correct in accenting the second syllable of Ruggieri.

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.”

Lampreys, indeed, seem to have been always a favourite dish with kings—whether from some congeniality between them and that fish, I know not; but Dio Cassius tells us that Pollio fattened his lampreys with human blood. St. Louis of France was particularly fond of them.—See the anecdote of Thomas Aquinas eating up his majesty's lamprey, in a note upon Rabelais, liv. iii. chap. 2.

Had Mr. Bob's Dinner Epistle been inserted, I was prepared with an abundance of learned matter to illustrate it, for which, as, indeed, for all my “scientia popinæ ,“ I am indebted to a friend in the Dublin University,—whose reading formerly lay in the magic line; but, in consequence of the Provost's enlightened alarm at such studies, he has taken to the authors, “de re cibariâ” instead; and has left Bodin, Remigius, Agrippa and his little dog Filiolus, for Apicius, Nonius, and that most learned and savoury jesuit, Bulengerus.

Seneca.

A famous Restaurateur—now Dupont.

An old French saying;—“Faire le saut de l'Allemand, du lit à la table et de la table au lit.”

165

LETTER IX. FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ. TO THE LORD VISCOUNT C*ST---GH.

My Lord, th' 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 th' inquiries in your letter
About my health and French most flattering;
Thank ye, my French, though 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 ev'n in French, would have his trope,
And talk of “batir un systême
“Sur l'équilibre de l'Europe!”

166

Sweet metaphor!—and then th' Epistle,
Which bid the Saxon King go whistle,—
That tender letter to “Mon Prince ,”
Which show'd 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 would'st thou speak!
But as for me, a Frenchless grub,
At Congress never born to stammer,
Nor learn like thee, my Lord, to snub
Fall'n Monarchs, out of Chambaud's grammar—
Bless you, you do not, cannot know
How far a little French will go;
For all one's stock, one need but draw
On some half-dozen words like these—

167

Comme ça—par-là—là-bas—ah ha!
They'll take you all through France with ease.

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 favoured of Bonaparte's vassals.”

Your Lordship's praises of the scraps
I sent you from my Journal lately,
(Enveloping a few lac'd 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 flatter'd, I presume to send
A few more extracts by a friend;
And I should hope they'll be no less
Approv'd of than my last MS.—
The former ones, I fear, were creas'd,
As Biddy round the caps would pin them;
But these will come to hand, at least
Unrumpled, for there's—nothing in them.

168

Extracts from Mr. Fudge's Journal, addressed to Lord C.

Aug. 10.

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 guillotin'd;—
But that when, under Boney's reign,
(A more discreet, though quite as strong one,)
The heads were all restor'd 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 dev'l, about,
Inquiring for his own incessantly!

While to his case a tear I dropt,
And saunter'd home, thought I—ye Gods!

169

How many heads might thus be swopp'd,
And, after all, not make much odds!
For instance, there's V---s---tt---t's head—
(“Tam carum ” it may well be said)
If by some curious chance it came
To settle on Bill Soames's shoulders,
Th' 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 S---dm---h, 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 sign'd Circulars,
The head might lisp out “What is trumps?”—
The R*g---t's brains could we transfer
To some robust man-milliner,

170

The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbon
Would go, I doubt not, quite as glib on;
And, vice versâ, take the pains
To give the P---ce the shopman's brains,
One only change from thence would flow,
Ribbons would not be wasted so.

'Twas thus I ponder'd on, my Lord;
And, ev'n at night, when laid in bed,
I found myself, before I snor'd,
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.

This extraordinary madman is, I believe, in the Bicêtre. 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.

Tam cari capitis.— Horat.

A celebrated pickpocket.

Aug. 21.

Walk'd out with daughter Bid—was shown
The House of Commons, and the Throne,

171

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 us'd to be?
However,—God preserve the Throne,
And cushion too—and keep them free
From accidents, which have been known
To happen ev'n to Royalty!

The only change, if I recollect right, is the substitution of lilies for bees. This war upon the bees is, of course, universal; “exitium misêre apibus,” like the angry nymphs in Virgil:— but may not new swarms arise out of the victims of Legitimacy yet?

I am afraid that Mr. Fudge alludes here to a very awkward accident, which is well known to have happened to poor L---s le D---s---é, some years since, at one of the R*g---t's Fêtes. He was sitting next our gracious Queen at the time.

Aug. 28.

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.—

172

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 weigh'd—to see if he gets fatter :
Then, if a pound or two he be
Increas'd, there's quite a jubilee!
Suppose, my Lord—and far from me
To treat such things with levity—
But just suppose the R*g---t's weight
Were made thus an affair of state;
And, ev'ry 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.

173

Much would it glad all hearts to hear
That, while the Nation's Revenue
Loses so many pounds a year,
The P---e, God bless him! gains a few.

With bales of muslin, chintzes, spices,
I see the Easterns weigh their Kings;—
But, for the R*g---t, my advice is,
We should throw in much heavier things:
For instance ---'s quarto volumes,
Which, though not spices, serve to wrap them;
Dominie St*dd---t's Daily columns,
“Prodigious!”—in, of course, we'd clap them—
Letters, that C*rtw---t's pen indites,
In which, with logical confusion,
The Major like a Minor writes,
And never comes to a Conclusion:—
Lord S---m---rs' 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 C*x H---pp---sly;
That Baronet of many words,
Who loves so, in the House of Lords,

174

To whisper Bishops—and so nigh
Unto their wigs in whisp'ring goes,
That you may always know him by
A patch of powder on his nose!—
If this wo'n't do, we in must cram
The “Reasons” of Lord B*ck---gh*m;
(A Book his Lordship means to write,
Entitled “Reasons for my Ratting:”)
Or, should these prove too small and light,
His r---p's a host—we'll bundle that in!
And, still should all these masses fail
To stir the R*g---t's ponderous scale,
Why then, my Lord, in heaven's name,
Pitch in, without reserve or stint,
The whole of R*gl---y's beauteous Dame—
If that wo'n't raise him, devil's in it!

“The third day of the Feast the King causeth himself to be weighed with great care.” —F. Bernier's Voyage to Surat, &c.

“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.

Aug. 31.

Consulted Murphy's Tacitus
About those famous spies at Rome ,

175

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 S---dm---th'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 perj'ry—ditto Tib's.
'Tis true, the Tyrant screen'd and hid
His rogues from justice — ditto Sid.

176

'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 Sid 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 th' India Board—that soul of whim!
Like him, Tiberius lov'd 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 suff'rer gasp for life,
The joke is then worth any money;

177

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 ;
Though '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!

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;—“qui formam vitæ iniit, quam postea celebrem miseriæ temporum et audaciæ hominum fecerunt.” —Tacit. Annal. i. 74.

They certainly possessed the same art of instigating their victims, which the Report of the Secret Committee attributes to Lord Sidmouth's agents:—“socius (says Tacitus of one of them) libidinum et necessitatum, quo pluribus indiciis inligaret.”

“Neque tamen id Sereno noxæ fuit, quem odium publicum tutiorem faciebat. Nam ut quis districtior accusator velut sacrosanctus erat.”—Annal. lib. iv. 36.—Or, as it is translated by Mr. Fudge's friend, Murphy:—“This daring accuser had the curses of the people, and the protection of the Emperor. Informers, in proportion as they rose in guilt, became sacred characters.”

Murphy even confers upon one of his speeches the epithet “constitutional.” Mr. Fudge might have added to his parallel, that Tiberius was a good private character:—“egregium vitâ famâque quoad privatus.”

“Ludibria seriis permiscere solitus.”

There is one point of resemblance between Tiberius and Lord C. which Mr. Fudge might have mentioned —“suspensa semper et obscura verba.”

Sept. 2.

Was thinking, had Lord S---dm---th 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 C---tl---gh to Castles,—
Unless we can kick up a riot,
Ne'er can hope for peace or quiet!

178

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 contriv'd more skilfully.
John Bull, I grieve to say, is growing
So troublesomely sharp and knowing,

179

So wise—in short, so Jacobin—
'Tis monstrous hard to take him in.

Short boots, so called.

Sept. 6.

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,
Though for their own most gracious King
(They would kiss hands, or—any thing),
Can be persuaded to go through
This farce-like trick of the Ko-tou;
And as these Mandarins wo'n'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 meritorious,
Let Joe but grin, he has it, glorious!

180

A title for him's easily made;
And, by-the-by, one Christmas time,
If I remember right, he play'd
Lord Morley in some pantomime ;—
As Earl of M*rl*y then gazette him.
If t'other Earl of M*rl*y'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.”

181

He then should give them nine such grins,
As would astound ev'n 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 Amh*rst's son,
The lad will do to practise on.

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. The expostulatory letters of the Noble Earl to Mr. H*rr*s, upon this vulgar profanation of his spick-and-span new title, will, I trust, some time or other, be given to the world.

See Mr. Ellis's account of the Embassy.

182

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, though, hang him, he isn't.
At first, I felt hurt, for I wish'd 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 consid'ring the thing,
“I am just as well pleas'd it should not be the King;

183

“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 R*g---t indeed—” added he, looking sly—
(You remember that comical squint of his eye)
But I stopp'd him with “La, Pa, how can you say so,
“When the R*g---t 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—ay, as old
As that Countess of Desmond, of whom I've been told
That she liv'd to much more than a hundred and ten,
And was kill'd by a fall from a cherry-tree then!
What a frisky old girl! but—to come to my lover,
Who, though not a King, is a hero I'll swear,—
You shall hear all that's happen'd, just briefly run over,
Since that happy night, when we whisk'd through the air!

184

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 through;
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 seem'd full—so, of course, we walk'd o'er 'em,
'Mong orange-trees, clipp'd into town-bred decorum,
And daphnes, and vases, and many a statue
There staring, with not ev'n a stitch on them, at you!

185

The ponds, too, we view'd—stood awhile on the brink
To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes—
“Live bullion,” says merciless Bob, “which, I think,
“Would, if coin'd, with a little mint sauce, be delicious!”

186

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 sate 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 Mussulmen giv'n,
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 T*m M---re's Irish Melody,

187

Something about the “green spot of delight ”
(Which, you know, Captain Macintosh sung to us one day):
Ah Dolly, my “spot” was that Saturday night,
And its verdure, how fleeting, had wither'd by Sunday!
We din'd 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, though but three, we had dinner for nine,
And in spite of my grief, love, I own I eat hearty.
Indeed, Doll, I know not how 'tis, but, in grief,
I have always found eating a wond'rous relief;
And Bob, who's in love, said he felt the same, quite—
“My sighs,” said he, “ceas'd with the first glass I drank you;

188

“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 Laïs and Véry, 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,

189

When, sudden it struck me—last hope of my soul—
That some angel might take the dear man to Tortoni's
We enter'd—and, scarcely had Bob, with an air,
For a grappe à la jardinière call'd 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 ic'd currant water!
He join'd us—imagine, dear creature, my ecstasy—
Join'd by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see!
Bob wish'd to treat him with Punch à la glace,
But the sweet fellow swore that my beauté, my grace,

190

And my je-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirl'd)
Were, to him, “on de top of all Ponch in de vorld.”—
How pretty!—though 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 fix'd, 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 creas'd—
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.

191

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—(though 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 flow'rs in my bonnet—but, la, it's in vain—
So, good-by, my sweet Doll—I shall soon write again.

B. F.

Nota bene—our love to all neighbours about—
Your Papa in particular—how is his gout?

P. S.—I've just open'd 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.

See Lady Morgan's “France” for the anecdote, told her by Madame de Genlis, of the young gentleman whose love was cured by finding that his mistress wore a shawl “peau de lapin.”

The cars, on the return, are dragged up slowly by a chain.

Mr. Bob need not be ashamed of his cookery jokes, when he is kept in countenance hy such men as Cicero, St. Augustine, and that jovial bishop, Venantius Fortunatus. The pun of the great orator upon the “jus Verrinum,” which he calls bad hogbroth, from a play upon both the words, is well known; and the Saint's puns upon the conversion of Lot's wife into salt are equally ingenious:—“In salem conversa hominibus fidelibus quoddam præstitit condimentum, quo sapiant aliquid, unde illud caveatur exemplum.”—De Civitat. Dei, lib. xvi. cap. 30. —The jokes of the pious favourite of Queen Radagunda, the convivial Bishop Venantius, may be found among his poems, in some lines against a cook who had robbed him. The following is similar to Cicero's pun:—

Plus juscella Coci quam mea jura valent.

See his poems, Corpus Poetar. Latin. tom. ii. p. 1732.— Of the same kind was Montmaur's joke, when a dish was spilt over him—“summum jus, summa injuria;” and the same celebrated parasite, in ordering a sole to be placed before him, said,—

Eligi cui dicas, tu mihi sola places.

The reader may likewise see, among a good deal of kitchen erudition, the learned Lipsius's jokes on cutting up a capon in his Saturnal. Sermon. lib. ii. cap. 2.

For this scrap of knowledge “Pa” was, I suspect, indebted to a note upon Volney's Ruins; a book which usually forms part of a Jacobin's library, and with which Mr. Fudge must have been well acquainted at the time when he wrote his “Down with Kings,” &c. The note in Volney is as follows: —“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.”

The young lady, whose memory is not very correct, must allude, I think, to the following lines:—

Oh that fairy form is ne'er forgot,
Which First Love traced;
Still it ling'ring haunts the greenest spot
On Memory's waste!

Cookery has been dignified by the researches of a Bacon; (see his Natural History, Receipts, &c.) and takes its station as one of the Fine Arts in the following passage of Mr. Dugald Stewart:—“Agreeably to this view of the subject, sweet may be said to be intrinsically pleasing, and bitter to be relatively pleasing; which both are, in many cases, equally essential to those effects, which, in the art of cookery, correspond to that composite beauty, which it is the object of the painter and of the poet to create.” —Philosophical Essays.

A fashionable café glacier on the Italian Boulevards.

“You eat your ice at Tortoni's,” says Mr. Scott, “under a Grecian group.”

Not an unusual mistake with foreigners.

192

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 pour'd,
In patriot eyes, a light around his sword,
A hallowing light, which never, since the day
Of his young victories, had illum'd 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,

193

Denounc'd against the land, that spurn'd his chain,
Myriads of swords to bind it fast again—
Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track
Through your best blood his path of vengeance back;
When Europe's Kings, that never yet combin'd
But (like those upper Stars, that, when conjoin'd,
Shed war and pestilence,) to scourge mankind,
Gather'd around, with hosts from every shore,
Hating Napoleon much, but Freedom more,
And, in that coming strife, appall'd 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 follow'd, with quick heart and hand,

194

Napoleon, Nero—ay, no matter whom—
To snatch my country from that damning doom,
That deadliest curse that on the conquer'd waits—
A Conqueror's satrap, thron'd within her gates!

True, he was false—despotic—all you please—
Had trampled down man's holiest liberties—
Had, by a genius, form'd for nobler things
Than lie within the grasp of vulgar Kings,
But rais'd 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 [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]

See Ælian, 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—διαπετονται σιωπωντες.

Somebody (Fontenelle, I believe,) has said, that if he had his hand full of truths, he would open but one finger at a time; and the same sort of reserve I find to be necessary with respect to Mr. Connor's very plain-spoken letters. The remainder of this Epistle is so full of unsafe matter-of-fact, that it must, for the present at least, be withheld from the public.

195

LETTER XII. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ------.

At last, Dolly,—thanks to a potent emetic,
Which Bobby and Pa, with grimace sympathetic,
Have swallow'd 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 languish'd 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 heav'n, I have nothing to do—
Except, indeed, dear Colonel Calicot spies
Any imps of that colour 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!”

196

Well, the morning was lovely—the trees in full dress
For the happy occasion—the sunshine express—
Had we order'd it, dear, of the best poet going,
It scarce could be furnish'd more golden and glowing.
Though 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 seem'd to warble as blest on the boughs,
As if each a plum'd 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 all couleur de rose;
And, ah, I shall ne'er, liv'd 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;

197

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 B*ri 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 C---gh;
And—sure such a blunder no mortal hit ever on—
Fancied the present Lord C*md*n 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 walk'd
Thro' that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talk'd;
And how perfectly well he appear'd, Doll, to know
All the life and adventures of Jean Jacques Rousseau!—

198

“'Twas there,” said he—not that his words I can state—
'Twas a gibb'rish 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-edg'd , without blot or erasure;
“Then sanded it over with silver and azure,
“And—oh, what will genius and fancy not do?—
“Tied the leaves up together with nompareille blue!”
What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions
From sand and blue ribbons are conjur'd up here!
Alas, that a man of such exquisite notions
Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!

199

“'Twas here, too, perhaps,” Colonel Calicot said—
As down the small garden he pensively led—
(Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle
With rage not to find there the lov'd periwinkle)
“'Twas here he receiv'd from the fair D'Epinay
“(Who call'd him so sweetly her Bear , every day,)
“That dear flannel petticoat, pull'd off to form
“A waistcoat, to keep the enthusiast warm!”

Such, Doll, were the sweet recollections we ponder'd,
As, full of romance, through that valley we wander'd.
The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is!)
Led us to talk about other commodities,

200

Cambric, and silk, and—I ne'er shall forget,
For the sun was then hast'ning in pomp to its set,
And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down,
When he ask'd me, with eagerness,—who made my gown?
The question confus'd 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 couturière, Madame le Roi;
But am forc'd now to have Victorine, who—deuce take her!—
It seems is, at present, the King's mantua-maker—
I mean of his party—and, though much the smartest,
Le Roi is condemn'd as a rank Bonapartist.
Think, Doll, how confounded I look'd—so well knowing
The Colonel's opinions—my cheeks were quite glowing;

201

I stammer'd out something—nay, even half nam'd
The legitimate sempstress, when, loud, he exclaim'd,
“Yes, yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen
“It was made by that Bourbonite b---h, 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, though the word on good manners intrench,
I assure you 'tis not half so shocking in French.

But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon pass'd 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 every thing to us—
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,
And what Bob calls the “Twopenny-post of the Eyes”—
Ah, Doll! though I know you've a heart, 'tis in vain
To a heart so unpractis'd these things to explain.
They can only be felt, in their fulness divine,
By her who has wander'd, at evening's decline,
Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!

202

But here I must finish—for Bob, my dear Dolly,
Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,
Is seiz'd with a fancy for church-yard 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 Vèrys!
“Long, long have I wish'd, 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 Vérys—I'll visit their bones!”
He insists upon my going with him—how teasing!
This letter, however, dear Dolly, shall lie
Unseal'd in my draw'r, that, if any thing pleasing
Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you—good-bye.

B. F.

The column in the Place Vendôme.

“Employant pour cela le plus beau papier doré, séchant l'écriture avec de la poudre d'azur et d'argent, et cousant mes cahiers avec de la nompareille bleue.”—Les Confessions, part ii. liv. 9.

This word, “exquisite,” is evidently a favourite of Miss Fudge's; and I understand she was not a little angry when her brother Bob committed a pun on the last two syllables of it in the following couplet:—

“I'd fain praise your Poem—but tell me, how is it
When I cry out “Exquisite,” Echo cries “quiz it?”

The flower which Rousseau brought into such fashion among the Parisians, by exclaiming one day, “Ah, voilà de la pervenche!”

“Mon ours, voilà votre asyle—et vous, mon ours, ne viendrez vous pas aussi?”—&c. &c.

“Un jour, qu'il geloit très fort, en ouvrant un paquet qu'elle m'envoyoit, je trouvai un petit jupon de flanelle d'Angleterre, qu'elle me marquoit avoir porté, et dont elle vouloit que je me fisse faire un gilet. Ce soin, plus qu'amical, me parut si tendre, comme si elle se fût dépouillée pour me vétir, que, dans mon émotion, je baisai vingt fois en pleurant le billet et le jupon.”

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 Couturière 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 Cimetière Montmartre. The inscription on the column at the head of the tomb concludes with the following words:—“Toute sa vie fut consacrée aux arts utiles.”

Four o'clock.

Oh, Dolly, dear Dolly, I'm ruin'd for ever—
I ne'er shall be happy again, Dolly, never!

203

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 coax'd brother Bob so,
(You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so,)
For some little gift on my birth-day—September
The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember—
That Bob to a shop kindly order'd 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 sigh'd for, my love—
(The most beautiful things—two Napoleons the price—
And one's name in the corner embroider'd so nice!)
Well, with heart full of pleasure, I enter'd the shop,
But—ye Gods, what a phantom!—I thought I should drop—

204

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 roll'd out,
And that horrid yard-measure uprais'd in his hand!
Oh—Papa, all along, knew the secret, 'tis 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 worshipp'd—vile, treacherous thing—
To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!
My head swam around—the wretch smil'd, I believe,
But his smiling, alas, could no longer deceive—
I fell back on Bob—my whole heart seem'd 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 staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him,
“But now I find out he's a Counter one, Biddy!”

205

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 through the country—and never, oh, never
Can Biddy be seen at Kilrandy again!
Farewell—I shall do something desp'rate, 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.