LETTER VI.

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

Yours of the 12th received, just now—
  Thanks, for the hint, my trusty brother!
'Tis truly pleasing to see how
  We, FUDGES, stand by one another.
But never fear—I know my chap,
And he knows me too—verbum sap,
My Lord and I are kindred spirits,
Like in our ways as two young ferrets;
Both fashioned, as that supple race is,
To twist into all sorts of places;—
Creatures lengthy, lean and hungering,
Fond of blood and burrow-mongering.

As to my Book in 91,
  Called "Down with Kings, or, Who'd have thought it?"
Bless you! the Book's long dead and gone,—
  Not even the Attorney-General bought it.
And tho' some few seditious tricks
I played in '95 and '6,
As you remind me in your letter,
His Lordship likes me all the better;—
We proselytes, that come with news full,
Are, as he says, so vastly useful!

REYNOLDS and I—(you know TOM REYNOLDS—
  Drinks his claret, keeps his chaise—
Lucky the dog that first unkennels
  Traitors and Luddites now-a-days;
Or who can help to bag a few,
When SIDMOUTH wants a death, or two;)
REYNOLDS and I and some few more,
  All men like us of information,
Friends whom his Lordship keeps in store,
  As under-saviors of the nation[1]—
Have, formed a Club this season, where
His Lordship sometimes takes the chair,
And gives us many a bright oration
In praise of our sublime vocation;
Tracing it up to great King MIDAS,
Who, tho' in fable typified as
A royal Ass, by grace, divine
And right of ears, most asinine,
Was yet no more, in fact historical,
  Than an exceeding well-bred tyrant;
And these, his ears, but allegorical,
  Meaning Informers, kept at high rent—
Gem'men, who touched the Treasury glisteners,
Like us, for being trusty listeners;
And picking up each tale and fragment,
For royal MIDAS'S Green Bag meant.
"And wherefore," said this best of Peers,
"Should not the REGENT too have ears,
"To reach as far, as long and wide as
"Those of his model, good King MIDAS?"
This speech was thought extremely good,
And (rare for him) was understood—
Instant we drank "The REGENT'S Ears,"
With three times three illustrious cheers,
  Which made the room resound like thunder—
"The REGENT'S Ears, and may he ne'er
"From foolish shame, like MIDAS, wear
  "Old paltry wigs to keep them[2] under!"
This touch at our old friends, the Whigs,
Made us as merry all as grigs.
In short (I'll thank you not to mention
  These things again), we get on gayly;
And thanks to pension and Suspension,
  Our little Club increases daily.
CASTLES, and OLIVER, and such,
Who dont as yet full salary touch,
Nor keep their chaise and pair, nor buy
Houses and lands, like TOM and I,
Of course dont rank with us salvators,[3]
But merely serve the Club as waiters,
Like Knights, too, we've our collar days,
(For us, I own, an awkward phrase,)
When, in our new costume adorned,—
The REGENT'S buff-and-blue coats turned—
We have the honor to give dinners
  To the chief Rats in upper stations:
Your WEMYS, VAUGHANS,—half-fledged sinners,
  Who shame us by their imitations;
Who turn, 'tis true—but what of that?
Give me the useful peaching Rat;
Not things as mute as Punch, when bought,
Whose wooden heads are all they've brought;
Who, false enough to shirk their friends,
  But too faint-hearted to betray,
Are, after all their twists and bends,
  But souls in Limbo, damned half way.
No, no, we nobler vermin are
A genus useful as we're rare;
Midst all the things miraculous
  Of which your natural histories brag,
The rarest must be Rats like us,
  Who let the cat out of the bag.
Yet still these Tyros in the cause
Deserve, I own, no small applause;
And they're by us received and treated
With all due honors—only seated
In the inverse scale of their reward,
The merely promised next my Lord;
Small pensions then, and so on, down,
  Rat after rat, they graduate
Thro' job, red ribbon and silk gown,
  To Chancellorship and Marquisate.
This serves to nurse the ratting spirit;
The less the bribe the more the merit.

Our music's good, you may be sure;
My Lord, you know, 's an amateur[4]—
Takes every part with perfect ease,
  Tho' to the Base by nature suited;
And, formed for all, as best may please,
For whips and bolts, or chords and keys,
Turns from his victims to his glees,
  And has them both well executed.[5]
HERTFORD, who, tho' no Rat himself,
  Delights in all such liberal arts,
Drinks largely to the House of Guelph,
  And superintends the Corni parts.
While CANNING, who'd be first by choice,
Consents to take an under voice;
And GRAVES,[6] who well that signal knows,
Watches the Volti Subitos.[7]

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[8] from t'other side;—
Some of those loyal, cunning elves
  (We often tell the tale with laughter),
Who used to hide the pikes themselves,
  Then hang the fools who found them after.
I doubt not you could find us, too,
Some Orange Parsons that might do:
Among the rest, we've heard of one,
The Reverend—something—HAMILTON,
Who stuft a figure of himself
  (Delicious thought!) and had it shot at,
To bring some Papists to the shelf,
  That couldn't otherwise be got at—
If he'll but join the Association,
We'll vote him in by acclamation.

And now, my brother, guide and friend,
This somewhat tedious scrawl must end.
I've gone into this long detail,
  Because I saw your nerves were shaken
With anxious fears lest I should fail
  In this new, loyal, course I've taken.
But, bless your heart! you need not doubt—
We FUDGES know what we're about.
Look round and say if you can see
A much more thriving family.
There's JACK, the Doctor—night and day
  Hundreds of patients so besiege him,
You'd swear that all the rich and gay
  Fell sick on purpose to oblige him.
And while they think, the precious ninnies,
  He's counting o'er their pulse so steady,
The rogue but counts how many guineas
  He's fobbed for that day's work already.
I'll ne'er forget the old maid's alarm,
  When, feeling thus Miss Sukey Flirt, he
Said, as he dropt her shrivelled arm,
  "Damned bad this morning—only thirty!"

Your dowagers, too, every one,
  So generous are, when they call him in,
That he might now retire upon
  The rheumatisms of three old women.
Then whatsoe'er your ailments are,
  He can so learnedly explain ye'em—
Your cold of course is a catarrh,
  Your headache is a hemi-cranium:—
His skill too in young ladies' lungs,
  The grace with which, most mild of men,
He begs them to put out their tongues.
  Then bids them—put them in again;
In short, there's nothing now like JACK!—
  Take all your doctors great and small,
Of present times and ages back,
  Dear Doctor FUDGE is worth them all.

So much for physic—then, in law too,
  Counsellor TIM, to thee we bow;
Not one of us gives more éclat to
  The immortal name of FUDGE than thou.
Not to expatiate on the art
With which you played the patriot's part,
Till something good and snug should offer;—
  Like one, who, by the way he acts
The enlightening part of candle-snuffer,
  The manager's keen eye attracts,
And is promoted thence by him
To strut in robes, like thee, my TIM!—
Who shall describe thy powers of face,
Thy well-fed zeal in every case,
Or wrong or right—but ten times warmer
(As suits thy calling) in the former—
Thy glorious, lawyer-like delight
In puzzling all that's clear and right,
Which, tho' conspicuous in thy youth,
  Improves so with a wig and band on,
That all thy pride's to waylay Truth,
  And leave her not a leg to stand on.
Thy patent prime morality,—
  Thy cases cited from the Bible—
Thy candor when it falls to thee
  To help in trouncing for a libel;—
"God knows, I, from my soul, profess
  "To hate all bigots and be-nighters!
"God knows, I love, to even excess,
"The sacred Freedom of the Press,
  "My only aim's to—crush the writers."
These are the virtues, TIM, that draw
  The briefs into thy bag so fast;
And these, oh TIM—if Law be Law—
  Will raise thee to the Bench at last.

I blush to see this letter's length—
  But 'twas my wish to prove to thee
How full of hope, and wealth, and strength,
  Are all our precious family.
And, should affairs go on as pleasant
As, thank the Fates, they do at present—
Should we but still enjoy the sway
Of SIDMOUTH and of CASTLEREAGH,
I hope, ere long, to see the day
When England's wisest statesmen, judges,
Lawyers, peers, will all be—FUDGES!

Good-by—my paper's out so nearly,
I've room only for
  Yours sincerely.

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

[2] It was not under wigs, but tiaras, that King Midas endeavored to conceal these appendages. The Noble Giver of the toast, however, had evidently, with his usual clearness, confounded King Midas, Mr. Liston, and the Prince Regent together.

[3] 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.

[4] 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.

[5] 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!

[6] 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.

[7] Turn instantly—a frequent direction in music-books.

[8] The Irish diminutive of Squire.

LETTER VII.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO—.

Before we sketch the Present—let us cast
A few, short, rapid glances to the Past.

When he, who had defied all Europe's strength,
Beneath his own weak rashness sunk at length;—
When, loosed as if by magic from a chain
That seemed like Fate's the world was free again,
And Europe saw, rejoicing in the sight,
The cause of Kings, for once, the cause of Right;—
Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to those
Who sighed for justice—liberty—repose,
And hoped the fall of one great vulture's nest
Would ring its warning round, and scare the rest.
All then was bright with promise;—Kings began
To own a sympathy with suffering Man,
And man was grateful; Patriots of the South
Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth,
And heard, like accents thawed in Northern air,
Unwonted words of freedom burst forth there!

Who did not hope, in that triumphant time,
When monarchs, after years of spoil and crime,
Met round the shrine of Peace, and Heaven lookt on;—
Who did not hope the lust of spoil was gone;
That that rapacious spirit, which had played
The game of Pilnitz o'er so oft, was laid;
And Europe's Rulers, conscious of the past,
Would blush and deviate into right at last?
But no—the hearts, that nurst a hope so fair,
Had yet to learn what men on thrones can dare;
Had yet to know, of all earth's ravening things,
The only quite untameable are Kings!
Scarce had they met when, to its nature true,
The instinct of their race broke out anew;
Promises, treaties, charters, all were vain,
And "Rapine! rapine!" was the cry again.
How quick they carved their victims, and how well,
Let Saxony, let injured Genoa tell;-
Let all the human stock that, day by day,
Was, at that Royal slave-mart, truckt away,—
The million souls that, in the face of heaven,
Were split to fractions, bartered, sold or given
To swell some despot Power, too huge before,
And weigh down Europe with one Mammoth more.
How safe the faith of Kings let France decide;—
Her charter broken, ere its ink had dried;—
Her Press enthralled—her Reason mockt again
With all the monkery it had spurned in vain;
Her crown disgraced by one, who dared to own
He thankt not France but England for his throne;
Her triumphs cast into the shade by those,
Who had grown old among her bitterest foes,
And now returned, beneath her conqueror's shields,
Unblushing slaves! to claim her heroes' fields;
To tread down every trophy of her fame,
And curse that glory which to them was shame!—
Let these—let all the damning deeds, that then
Were dared thro' Europe, cry aloud to men,
With voice like that of crashing ice that rings
Round Alpine huts, the perfidy of Kings;
And tell the world, when hawks shall harmless bear
The shrinking dove, when wolves shall learn to spare
The helpless victim for whose blood they lusted,
Then and then only monarchs may be trusted.

It could not last—these horrors could not last—
France would herself have risen in might to cast
The insulters off—and oh! that then as now,
Chained to some distant islet's rocky brow,
NAPOLEON ne'er had come to force, to blight,
Ere half matured, a cause so proudly bright;—
To palsy patriot arts with doubt and shame,
And write on Freedom's flag a despot's name;—
To rush into the list, unaskt, alone,
And make the stake of all the game of one!
Then would the world have seen again what power
A people can put forth in Freedom's hour;
Then would the fire of France once more have blazed;—
For every single sword, reluctant raised
In the stale cause of an oppressive throne,
Millions would then have leaped forth in her own;
And never, never had the unholy stain
Of Bourbon feet disgraced her shores again.

But fate decreed not so—the Imperial Bird,
That, in his neighboring cage, unfeared, unstirred,
Had seemed to sleep with head beneath his wing,
Yet watched the moment for a daring spring;—
Well might he watch, when deeds were done, that made
His own transgressions whiten in their shade;
Well might he hope a world thus trampled o'er
By clumsy tyrants would be his once more:—
Forth from his cage the eagle burst; to light,
From steeple on to steeple[1] winged his flight,
With calm and easy grandeur, to that throne
From which a Royal craven just had flown;
And resting there, as in his eyry, furled
Those wings, whose very rustling shook the world!

  What was your fury then, ye crowned array,
Whose feast of spoil, whose plundering holiday
Was thus broke up, in all its greedy mirth,
By one bold chieftain's stamp on Gallic earth!
Fierce was the cry, and fulminant the ban,—
"Assassinate, who will—enchain, who can,
"The vile, the faithless, outlawed, lowborn man!"
"Faithless!"—and this from you—from you, forsooth,
Ye pious Kings, pure paragons of truth,
Whose honesty all knew, for all had tried;
Whose true Swiss zeal had served on every side;
Whose fame for breaking faith so long was known,
Well might ye claim the craft as all your own,
And lash your lordly tails and fume to see
Such low-born apes of Royal perfidy!
Yes—yes—to you alone did it belong
To sin for ever, and yet ne'er do wrong,—
The frauds, the lies of Lords legitimate
Are but fine policy, deep strokes of state;
But let some upstart dare to soar so high
In Kingly craft, and "outlaw" is the cry!
What, tho' long years of mutual treachery
Had peopled full your diplomatic shelves
With ghosts of treaties, murdered 'mong yourselves;
Tho' each by turns was knave and dupe—what then?
A holy League would set all straight again;
Like JUNO'S virtue, which a dip or two
In some blest fountain made as good as new!
Most faithful Russia—faithful to whoe'er
Could plunder best and give him amplest share;
Who, even when vanquisht, sure to gain his ends,
For want of foes to rob, made free with friends,[2]
And, deepening still by amiable gradations,
When foes were stript of all, then fleeced relations![3]
Most mild and saintly Prussia—steeped to the ears
In persecuted Poland's blood and tears,
And now, with all her harpy wings outspread
O'er severed Saxony's devoted head!
Pure Austria too—whose history naught repeats
But broken leagues and subsidized defeats;
Whose faith, as Prince, extinguisht Venice shows,
Whose faith, as man, a widowed daughter knows!
And thou, oh England—who, tho' once as shy
As cloistered maids, of shame or perfidy,
Art now broke in, and, thanks to CASTLEREAGH,
In all that's worst and falsest lead'st the way!

Such was the pure divan, whose pens and wits
The escape from Elba frightened into fits;—
Such were the saints, who doomed NAPOLEON'S life,
In virtuous frenzy, to the assassin's knife.
Disgusting crew!—who would not gladly fly
To open, downright, bold-faced tyranny,
To honest guilt, that dares do all but lie,
From the false, juggling craft of men like these,
Their canting crimes and varnisht villanies;—
These Holy Leaguers, who then loudest boast
Of faith and honor, when they've stained them most;
From whose affection men should shrink as loath
As from their hate, for they'll be fleeced by both;
Who, even while plundering, forge Religion's name
To frank their spoil, and without fear or shame
Call down the Holy Trinity[4] to bless
Partition leagues and deeds of devilishness!
But hold—enough—soon would this swell of rage
O'erflow the boundaries of my scanty page;—
So, here I pause—farewell—another day,
Return we to those Lords of prayer and prey,
Whose loathsome cant, whose frauds by right divine,
Deserve a lash—oh! weightier far than mine!

[1] Napoleon's Proclamation on landing from Elba.

[2] At the Peace of Tilsit, where he abandoned his ally, Prussia, to France, and received a portion of her territory.

[3] The seizure of Finland from his relative of Sweden.

[4] The usual preamble of these flagitious compacts. In the same spirit, Catherine, after the dreadful massacre of Warsaw, ordered a solemn "thanksgiving to God in all the churches, for the blessings conferred upon the Poles"; and commanded that each of them should "swear fidelity and loyalty to her, and to shed in her defence the last drop of their blood, as they should answer for it to God, and his terrible judgment, kissing the holy word and cross of their Saviour!"

LETTER VIII.

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

Dear DICK, while old DONALDSON'S[1] mending my stays,—
Which I knew would go smash with me one of these days,
And, at yesterday's dinner, when, full to the throttle,
We lads had begun our dessert with a bottle
Of neat old Constantia, on my leaning back
Just to order another, by Jove, I went crack!—
Or, as honest TOM said, in his nautical phrase,
"Damn my eyes, BOB, in doubling the Cape you've missed
  stays."[2]
So, of course, as no gentleman's seen out without them,
They're now at the Schneider's[3]—and, while he's about them,
Here goes for a letter, post-haste, neck and crop.
Let us see—in my last I was—where did I stop?
Oh! I know—at the Boulevards, as motley a road as
  Man ever would wish a day's lounging upon;
With its 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 messed up together!
And there, if one loves the romantic, one sees
Jew clothes-men, like shepherds, reclined under trees;
Or Quidnuncs, on Sunday, just fresh from the barber's,
Enjoying their news and groseille[4] in those arbors;
While gayly their wigs, like the tendrils, are curling,
And founts of red currant-juice[5] round them are purling.

Here, DICK, arm in arm as we chattering stray,
And receive a few civil "Goddems" by the way,—
For, 'tis odd, these mounseers,—tho' we've wasted our wealth
  And our strength, till we've thrown ourselves into a phthisic;—
To cram down their throats an old King for their health.
  As we whip little children to make them take physic;—
Yet, spite of our good-natured money and slaughter,
They hate us, as Beelzebub hates holy-water!
But who the deuce cares, DICK, as long as they nourish us
Neatly as now, and good cookery flourishes—
Long as, by bayonets protected, we Natties
May have our full fling at their salmis and pâtés?
And, truly, I always declared 'twould be pity
To burn to the ground such a choice-feeding city.
Had Dad but his way, he'd have long ago blown
The whole batch to old Nick—and the people, I own,
If for no other cause than their curst monkey looks,
Well deserve a blow-up—but then, damn it, their Cooks!
As to Marshals, and Statesmen, and all their whole lineage,
For aught that I care, you may knock them to spinage;
But think, DICK, their Cooks—what a loss to mankind!
What a void in the world would their art leave behind!
Their chronometer spits—their intense salamanders—
Their ovens—their pots, that can soften old ganders,
All vanisht for ever,—their miracles o'er,
And the Marmite Perpétuelle bubbling no more!
Forbid it, forbid it, ye Holy Allies!
  Take whatever ye fancy—take statues, take money—
But leave them, oh leave them, their Perigueux pies,
  Their glorious goose-livers and high pickled tunny!
Tho' many, I own, are the evils they've brought us,
  Tho' Royalty's here on her very last legs,
Yet who can help loving the land that has taught us
  Six hundred and eighty-five ways to dress eggs?

You see, DICK, in spite of them cries of "God-dam,"
"Coquin Anglais," et cetera—how generous I am!
And now (to return, once again, to my "Day,"
Which will take us all night to get thro' in this way.)
From the Boulevards we saunter thro' many a street,
Crack jokes on the natives—mine, all very neat—
Leave the Signs of the Times to political fops,
And find twice as much fun in the Signs of the Shops;—
Here, a Louis Dix-huit—there, a Martinmas goose,
(Much in vogue since your eagles are gone out of use)—
Henri Quatres in shoals, and of Gods a great many,
But Saints are the most on hard duty of any:—
St. TONY, who used all temptations to spurn,
Here hangs o'er a beer-shop, and tempts in his turn;
While there St. VENECIA[6] sits hemming and frilling her
Holy mouchoir o'er the door of some milliner;—
Saint AUSTIN'S the "outward and visible sign
"Of an inward" cheap dinner, and pint of small wine;
While St. DENYS hangs out o'er some hatter of ton,
And possessing, good bishop, no head of his own,[7]
Takes an interest in Dandies, who've got—next to none!
Then we stare into shops—read the evening's affiches—
Or, if some, who're Lotharios in feeding, should wish
Just to flirt with a luncheon, (a devilish bad trick,
As it takes off the bloom of one's appetite, DICK.)
To the Passage des—what d'ye call't—des Panoramas[8]
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,[9]
That popular artist, who brings out, like SCOTT,
His delightful productions so quick, hot and hot;
Not the worse for the exquisite comment that follows,—
Divine maresquino, which—Lord, how one swallows!
Once more, then, we saunter forth after our snack, or
Subscribe a few francs for the price of a fiacre,
And drive far away to the old Montagnes Russes,
Where we find a few twirls in the car of much use
To regenerate the hunger and thirst of us sinners,
Who've lapst into snacks—the perdition of dinners.
And here, DICK—in answer to one of your queries,
  About which we Gourmands have had much discussion—
I've tried all these mountains, Swiss, French, and Ruggieri's,
  And think, for digestion,[10] there's none like the Russian;
So equal the motion—so gentle, tho' fleet—
  It in short such a light and salubrious scamper is,
That take whom you please—take old Louis DIX-HUIT,
  And stuff him—ay, up to the neck—with stewed lampreys,[11]
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[12] be foiled of their prey!
Such, DICK, are the classical sports that content us,
Till five o'clock brings on that hour so momentous,
That epoch—but whoa! my lad—here comes the Schneider,
And, curse him, has made the stays three inches wider—
Too wide by an inch and a half—what a Guy!
But, no matter—'twill all be set right by-and-by.
As we've MASSINOT's[13] eloquent carte to eat still up.
An inch and a half's but a trifle to fill up.
So—not to lose time, DICK—here goes for the task;
Au revoir, my old boy—of the Gods I but ask
That my life, like "the Leap of the German," may be,
"Du lit à la table, d'la table du lit!"

R. F.

[1] An English tailor at Paris.

[2] A ship is said to miss stays, when she does not obey the helm in tacking.

[3] The dandy term for a tailor.

[4] "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.

[5] These gay, portable fountains, from which the groseille water is administered, are among the most characteristic ornaments of the streets of Paris.

[6] Veronica, the Saint of the Holy Handkerchief, is also, under the name of Venisse or Venecia, the tutelary saint of milliners.

[7] St. Denys walked three miles after his head was cut off.

[8] Off the Boulevards Italiens.

[9] In the Palais Royal; successor, I believe, to the Flamaud, so long celebrated for the moëlleux of his Gaufres.

[10] Doctor Cotterel recommends, for this purpose, the Beaujon or French Mountains.

[11] 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.

[12] They killed Henry I. of England:-"a food [says Hume, gravely], which always agreed better with his palate than his constitution."

[13] A famous Restaurateur—now Dupont.

LETTER IX.

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

My Lord, the Instructions, brought to-day,
"I shall in all my best obey."
Your Lordship talks and writes so sensibly!
And—whatsoe'er some wags may say—
Oh! not at all incomprehensibly.

I feel the inquiries in your letter
  About my health and French most flattering;
Thank ye, my French, tho' somewhat better,
  Is, on the whole, but weak and smattering:—
Nothing, of course, that can compare
With his who made the Congress stare
(A certain Lord we need not name),
  Who, even in French, would have his trope,
And talk of "batir un systême
  "Sur l'équilibre de l'Europe!"
Sweet metaphor!—and then the Epistle,
Which bid the Saxon King go whistle,—
That tender letter to "Mon Prince"[1]
Which showed alike thy French and sense;—
Oh no, my Lord—there's none can do
Or say un-English things like you:
And, if the schemes that fill thy breast
  Could but a vent congenial seek,
And use the tongue that suits them best,
  What charming Turkish wouldst thou speak!
But as for me, a Frenchless grub,
  At Congress never born to stammer,
Nor learn like thee, my Lord, to snub
  Fallen Monarchs, out of CHAMBAUD'S grammar—
Bless you, you do not, can not, know
How far a little French will go;
For all one's stock, one need but draw
  On some half-dozen words like toese—
Comme ça—par-là—là-bas—ah ha!
  They'll take you all thro' France with ease.
Your Lordship's praises of the scraps
  I sent you from my Journal lately,
(Enveloping a few laced caps
  For Lady C,) delight me greatly.
Her flattering speech—"What pretty things
  "One finds in Mr. FUDGE's pages!"
Is praise which (as some poet sings)
  Would pay one for the toils of ages.

Thus flattered, I presume to send
A few more extracts by a friend;
And I should hope they'll be no less
Approved of than my last MS.—
The former ones, I fear, were creased,
  As BIDDY round the caps would pin them;
But these will come to hand, at least
  Unrumpled, for there's—nothing in them.

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

August 10.

Went to the Mad-house—saw the man[2]
  Who thinks, poor wretch, that, while the Fiend
Of Discord here full riot ran,
  He, like the rest, was guillotined;—
But that when, under BONEY'S reign,
  (A more discreet, tho' quite as strong one,)
The heads were all restored again,
  He, in the scramble, got a wrong one.
Accordingly, he still cries out
  This strange head fits him most unpleasantly;
And always runs, poor devil, about,
Inquiring for his own incessantly!

While to his case a tear I dropt,
  And sauntered home, thought I—ye Gods!
How many heads might thus be swopt,
  And, after all, not make much odds!
For instance, there's VANSITTART'S head—
("Tam carum" it may well be said)
If by some curious chance it came
  To settle on BILL SOAMES'S[3] shoulders,
The effect would turn out much the same
  On all respectable cash-holders;
Except that while, in its new socket,
  The head was planning schemes to win
A zig-zag way into one's pocket,
  The hands would plunge directly in.

Good Viscount SIDMOUTH, too, instead
Of his own grave, respected head,
Might wear (for aught I see that bars)
  Old Lady WILHELMINA FRUMP'S—
So while the hand signed Circulars,
  The head might lisp out "What is trumps?"—
The REGENT'S brains could we transfer
To some robust man-milliner,
The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbon
Would go, I doubt not, quite as glib on;
And, vice versa, take the pains
To give the PRINCE the shopman's brains,
One only change from thence would flow,
Ribbons would not be wasted so.

'Twas thus I pondered on, my Lord;
  And, even at night, when laid in bed,
I found myself, before I snored,
  Thus chopping, swopping head for head.
At length I thought, fantastic elf!
How such a change would suit myself.
'Twixt sleep and waking, one by one,
  With various pericraniums saddled,
At last I tried your Lordship's on,
  And then I grew completely addled—
Forgot all other heads, od rot 'em!
And slept, and dreamt that I was—BOTTOM.

August 21.

Walked out with daughter BID—was shown
The House of Commons and the Throne,
Whose velvet cushion's just the same
NAPOLEON sat on—what a shame!
Oh! can we wonder, best of speechers,
  When LOUIS seated thus we see,
That France's "fundamental features"
  Are much the same they used to be?
However,—God preserve the Throne,
  And cushion too—and keep them free;
From accidents, which have been known
  To happen even to Royalty![4]

August 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.—
Indeed, I've found, in Latin, lately,
A course of stalls improves me greatly)—
'Twas thus I read that in the East
  A monarch's fat's a serious matter;
And once in every year, at least,
  He's weighed—to see if he gets fatter:[5]
Then, if a pound or two he be
Increased, there's quite a jubilee![6]
Suppose, my Lord—and far from me
To treat such things with levity—
But just suppose the Regent's weight
Were made thus an affair of state;
And, every sessions, at the close,—
  'Stead of a speech, which, all can see, is
Heavy and dull enough, God knows—
  We were to try how heavy he is.
Much would it glad all hearts to hear—
  That, while the Nation's Revenue
Loses so many pounds a year,
  The PRINCE, God bless him! gains a few.
With bales of muslin, chintzes, spices,
  I see the Easterns weigh their Kings;—
But, for the REGENT, my advice is,
  We should throw in much heavier things:
For instance——-'s quarto volumes,
  Which, tho' not spices, serve to wrap them;
Dominie STODDART'S Daily columns,
  "Prodigious!"—in, of course, we'd clap them—
Letters, that CARTWRIGHT'S[7] pen indites,
  In which, with logical confusion,
The Major like a Minor writes,
  And never comes to a Conclusion:—
Lord SOMERS'S pamphlet—or his head—
(Ah! that were worth its weight in lead!)
Along with which we in may whip, sly,
The Speeches of Sir JOHN COX HIPPISLY;
That Baronet of many words,
Who loves so, in the House of Lords,
To whisper Bishops—and so nigh
  Unto their wigs in whispering goes,
That you may always know him by
  A patch of powder on his nose!—
If this wont do, we in must cram
The "Reasons" of Lord BUCKINGHAM;
(A Book his Lordship means to write,
  Entitled "Reasons for my Ratting":)
Or, should these prove too small and light,
  His rump's a host—we'll bundle that in!
And, still should all these masses fail
To stir the REGENT'S pondrous scale,
Why, then, my Lord, in heaven's name,
  Pitch in, without reserve or stint,
The whole of RAGLEY'S beauteous Dame—
  If that wont raise him, devil's in it!

August 31.

Consulted MURPHY'S TACITUS
  About those famous spies at Rome,[8]
Whom certain Whigs—to make a fuss—
Describe as much resembling us,
  Informing gentlemen, at home.
But, bless the fools, they can't be serious,
To say Lord SIDMOUTH'S like TIBERIUS!
What! he, the Peer, that injures no man,
Like that severe, blood-thirsty Roman!—
'Tis true, the Tyrant lent an ear to
All sorts of spies—so doth the Peer, too.
'Tis true, my Lord's elect tell fibs,
And deal in perjury—ditto TIB's.
'Tis true, the Tyrant screened and hid
His rogues from justice—ditto SID.
'Tis true the Peer is grave and glib
At moral speeches—ditto TIB.
'Tis true the feats the Tyrant did
Were in his dotage—ditto SID.

So far, I own, the parallel
'Twixt TIB and SIB goes vastly well;
But there are points in TIB that strike
My humble mind as much more like
Yourself, my dearest Lord, or him,
Of the India Board—that soul of whim!
Like him, TIBERIUS loved his joke,
  On matters, too, where few can bear one;
E. g. a man cut up, or broke
  Upon the wheel—a devilish fair one!
Your common fractures, wounds and fits,
Are nothing to such wholesale wits;
But, let the sufferer gasp for life,
  The joke is then, worth any money;
And, if he writhe beneath a knife,—
  Oh dear, that's something quite too funny.
In this respect, my Lord, you see
The Roman wag and ours agree:
Now as to your resemblance—mum—
  This parallel we need not follow:
Tho' 'tis, in Ireland, said by some
  Your Lordship beats TIBERIUS hollow;
Whips, chains—but these are things too serious
  For me to mention or discuss;
Whene'er your Lordship acts TIBERIUS,
  PHIL. FUDGE'S part is Tacitus!

September 2.

Was thinking, had Lord SIDMOUTH got
Any good decent sort of Plot
Against the winter-time—if not,
Alas, alas, our ruin's fated;
All done up and spiflicated!
Ministers and all their vassals,
Down from CASTLEREAGH to CASTLES,—
Unless we can kick up a riot,
Ne'er can hope for peace or quiet!
What's to be done?—Spa-Fields was clever;
  But even that brought gibes and mockings
Upon our heads—so, mem.—must never
  Keep ammunition in old stockings;
For fear some wag should in his curst head
Take it to say our force was worsted.
Mem. too—when SID an army raises,
It must not be "incog." like Bayes's:
Nor must the General be a hobbling
Professor of the art of cobbling;
Lest men, who perpetrate such puns,
Should say, with Jacobinic grin,
He felt, from soleing Wellingtons,[9]
  A Wellington's great soul within!
Nor must an old Apothecary
  Go take the Tower, for lack of pence,
With (what these wags would call, so merry,)
  Physical force and phial-ence!
No—no—our Plot, my Lord, must be
Next time contrived more skilfully.
John Bull, I grieve to say, is growing
So troublesomely sharp and knowing,
So wise—in short, so Jacobin—
'Tis monstrous hard to take him in.

September 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,
Tho' for their own most gracious King
(They would kiss hands, or—anything),
Can be persuaded to go thro'
This farce-like trick of the Ko-tou;
And as these Mandarins won't bend,
  Without some mumming exhibition,
Suppose, my Lord, you were to send
  GRIMALDI to them on a mission:
As Legate, JOE could play his part,
And if, in diplomatic art,
The "volto sciolto"'s meritorius,[10]
Let JOE but grin, he has it, glorious!

A title for him's easily made;
  And, by the by, one Christmas time,
If I remember right, he played
  Lord MORLEY in some pantomime:—[1]
As Earl of Morley then gazette him,
If t'other Earl of MORLEY'll let him,
(And why should not the world be blest
"With two such stars, for East and West?)
Then, when before the Yellow Screen
  He's brought—and, sure, the very essence
Of etiquette would be that scene
  Of JOE in the Celestial Presence!—

He thus should say:—"Duke Ho and Soo,
"I'll play what tricks you please for you,
"If you'll, in turn, but do for me
"A few small tricks you now shall see.
"If I consult your Emperor's liking,
"At least you'll do the same for my King."

He then should give them nine such grins,
As would astound even Mandarins;
And throw such somersets before
  The picture of King GEORGE (God bless him!)
As, should Duke Ho but try them o'er,
  Would, by CONFUCIUS, much distress him!

I start this merely as a hint,
But think you'll find some wisdom in't;
And, should you follow up the job,
My son, my Lord (you know poor BOB),
Would in the suite be glad to go
And help his Excellency, JOE:—
At least, like noble AMHERST'S son,
The lad will do to practise on.

[1] The celebrated letter to Prince Hardenburgh (written, however, I believe, originally in English) in which his Lordship, professing to see "no moral or political objection" to the dismemberment of Saxony, denounced the unfortunate King as "not only the most devoted, but the most favored, of Bonaparte's vassals".

[2] 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.

[3] A celebrated pickpocket.

[4] I am afraid that Mr. Fudge alludes here to a very awkward accident, which is well known to have happened to poor Louis le Désiré, some years since, at one of the Regent's Fêtes. He was sitting next our gracious Queen at the time.

[5] "The third day of the Feast the King causeth himself to be weighed with great care,"—F. Bernier's "Voyage to Surat," etc.

[6] "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.

[7] Major Cartwright.

[8] 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.

[9] Short boots so called.

[10] The open countenance, recommended by Lord Chesterfield.

[11] 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.