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, every thing he has
An author can want, except words and ideas :-
And lo! the first thing, in the spring of the year,
Is Phil. Fudge at the front of a Quarto, my dear!
But, bless me, my paper's near out, so I'd better
Draw fast to a close:-this exceeding long letter
You owe to a déjeuner à la fourchette,
Which Bobby would have, and is hard at it yet.—
What's next? oh, the tutor, the last of the party,
Young Connor-they say he's so like Bonaparte,
His nose and his chin,-which Papa rather dreads,
As the Bourbons, you know, are suppressing all heads
That resemble old Nap's, and who knows but their honours
May think, in their fright, of suppressing poor Connor's?
Au reste, (as we say) the young lad's well enough,
Only talks much of Athens, Rome, virtue, and stuff;
A third cousin of ours, by the way- poor as Job,
(Though of royal descent by the side of Mamma)
And for charity made private tutor to Bob-
Entre nous, too, a Papist--how liberal of Pa!
This is all, dear,-forgive me for breaking off thus ;
But Bob's déjeuner's done, and Papa's in a fuss.
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!*
FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ. TO THE LORD VISCOUNT C
AT length, my Lord, I have the bliss
To date to you a line from this
* A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris,
"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!*
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 C-
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 dickey, (as is fitting
For him who writes a Tour, that he
May more of men and manners see,)
I've thought of thee and of thy glories,
Thou guest of Kings, and King of Tories!
Reflecting how thy fame has grown
And spread, beyond man's usual share,
At home, abroad, till thou art known,
Like Major Semple, every where !
And marvelling with what powers of breath
Your Lordship, having speeched to death
Some hundreds of your fellow-men,
Next speeched to Sovereigns' 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
* 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 Bin describing some hypocritical pretender to charity, said-" He put his hand in his breeches pocket, like a crocodile, and," &c. &c.
The title of the chief magistrate of Belfast, before whom his Lordship (with the "studium immane loquendi" attributed by Ovid to that chattering and rapacious class of birds, the pies) delivered sundry long and self-gratulatory orations, on his return from the Continent. It was at one of these Irish dinners that his gallant brother, Lord S., proposed the health of "The best cavalry officer in Europe-the Regent !"
That Ireland gives her snuff thy name,
And C
-gh's the thing now sneezed at!
But hold, my pen !-a truce to praising-
Though 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 metaphoric fringes,)
I must embark into the feature
On which this letter chiefly hinges;
My Book, the Book that is to prove―
And will, so help ye Sprites above,
That sit on clouds, as grave as judges,
Watching the labours of the Fudges !--
Will prove that all the world, at present,
Is in a state extremely pleasant:
That Europe-thanks to royal swords
And bay'nets, and the Duke commanding—
Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord's,
Passeth all human understanding:
That France prefers her go-cart King
To such a coward scamp as Boney-
Though round, with each a leading-string,
"There standeth many a Royal crony,
For fear the chubby, tottering thing
Should fall, if left there loney-poney:
That England, too, the more her debts,
The more she spends, the richer gets;
And that the Irish, grateful nation!
Remember when by thee reigned over,
And bless thee for their flagellation,
As Heloisa did her lover!†
That Poland, left for Russia's lunch
Upon the side-board, snug reposes;
While Saxony's as pleased as Punch,
And Norway on a bed of roses!"
That, as for some few million souls,
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 gaily,
And Louis eats his salmi‡ daily;
So time is left to Emperor Sandy
To be half Cæsar and haif Dandy;
* Verbatim from one of the noble Viscount's Speeches-"And now, Sir, I must embark into the feature on which this question chiefly hinges."
Οψα τε, δια εδουσι διοτρεφεες βασιλης.
And Gge the R-g-t (who'd forget
That doughtiest chieftain of the set?)
Hath wherewithal for trinkets new,
For dragons, after Chinese models,
And chambers where Duke Ho and Soo
Might come and nine times knock their noddles!-
All this my Quarto'll prove-much more
Than Quarto ever proved before-
In reas'ning with the Post I'll vie,
My facts the Courier shall supply,
My jokes V-ns-t, P-le my sense,
And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence!
My Journal, 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 place-holder)
Is-though I say't, that shouldn't say—
Extremely good; and, by the way,
One extract from it-only one-
To show its spirit, and I've done.
"Ful. 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 gingerbread.)
Was shown the tomb where lay, so stately,
A little Bourbon, buried lately,
Thrice high and puissant, we were told,
Though only twenty-four hours old !*
Hear this, thought I, ye Jacobins ;
Ye Burdetts, tremble in your skins!
If Royalty, but aged a day,
Can boast such high and puissant sway,
What impious hand its 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 R-g-t,
I am, dear Lord,
Your most obedient,
Hotel Breteuil, Rue Rivoli.
Neat lodgings-rather dear for me;
* So described on the coffin: "très haute et puissante Princesse, agée d'un jour."
†There is a fulness and breadth in this portrait of Royalty, which reminds us of what Pliny says, in speaking of Trajan's great qualities:- "nonne longè latèque Principem ostentant?"
But Biddy said she thought 'twould look
Genteeler thus to date my Book,
And Biddy's right-besides, it curries
Some favour with our friends at Murray's,
Who scorn what any man can say,
That dates from Rue St. Honoré!*
FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD
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 Cartet 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 R-g-t, there's Louis-and Boney tried too,
But, though 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 skaiters in winter show off on cream-ice;
Where so ready all nature its cookery yields,
Macaroni au parmesan grows in the fields;
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."
†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 alouettes tombent toutes roties. Du Latin, coquere."-Duchat.
|