FABLE VIII.

LOUIS FOURTEENTH'S WIG.

The money raised—the army ready—
Drums beating, and the Royal Neddy
Valiantly braying in the van,
To the old tune ""Eh, eh, Sire Àne!"[1]—
Naught wanting, but some coup dramatic,
  To make French sentiment explode,
Bring in, at once, the goût fanatic,
  And make the war "la dernière mode"—
Instantly, at the Pavillon Marsan,
  Is held an Ultra consultation—
What's to be done, to help the farce on?
  What stage-effect, what decoration,
To make this beauteous France forget,
In one, grand, glorious pirouette,
All she had sworn to but last week,
And, with a cry of Magnifique!"
Rush forth to this, or any war,
Without inquiring once—"What for?"
After some plans proposed by each.
Lord Chateaubriand made a speech,
(Quoting, to show what men's rights are,
  Or rather what men's rights should be,
From Hobbes, Lord Castlereagh, the Tsar,
  And other friends to Liberty,)
Wherein he—having first protested
'Gainst humoring the mob—suggested
(As the most high-bred plan he saw
For giving the new War éclat)
A grand, Baptismal Melo-drame,
To be got up at Notre Dame,
In which the Duke (who, bless his Highness!
  Had by his hilt acquired such fame,
'Twas hoped that he as little shyness
  Would show, when to the point he came,)
Should, for his deeds so lion-hearted,
Be christened Hero, ere he started;
With power, by Royal Ordonnance,
To bear that name—at least in France.
Himself—the Viscount Chateaubriand—
(To help the affair with more esprit on)
Offering, for this baptismal rite,
  Some of his own famed Jordan water[2]—
(Marie Louise not having quite
  Used all that, for young Nap, he brought her.)
The baptism, in this case, to be
Applied to that extremity,
Which Bourbon heroes most expose;
And which (as well all Europe knows)
Happens to be, in this Defender
Of the true Faith, extremely tender.

Or if (the Viscount said) this scheme
Too rash and premature should seem—
If thus discounting heroes, on tick—
  This glory, by anticipation,
Was too much in the genre romantique
  For such a highly classic nation,
He begged to say, the Abyssinians
A practice had in their dominions,
Which, if at Paris got up well.
In full costume, was sure to tell.
At all great epochs, good or ill,
  They have, says BRUCE (and BRUCE ne'er budges
From the strict truth), a Grand Quadrille
  In public danced by the Twelve Judges[3]—
And he assures us, the grimaces,
The entre-chats, the airs and graces
Of dancers, so profound and stately,
Divert the Abyssinians greatly.

"Now (said the Viscount), there's but few
"Great Empires where this plan would do:
"For instance, England;—let them take
  "What pains they would—'twere vain to strive—
"The twelve stiff Judges there would make
  "The worst Quadrille-set now alive.
"One must have seen them, ere one could
"Imagine properly JUDGE WOOD,
"Performing, in hie wig, so gayly,
"A queue-de chat with JUSTICE BAILLY!
"French Judges, tho', are, by no means,
"This sort of stiff, be-wigged machines;
"And we, who've seen them at Saumur
"And Poitiers lately, may be sure
"They'd dance quadrilles or anything,
"That would be pleasing to the King—
"Nay, stand upon their heads, and more do,
"To please the little Duc de Bordeaux!"

After these several schemes there came
Some others—needless now to name,
Since that, which Monsieur planned, himself,
Soon doomed all others to the shelf,
And was received par acclamation
As truly worthy the Grande Nation.

It seems (as Monsieur told the story)
That LOUIS the Fourteenth,—that glory,
That Coryphée of all crowned pates,—
That pink of the Legitimates—
Had, when, with many a pious prayer, he
Bequeathed unto the Virgin Mary
His marriage deeds, and cordon bleu,
Bequeathed to her his State Wig too—
(An offering which, at Court, 'tis thought,
The Virgin values as she ought)—
That Wig, the wonder of all eyes,
The Cynosure of Gallia's skies,
To watch and tend whose curls adored,
  Re-build its towering roof, when flat,
And round its rumpled base, a Board
  Of sixty barbers daily sat,
With Subs, on State-Days, to assist,
Well pensioned from the Civil List:—
That wondrous Wig, arrayed in which,
And formed alike to awe or witch.
He beat all other heirs of crowns,
In taking mistresses and towns,
Requiring but a shot at one,
A smile at t'other, and 'twas done!—

  "That Wig" (said Monsieur, while his brow
Rose proudly,) "is existing now;—
"That Grand Perruque, amid the fall
  "Of every other Royal glory,
"With curls erect survives them all,
  "And tells in every hair their story.
"Think, think, how welcome at this time
"A relic, so beloved, sublime!
"What worthier standard of the Cause
  "Of Kingly Right can France demand?
"Or who among our ranks can pause
  "To guard it, while a curl shall stand?
"Behold, my friends"—(while thus he cried,
A curtain, which concealed this pride
Of Princely Wigs was drawn aside)
"Behold that grand Perruque—how big
  "With recollections for the world—
"For France—for us—Great Louis's Wig,
  "By HIPPOLYTE new frizzed and curled—
"New frizzed! alas, 'tis but too true,
"Well may you start at that word new—
"But such the sacrifice, my friends,
"The Imperial Cossack recommends;
"Thinking such small concessions sage,
"To meet the spirit of the age,
"And do what best that spirit flatters,
"In Wigs—if not in weightier matters.
  "Wherefore to please the Tsar, and show
"That we too, much-wronged Bourbons, know
"What liberalism in Monarchs is,
"We have conceded the New Friz!
"Thus armed, ye gallant Ultras, say,
"Can men, can Frenchmen, fear the fray?
"With this proud relic in our van,
  "And D'ANGOULEME our worthy leader,
"Let rebel Spain do all she can,
  "Let recreant England arm and feed her,—
"Urged by that pupil of HUNT'S school,
"That Radical, Lord LIVERPOOL—
"France can have naught to fear—far from it—
  "When once astounded Europe sees
"The Wig of LOUIS, like a Comet,
  "Streaming above the Pyrenées,
"All's o'er with Spain—then on, my sons,
  "On, my incomparable Duke,
"And, shouting for the Holy Ones,
  "Cry Vive la Guerre—et la Perrugue!"

[1] They celebrated in the dark ages, at many churches, particularly at Rouen, what was called the Feast of the Ass. On this occasion the ass, finely drest, was brought before the altar, and they sung before him this elegant anthem, "Eh, eh, eh, Sire Àne, eh, eh, eh. Sire Àne."— WARTEN'S Essay on Pope.

[2] Brought from the river Jordan by M. Chateaubriand, and presented to the French Empress for the christening of young Napoleon.

[3] "On certain great occasions, the twelve Judges (who are generally between sixty and seventy years of age) sing the song and dance the figure-dance," etc.—Book. v.

THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS.

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

PREFACE.

In what manner the following Epistles came into my hands, it is not necessary for the public to know. It will be seen by Mr. FUDGE'S Second Letter, that he is one of those gentlemen whose Secret Services in Ireland, under the mild ministry of my Lord CASTLEREAGH, have been so amply and gratefully remunerated. Like his friend and associate, THOMAS REYNOLDS, Esq., he had retired upon the reward of his honest industry; but has lately been induced to appear again in active life, and superintend the training of that Delatorian Cohort which Lord SIDMOUTH, in his wisdom and benevolence, has organized.

Whether Mr. FUDGE, himself, has yet made any discoveries, does not appear from the following pages. But much may be expected from a person of his zeal and sagacity, and, indeed, to him, Lord SIDMOUTH, and the Greenland-bound ships, the eyes of all lovers of discoveries are now most anxiously directed.

I regret much that I have been obliged to omit Mr. BOB FUDGE'S Third Letter, concluding the adventures of his Day with the Dinner, Opera, etc.; —but, in consequence of some remarks upon Marinette's thin drapery, which, it was thought, might give offence to certain well-meaning persons, the manuscript was sent back to Paris for his revision and had not returned when the last sheet was put to press.

It will not, I hope, be thought presumptuous, if I take this opportunity of complaining of a very serious injustice I have suffered from the public. Dr. KING wrote a treatise to prove that BENTLEY "was not the author of his own book," and a similar absurdity has been asserted of me, in almost all the best-informed literary circles. With the name of the real author staring them in the face, they have yet persisted in attributing my works to other people; and the fame of the "Twopenny Post- Bag"—such as it is—having hovered doubtfully over various persons, has at last settled upon the head of a certain little gentleman, who wears it, I understand, as complacently as if it actually belonged to him.

I can only add, that if any lady or gentleman, curious in such matters, will take the trouble of calling at my lodgings, 245 Piccadilly, I shall have the honor of assuring them, in propriâ personâ, that I am—his, or her,

Very obedient and very humble Servant,

April 17, 1818.

THOMAS BROWN THE YOUNGER.

THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS

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! tho', would you believe it, my dear?
I have seen nothing yet very wonderful here;
No adventure, no sentiment, far as we've come,
But the cornfields and trees quite as dull as at home;
And but for the post-boy, his boots and his queue,
I might just as well be at Clonkilty with you!
In vain, at DESSEIN'S, did I take from my trunk
That divine fellow, STERNE, and fall reading "The Monk;"
In vain did I think of his charming Dead Ass,
And remember the crust and the wallet—alas!
No monks can be had now for love or for money,
(All owing, Pa says, to that infidel BONEY;)
And, tho' one little Neddy we saw in our drive
Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive!

  By the by, tho' at Calais, Papa had a touch
Of romance on the pier, which affected me much.
At the sight of that spot, where our darling DIXHUIT
Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet,[1]
(Modelled out so exactly, and—God bless the mark!
'Tis a foot, DOLLY, worthy so Grand a Monarque).
He exclaimed, "Oh, mon Roi!" and, with tear-dropping eye,
Stood to gaze on the spot—while some Jacobin, nigh,
Muttered out with a shrug (what an insolent thing!)
"Ma foi, he be right—'tis de Englishman's King;
And dat gros pied de cochon—begar me vil say
Dat de foot look mosh better, if turned toder way."
There's the pillar, too—Lord! I had nearly forgot—
What a charming idea!—raised close to the spot;
The mode being now, (as you've heard, I suppose,)
To build tombs over legs and raise pillars to toes.
  This is all that's occurred sentimental as yet;
Except indeed some little flower-nymphs we've met,
Who disturb one's romance with pecuniary views,
Flinging flowers in your path, and then—bawling for sous!
And some picturesque beggars, whose multitudes seem
To recall the good days of the ancien regime,
All as ragged and brisk, you'll be happy to learn,
And as thin as they were in the time of poor STERNE.

  Our party consists (in a neat Calais job)
Of Papa and myself, Mr. CONNOR and BOB.
You remember how sheepish BOB lookt at Kilrandy,
But, Lord! he's quite altered—they've made him a Dandy;
A thing, you know, whiskered, great-coated, and laced,
Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist;
Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scholars,
With beads so immovably stuck in shirt-collars,
That seats, like our music-stools, soon must be found them,
To twirl, when the creatures may wish, to look round them,
In short, dear, "a Dandy" describes what I mean,
And BOB's far the best of the genus I've seen:
An improving young man, fond of learning, ambitious,
And goes now to Paris to study French dishes.
Whose names—think, how quick! he already knows pat,
À la braise, petits pâtés, and—what d' ye call that
They inflict on potatoes?—oh! maître d'hôtel—
I assure you, dear DOLLY, he knows them as well
As if nothing else all his life he had eat,
Tho' a bit of them BOBBY has never touched yet;
But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks,
As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and books.

As to Pa, what d' ye think?—mind, it's all entre nous,
But you know, love, I never keep secrets from you—
Why, he's writing a book—what! a tale? a romance?
No, we Gods, would it were!—but his travels in France;
At the special desire (he let out t'other day)
Of his great friend and patron, my Lord CASTLEREAGH,
Who said, "My dear FUDGE"—I forget the exact words,
And, it's strange, no one ever remembers my Lord's;
But 'twas something to say that, as all must allow
A good orthodox work is much wanting just now,
To expound to the world the new—thingummie—science,
Found out by the—what's-its-name—Holy Alliance,
And prove to mankind that their rights are but folly,
Their freedom a joke (which it is, you know, DOLLY),
"There's none," said his Lordship, "if I may be judge,
Half so fit for this great undertaking as FUDGE!"

The matter's soon, settled—Pa flies to the Row
(The first stage your tourists now usually go),
Settles all for his quarto—advertisements, praises—
Starts post from the door, with his tablets—French phrases—
"SCOTT'S Visit" of course—in short, everything he has
An author can want, except words and ideas:—
And, lo! the first thing, in the spring of the year,
Is PHIL. FUDGE at the front of a Quarto, my dear!
But, bless me, my paper's near out, so I'd better
Draw fast to a close:—this exceeding long letter
You owe to a 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 honors
May think, in their fright, of suppressing poor CONNOR'S?
Au reste (as we say), the young lad's well enough,
Only talks much of Athens, Rome, virtue and stuff;
A third cousin of ours, by the way—poor as Job
  (Tho' of royal descent by the side of Mamma),
And for charity made private tutor to BOB;
  Entre nous, too, a Papist—how liberal of Pa!

This is all, dear,—forgive me for breaking off thus,
But BOB'S 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![2]

[1] To commemorate the landing of Louis le Désiré 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.

[2] A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris.

LETTER II.

FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE LORD VISCOUNT CASTLEREAGH.

Paris.

At length, my Lord, I have the bliss
To date to you a line from this
"Demoralized" metropolis;
Where, by plebeians low and scurvy,
The throne was turned quite topsy-turvy,
And Kingship, tumbled from its seat,
"Stood prostrate" at the people's feet;
Where (still to use your Lordship's tropes)
The level of obedience slopes
Upward and downward, as the stream
Of hydra faction kicks the beam![1]
Where the poor Palace changes masters
  Quicker than a snake its skin,
And LOUIS is rolled out on castors,
  While BONEY'S borne on shoulders in:—
But where, in every change, no doubt,
  One special good your Lordship traces,—
That 'tis the Kings alone turn out,
The Ministers still keep their places.

How oft, dear Viscount CASTLEREAGH,
I've thought of thee upon the way,
As in my job (what place could be
More apt to wake a thought of thee?)—
Or, oftener far, when gravely sitting
Upon my dicky, (as is fitting
For him who writes a Tour, that he
May more of men and manners see.)
I've thought of thee and of thy glories,
Thou guest of Kings and King of Tories!
Reflecting how thy fame has grown
  And spread, beyond man's usual share,
At home, abroad, till thou art known,
  Like Major SEMPLE, everywhere!
And marvelling with what powers of breath
Your Lordship, having speeched to death
Some hundreds of your fellow-men,
Next speeched to Sovereign's ears,—and when
All Sovereigns else were dozed, at last
Speeched down the Sovereign of Belfast.
Oh! mid the praises and the trophies
Thou gain'st from Morosophs and Sophis;
Mid all the tributes to thy fame,
  There's one thou shouldst be chiefly pleased at—
That Ireland gives her snuff thy name,
  And CASTLEREAGH'S the thing now sneezed at!

But hold, my pen!—a truce to praising—
  Tho' even your Lordship will allow
The theme's temptations are amazing;
  But time and ink run short, and now,
(As thou wouldst say, my guide and teacher
  In these gay metaphorie fringes,
I must embark into the feature
  On which this letter chiefly hinges;)
My Book, the Book that is to prove—
And will, (so help ye Sprites above,
That sit on clouds, as grave as judges,
Watching the labors of the FUDGES!)
Will prove that all the world, at present,
Is in a state extremely pleasant;
That Europe—thanks to royal swords
  And bayonets, and the Duke commanding—
Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord's,
  Passeth all human understanding:
That France prefers her go-cart King
  To such a coward scamp as BONEY;
Tho' round, with each a leading-string.
  There standeth many a Royal crony,
For fear the chubby, tottering thing
  Should fall, if left there loney-poney;—
That England, too, the more her debts,
The more she spends, the richer gets;
And that the Irish, grateful nation!
  Remember when by thee reigned over,
And bless thee for their flagellation,
As HELOISA did her lover![2]—
That Poland, left for Russia's lunch
  Upon the sideboard, snug reposes:
While Saxony's as pleased as Punch,
  And Norway "on a bed of roses!"
That, as for some few million souls,
  Transferred by contract, bless the clods!
If half were strangled—Spaniards, Poles,
  And Frenchmen—'twouldn't make much odds,
So Europe's goodly Royal ones
Sit easy on their sacred thrones;
So FERDINAND embroiders gayly,[3]
And Louis eats his salmi daily;
So time is left to Emperor SANDY
To be half Caesar and half Dandy;
And GEORGE the REGENT (who'd forget
That doughtiest chieftain of the set?)
Hath wherewithal for trinkets new,
  For dragons, after Chinese models,
And chambers where Duke Ho and Soo
  Might come and nine times knock their noddles!—
All this my Quarto'll prove—much more
Than Quarto ever proved before:—
In reasoning with the Post I'll vie,
My facts the Courier shall supply,
My jokes VANSITTART, PEELE my sense,
And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence!

My Journal, penned by fits and starts,
  On BIDDY'S back or BOBBY'S shoulder,
(My son, my Lord, a youth of parts,
  Who longs to be a small placeholder,)
Is—tho' I say't, that shouldnt say—
Extremely good; and, by the way,
One extract from it—only one—
To show its spirit, and I've done.
"Jul. thirty-first.—Went, after snack,
  "To the Cathedral of St. Denny;
"Sighed o'er the Kings of ages back,
  "And—gave the old Concierge a penny.
"(Mem.—Must see Rheims, much famed, 'tis said,
"For making Kings and ginger-bread.)
"Was shown the tomb where lay, so stately,
"A little Bourbon, buried lately,
"Thrice high and puissant, we were told,
"Tho' only twenty-four hours old!
"Hear this, thought I, ye Jacobins:
"Ye Burdetts, tremble in your skins!
"If Royalty, but aged a day,
"Can boast such high and puissant sway
"What impious hand its power would fix,
"Full fledged and wigged at fifty-six!"

The argument's quite new, you see,
And proves exactly Q. E. D.
So now, with duty to the KEGENT,
I am dear Lord,
  Your most obedient,
    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 favor with our friends at MURRAY'S,
Who scorn what any man can say,
That dates from Rue St. Honoré![4]

[1] This excellent imitation of the noble Lord's style shows how deeply Mr. Fudge must have studied his great original. Irish oratory, indeed, abounds with such startling peculiarities. Thus the eloquent Counsellor B——, in describing some hypocritical pretender to charity, said, "He put his hand in his breeches-pocket, like a crocodile, and," etc.

[2] See her Letters.

[3] It would be an edifying thing to write a history of the private amusements of sovereigns, tracing them down from the fly-sticking of Domitian, the mole-catching of Artabanus, the, hog-mimicking of Parmenides, the horse-currying of Aretas, to the petticoat-embroidering of Ferdinand, and the patience-playing of the Prince Regent!

[4] See the Quarterly Review for May, 1816 where Mr. Hobhouse is accused of having written his book "in a back street of the French capital."

LETTER III.

FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD ——, ESQ.

Oh Dick! you may talk of your writing and reading,
Your Logic and Greek, but there's nothing like feeding;
And this is the place for it, DICKY, you dog,
Of all places on earth—the headquarters of Prog!
Talk of England—her famed Magna Charta, I swear, is
A humbug, a flam, to the Carte[1] 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;
And, let ROMILLY speak as he will on the question.
No Digest of Law's like the laws of digestion!

By the by, DICK, I fatten—but n'importe for that,
'Tis the mode—your Legitimates always get fat.
There's the REGENT, there's LOUIS—and BONEY tried too,
But, tho' somewhat imperial in paunch, 'twouldn't do:—
He improved indeed much in this point when he wed,
But he ne'er grew right royally fat in the head.

DICK, DICK, what a place is this Paris!—but stay—
As my raptures may bore you, I'll just sketch a Day,
As we pass it, myself and some comrades I've got,
All thorough-bred Gnostics, who know what is what.

After dreaming some hours of the land of Cocaigne,
  That Elysium of all that is friand and nice,
Where for hail they have bon-bons, and claret for rain,
 And the skaters in winter show off on cream-ice;
Where so ready all nature its cookery yields,
Macaroni au parmesan grows in the fields;
Little birds fly about with the true pheasant taint,
And the geese are all born with a liver complaint!
I rise—put on neck-cloth—stiff, tight, as can be—
For a lad who goes into the world, DICK, like me,
Should have his neck tied up, you know—there's no doubt of it—
Almost as tight as some lads who go out of it.
With whiskers well oiled, and with boots that "hold up
"The mirror to nature"—so bright you could sup
Off the leather like china; with coat, too, that draws
On the tailor, who suffers, a martyr's applause!—
With head bridled up, like a four-in-hand leader,
And stays—devil's in them—too tight for a feeder,
I strut to the old Café Hardy, which yet
Beats the field at a déjeûner a la fourchette.
There, DICK, what a breakfast!—oh! not like your ghost
Of a breakfast in England, your curst tea and toast;
But a side-board, you dog, where one's eye roves about,
Like a turk's in the Haram, and thence singles out
One's pâté 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,[2]which you know's the pet tipple of NAP,
And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler,
Much scruples to taste, but I'm not so partic'lar.—
Your coffee comes next, by prescription: and then DICK's
The coffee's ne'er-failing and glorious appendix,
(If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on't,
I'd swallow e'en Watkins', for sake of the end on't,)
A neat glass of parfait-amour, which one sips
Just as if bottled velvet tipt over one's lips.
This repast being ended, and paid for—(how odd!
Till a man's used to paying, there's something so queer in't!)—
The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad,
  And the world enough aired for us Nobs to appear in't,
We lounge up the boulevards, where—oh! DICK, the phizzes,
The turn-outs, we meet—what a nation of quizzes!
Here toddles along some old figure of fun,
With a coat you might date Anno Domini 1.;
A laced hat, worsted stockings, and—noble old soul!
A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole;
Just such as our PRINCE, who nor reason nor fun dreads,
Inflicts, without even a court-martial, on hundreds.
Here trips a grisette, with a fond, roguish eye,
(Rather eatable things these grisettes, by the by);
And there an old demoiselle, almost as fond,
In a silk that has stood since the time of the Fronde.
There goes a French Dandy—ah, DICK! unlike some ones
We've seen about WHITE'S—the Mounseers are but rum ones;
Such hats!—fit for monkies—I'd back Mrs. DRAPER
To cut neater weather-boards out of brown paper:
And coats—how I wish, if it wouldn't distress 'em,
They'd club for old BRUMMEL, from Calais, to dress 'em!
The collar sticks out from the neck such a space,
  That you'd swear 'twas the plan of this head-lopping nation,
To leave there behind them a snug little place
  For the head to drop into, on decapitation.
In short, what with mountebanks, counts and friseurs,
Some mummers by trade and the rest amateurs—
What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk breeches,
  Old dustmen with swinging great opera-hats,
And shoeblacks, reclining by statues in niches,
  There never was seen such a race of Jack Sprats!

From the Boulevards—but hearken!—yes—as I'm a sinner,
The clock is just striking the half-hour to dinner:
So no more at present—short time for adorning—
My Day must be finisht some other fine morning.
Now, hey for old BEAUVILLIERS'S[3] 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.

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

[2] The favorite wine of Napoleon.

[3] A celebrated restaurateur.

LETTER IV.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO ——

"Return!"—no, never, while the withering hand
Of bigot power is on that hapless land;
While, for the faith my fathers held to God,
Even in the fields where free those fathers trod,
I am proscribed, and—like the spot left bare
In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair
Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been there[1]—
On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace
The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!
No!—let them stay, who in their country's pangs
See naught but food for factions and harangues;
Who yearly kneel before their masters' doors
And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores:
Still let your . . . .[2]
       . . . . .
Still hope and suffer, all who can!—but I,
Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly.

But whither?—every where the scourge pursues—
Turn where he will, the wretched wanderer views,
In the bright, broken hopes of all his race,
Countless reflections of the Oppressor's face.
Every where gallant hearts and spirits true,
Are served up victims to the vile and few;
While England, every where—the general foe
Of Truth and Freedom, wheresoe'er they glow—
Is first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow.

Oh, England! could such poor revenge atone
For wrongs, that well might claim the deadliest one;
Were it a vengeance, sweet enough to sate
The wretch who flies from thy intolerant hate,
To hear his curses on such barbarous sway
Echoed, where'er he bends his cheerless way;—
Could this content him, every lip he meets
Teems for his vengeance with such poisonous sweets;
Were this his luxury, never is thy name
Pronounced, but he doth banquet on thy shame;
Hears maledictions ring from every side
Upon that grasping power, that selfish pride,
Which vaunts its own and scorns all rights beside;
That low and desperate envy which to blast
A neighbor's blessings risks the few thou hast;—
That monster, Self, too gross to be concealed,
Which ever lurks behind thy proffered shield;—
That faithless craft, which, in thy hour of need,
Can court the slave, can swear he shall be freed,
Yet basely spurns him, when thy point is gained,
Back to his masters, ready gagged and chained!
Worthy associate of that band of Kings,
That royal, ravening flock, whose vampire wings
O'er sleeping Europe treacherously brood,
And fan her into dreams of promist good,
Of hope, of freedom—but to drain her blood!
If thus to hear thee branded be a bliss
That Vengeance loves, there's yet more sweet than this,
That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart,
Made thee the fallen and tarnisht thing thou art;
That, as the centaur gave the infected vest
In which he died, to rack his conqueror's breast,
We sent thee CASTLEREAGH:—as heaps of dead
Have slain their slayers by the pest they spread,
So hath our land breathed out, thy fame to dim,
Thy strength to waste and rot thee soul and limb,
Her worst infections all condensed in him!

* * * * *

When will the world shake off such yokes? oh, when
Will that redeeming day shine out on men,
That shall behold them rise, erect and free
As Heaven and Nature meant mankind should be!
When Reason shall no longer blindly bow
To the vile pagod things, that o'er her brow,
Like him of Jaghernaut, drive trampling now;
Nor Conquest dare to desolate God's earth;
Nor drunken Victory, with a NERO'S mirth,
Strike her lewd harp amidst a people's groans;—
But, built on love, the world's exalted thrones
Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given—
Those bright, those sole Legitimates of Heaven!

When will this be?—or, oh! is it, in truth,
But one of those sweet, day-break dreams of youth,
In which the Soul, as round her morning springs,
'Twixt sleep and waking, see such dazzling things!
And must the hope, as vain as it is bright,
Be all resigned?—and are they only right,
Who say this world of thinking souls was made
To be by Kings partitioned, truckt and weighed
In scales that, ever since the world begun,
Have counted millions but as dust to one?
Are they the only wise, who laugh to scorn
The rights, the freedom to which man was born?
Who . . . . .
       . . . . .
Who, proud to kiss each separate rod of power,
Bless, while he reigns, the minion of the hour;
Worship each would-be god, that o'er them moves,
And take the thundering of his brass for JOVE'S!
If this be wisdom, then farewell, my books,
Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye classic brooks.
Which fed my soul with currents, pure and fair,
Of living Truth that now must stagnate there!—
Instead of themes that touch the lyre with light,
Instead of Greece and her immortal fight
For Liberty which once awaked my strings,
Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings,
The High Legitimates, the Holy Band,
Who, bolder' even than He of Sparta's land,
Against whole millions, panting to be free,
Would guard the pass of right line tyranny.
Instead of him, the Athenian bard whose blade
Had stood the onset which his pen portrayed,
Welcome . . . .
       . . . . .
And, stead of ARISTIDES—woe the day
Such names should mingle!—welcome Castlereagh!

Here break we off, at this unhallowed name.[3]
Like priests of old, when words ill-omened came.
My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell.
Thoughts that . . . .
       . . . . .
Thoughts that—could patience hold—'twere wiser far
To leave still hid and burning where they are.

[1] "They used to leave a square yard of the wall of the house unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, either the fore- mentioned verse of the Psalmist ('If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,' etc.) or the words—'The memory of the desolation.'"—Leo of Modena.

[2] 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.

[3] The late Lord C. of Ireland had a curious theory about names;—he held that every man with three names was a Jacobin.

LETTER V.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ——.

What a time since I wrote!—I'm a sad, naughty girl—
For, tho' like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl;—
Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum
Between all its twirls gives a letter to note 'em.
But, Lord, such a place! and then, DOLLY, my dresses,
My gowns, so divine!—there's no language expresses,
Except just the two words "superbe, magnifique,"
The trimmings of that which I had home last week!
It is called—I forget—à la—something which sounded
Like alicampane—but in truth I'm confounded
And bothered, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's
(BOB'S) cookery language, and Madame LE ROI'S:
What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal,
Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,
One's hair and one's cutlets both en papillote,
And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote,
I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase,
Between beef à la Psyche and curls à la braise.—
But in short, dear, I'm trickt out quite à la Francaise,
With my bonnet—so beautiful!—high up and poking,
Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

Where shall I begin with the endless delights
Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys and sights—
This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting
But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?
Imprimis, the Opera—mercy, my ears!
  Brother BOBBY'S remark, t'other night, was a true one:—
"This must be the music," said he, "of the spears,
  For I'm curst if each note of it doesnt run thro' one!"
Pa says (and you know, love, his Book's to make out
'Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about)
That this passion for roaring has come in of late,
Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State.—
What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm!
  What a chorus, dear DOLLY, would soon be let loose of it,
If, when of age, every man in the realm
  Had a voice like old LAIS,[1] and chose to make use of it!
No—never was known in this riotous sphere
Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.
So bad too, you'd swear that the God of both arts,
  Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic
For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,
  And composing a fine rumbling bass to a cholic!

But, the dancing—ah parlez-moi, DOLLY, de ca—
There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.
Such beauty—such grace—oh ye sylphs of romance!
  Fly, fly to TITANIA, and ask her if she has
One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance
  Like divine BIGOTTINI and sweet FANNY BIAS!
FANNY BIAS in FLORA—dear creature!—you'd swear,
  When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,
That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,
  And she only par complaisance touches the ground.
And when BIGOTTINI in PSYCHE dishevels
  Her black flowing hair, and by daemons is driven,
Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,
  That hold her and hug her, and keep her from heaven?
Then, the music—so softly its cadences die,
So divinely—oh, DOLLY! between you and I,
It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh
To make love to me then—you've a soul, and can judge
What a crisis 'twould be for your friend BIDDY FUDGE!
  The next place (which BOBBY has near lost his heart in)
They call it the Play-house—I think—of St. Martin;[2]
Quite charming—and very religious—what folly
To say that the French are not pious, dear DOLLY,
Where here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,
The Testament turned into melodrames nightly;[3]
And doubtless so fond they're of scriptural facts,
They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.
Here DANIEL, in pantomime,[4] bids bold defiance
To NEBUCHADNEZZAR and all his stuft lions,
While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,
In very thin clothing, and but little of it;—
Here BEGRAND,[5] who shines in this scriptural path,
  As the lovely SUSANNA, without even a relic
Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath
  In a manner that, BOB says, is quite Eve-angelic!
But in short, dear, 'twould take me a month to recite
All the exquisite places we're at, day and night;
And, besides, ere I finish, I think you'll be glad
Just to hear one delightful adventure I've had.
Last night, at the Beaujon, a place where—I doubt
If its charms I can paint—there are cars, that set out
From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air,
And rattle you down, DOLL—you hardly know where.
These vehicles, mind me, in which you go thro'
This delightfully dangerous journey, hold two,
Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether
  You'll venture down with him—you smile—'tis a match;
In an instant you're seated, and down both together
  Go thundering, as if you went post to old scratch![6]
Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remarkt
On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embarkt,
The impatience of some for the perilous flight,
The forced giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright,—
That, there came up—imagine, dear DOLL, if you can—
A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werterfaced man,
With mustachios that gave (what we read of so oft)
The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft,
As Hyenas in love may be fancied to look, or
A something between ABELARD and old BLUCHER!
Up he came, DOLL, to me, and uncovering his head,
(Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said,
"Ah! my dear—if Ma'mselle vil be so very good—
Just for von littel course"—tho' I scarce understood
What he wisht me to do, I said, thank him, I would.
Off we set—and, tho' 'faith, dear, I hardly knew whether
  My head or my heels were the uppermost then,
For 'twas like heaven and earth, DOLLY, coming together,—
  Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again.
And oh! as I gazed on the features and air
  Of the man, who for me all this peril defied,
I could fancy almost he and I were a pair
  Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side,
Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a
Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara!

This achieved, thro' the gardens we sauntered about,
  Saw the fire-works, exclaimed "magnifique!" at each cracker,
And, when 'twas all o'er, the dear man saw us out
  With the air I will say, of a Prince, to our fiacre.

Now, hear me—this Stranger,—it may be mere folly—
But who do you think we all think it is, DOLLY?
Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia,
Who's here now incog.[7]—he, who made so much fuss, you
Remember, in London, with BLUCHER and PLATOF,
When SAL was near kissing old BLUCHER'S cravat off!
Pa says he's come here to look after his money,
(Not taking things now as he used under BONEY,)
Which suits with our friend, for BOB saw him, he swore,
Looking sharp to the silver received at the door.
Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen
(Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen)
Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is,
Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris.
Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief
  Should—unless 'twould to utter despairing its folly push—
Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief
  By rattling, as BOB says, "like shot thro' a holly-bush."

I must now bid adieu;—only think, DOLLY, think
If this should be the King—I have scarce slept a wink
With imagining how it will sound in the papers,
  And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge,
When they read that Count RUPPIN, to drive away vapors,
  Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss BIDDY FUDGE.

Nota Bene.—Papa's almost certain 'tis he—
For he knows the Legitimate cut and could see,
In the way he went poising and managed to tower
So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power.

[1] The oldest, most celebrated, and most noisy of the singers at the French Opera.

[2] The Théâtre de la Porte St. Martin which was built when the Opera House in the Palais Royal was burned down, in 1781.

[3] "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."

[4] A piece very popular last year, called "Daniel, ou La Fosse aux Lions."

[5] Madame Bégrand, a finely formed woman, who acts in "Susanna and the Elders,"—"L'Amour et la Folie." etc.

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

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