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 déjeuner à 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 paté of larks, just to tune up the throat,
One's small limbs of chickens, done en papillote,
One's erudite cutlets, drest all ways but plain,
Or one's kidneys-imagine, Dick-done with champagne!
Then, some glasses of Beaune, to dilute-or, mayhap,
Chambertin, which you know's the pet tipple of Nap,
And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler,
Much scruples to taste, but I'm not so partic'lar.-
Your coffee comes next, by prescription; and then, Dick,'s
The coffee's ne'er-failing and glorious appendix,
(If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on't,
I'd swallow even W-tk-ns', for sake of the end on't);
A neat glass of parfait-amour, which one sips
Just as if bottled velvet ‡ tipped 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 phyzzes, The turn-outs, we meet-what a nation of quizzes!
Here toddles along some old figure of fun,
With a coat you might date Anno Domini 1 ;
* The process by which the liver of the unfortunate goose is enlarged, in order to produce that richest of all dainties, the foie gras, of which such renowned patés are made at Strasbourg and Toulouse, is thus described in the Cours Gastronomique:-"On déplume l'estomac des oies; on attache ensuite ces animaux aux chenets d'une cheminée, et on les nourrit devant le feu. captivité et la chaleur donnent à ces volatiles une maladie hepatique, qui fait gonfler leur foie," &c., p. 206.
+ The favourite wine of Napoleon.
Velours en bouteille.
A laced hat, worsted stockings, and-noble old soul !
A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole;
Just such as our Pr――e, 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 monkeys-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 B-m-1, 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 finished some other fine morning.
Now, hey for old Beauvilliers' + larder, my boy!
And, once there, if the Goddess of Beauty and Joy
Were to write "Come and kiss me, dear Bob!" I'd not budge-
Not a step, Dick, as sure as my name is
"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 +
*It was said by Wicquefort, more than a hundred years ago, "Le Roi d'Angleterre fait seul plus de chevaliers que tous les autres Rois de la Chretienté ensemble."-What would he say now?
† A celebrated Restaurateur.
"They use to leave a yard square of the wall of the house unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, either the forementioned verse of the Psalmist (If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,' &c.) or the words 'The memory of the desolation."-Leo of Modena.
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 nought 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
Still hope and suffer, all who can !—but I,
Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly.
But whither?-everywhere 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!
Everywhere gallant hearts, and spirits true,
Are served up victims to the vile and few;
While E, everywhere-the general foe
Of Truth and Freedom, wheresoe'er they glow-
Is first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow!
Oh, E-! 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 neighbour'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 promised 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,
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.
That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart,
Made thee the fallen and tarnished thing thou art;
That, as the Centaur* gave the infected vest
In which he died, to rack his conqueror's breast,
We sent thee C- -gh -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, sees such dazzling things!
And must the hope, as vain as it is bright,
Be all given up?-and are they only right,
Who say this world of thinking souls was made
To be by Kings partitioned, trucked, 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!——
* Membra et Herculeos toros
Urit lues Nessea.-
Ille, ille victor vincitur.
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 pourtrayed,
Welcome
And, 'stead of Aristides-woe the day
Such names should mingle !-welcome C-
Here break we off, at this unhallowed name,
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 !
FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY
WHAT a time since I wrote !-I'm a sad, naughty girl-
Though, 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 tricked out quite à la Française,
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?
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