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

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.