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

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.”