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 neighbouring 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 its cage that eagle burst to light,
From steeple on to steeple* winged its flight,
With calm and easy grandeur, to that throne
From which a Royal craven just had flown;
And resting there, as in its aerie, 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, low-born 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, though long years of mutual treachery
Had peopled full your diplomatic shelves

With ghosts of treaties, murdered 'mong yourselves;

Though 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 blessed fountain made as good as new! +

Most faithful Russia-faithful to whoe'er

Could plunder best, and give him amplest share;

"L'aigle volera de clocher en clocher, jusqu'aux tours de Notre-Dame."Napoleon's Proclamation on landing from Elba.

Singulis annis in quodam Attica fonte lota virginitatem recuperâsse fingitur.

Who, even when vanquished, sure to gain his ends,
For want of foes to rob, made free with friends,*
And, deepening still by amiable gradations,
When foes were stript of all, then fleeced relations! +
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 nought repeats
But broken leagues and subsidised defeats;
Whose faith, as Prince, extinguished Venice shows,
Whose faith, as man, a widowed daughter knows!
And thou, oh England-who, though once as shy
As cloistered maids, of shame or perfidy,
Art now broke in, and, thanks to C-
In all that's worst and falsest lead'st the way!

-gh,

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 varnished villanies ;-
These Holy Leaguers, who then loudest boast
Of faith and honour, 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 ‡ 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!

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

†The seizure of Finland from his relative of Sweden.

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 VIIL

FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD

, ESQ.

DEAR DICK, while old Donaldson's mending my stays,-
Which I knew would go smash with me one of these days,
And, at yesterday's dinner, when, full to the throttle,
We lads had begun our desert with a bottle

Of neat old Constantia, on my leaning back
Just to order another, by Jove I went crack!-
Or, as honest Tom said, in his nautical phrase,

"D-m my eyes, Bob, in doubling the Cape you've missed
stays." +

So, of course, as no gentlemen's seen out without them,
They're now at the Schneider's-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§ in those arbours,
While gaily their wigs, like the tendrils, are curling,
And founts of red currant-juice round them are purling.

Here, Dick, arm in arm as we chattering stray,
And receive a few civil "God-dems" by the way,-
For, 'tis odd, these mounseers,-though we've wasted our
wealth

And our strength, till we've thrown ourselves into a phthisic,
To cram down their throats an old King for their health,

As we whip little children to make them take physic;—

*An English tailor at Paris.

A ship is said to miss stays, when she does not obey the helm in tacking. The dandy term for a tailor.

"Lemonade and eau-de-groseille are measured out at every corner of every street, from fantastic vessels, jingling with bells, to thirsty tradesmen or wearied messengers."-See Lady Morgan's lively description of the streets of Paris, in her very amusing work upon France, Book 6.

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

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 vanished 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! +
Though many, I own, are the evils they've brought us,
Though Royalty's here on her very last legs,
Yet, who can help loving the land that has taught us
Six hundred and eighty-five ways to dress eggs?‡

You see, Dick, in spite of their cries of "God-dam,"
"Coquin Anglais," et cætera-how generous I am!
And now (to return, once again, to my "Day,"
Which will take us all night to get through in this way)
From the Boulevards we saunter through many a street,
Crack jokes on the natives-mine, all very neat-
Leave the Signs of the Times to political fops,

And find twice as much fun in the Signs of the Shops ;-
Here, a Louis Dix-huit-there, a Martinmas goose,
(Much in vogue since your eagles are gone out of use)—
Henri Quatres in shoals, and of Gods a great many,
But Saints are the most on hard duty of any :-
St. Tony, who used all temptations to spurn,
Here hangs o'er a beer-shop, and tempts in his turn ;

* "Cette merveilleuse Marmite Perpétuelle, sur le feu depuis près d'un siècle ; qui a donné le jour à plus de 300,000 chapons."-Alman. de Gourmands, Quatrième Année, p. 152.

Le thon mariné, one of the most favourite and indigestible hors-d'œuvres. This fish is taken chiefly in the Golfe de Lyon. "La tête et le dessous du ventre sont les parties les plus recherchées des gourmets."-Cours Gastronomique, p. 252.

The exact number mentioned by M. de la Reynière-"On connoit en France 685 manières différentes d'accommoder les œufs; sans compter celles que nos savans imaginent chaque jour."

While there St. Venecia* sits hemming and frilling her
Holy mouchoir o'er the door of some milliner ;-
Saint Austin's the "outward and visible sign

Of an inward" cheap dinner, and pint of small wine;
While St. Denys hangs out o'er some hatter of ton,
And possessing, good bishop, no head of his own, †
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‡
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,§
That popular artist, who brings out, like Sc-tt,
His delightful productions so quick, hot and hot;
Not the worse for the exquisite comment that follows,—
Divine maresquino, which-Lord, how one swallows!
Once more, then, we saunter forth after our snack, or
Subscribe a few francs for the price of a fiacre,
And drive far away to the old Montagnes Russes,
Where we find a few twirls in the car of much use
To regenerate the hunger and thirst of us sinners,
Who've lapsed into snacks-the perdition of dinners.
And here, Dick-in answer to one of your queries,

About which we, Gourmands, have had much discussion-
I've tried all these mountains, Swiss, French, and Ruggieri's,
And think, for digestion, || there's none like the Russian
So equal the motion-so gentle, though fleet—

It, in short, such a light and salubrious scamper is,
That take whom you please—take old L―s D-x-h—t,

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

† St. Denys walked three miles after his head was cut off. The mot of a woman of wit upon this legend is well known:-"Je le crois bien; en pareil il n'y a que le premier pas qui coute."

cas,

Off the Boulevards Italiens

§ In the Palais Royal; successor, I believe, to the Flamand, so long celebrated for the moëlleux of his Gaufres.

Doctor Cotterel recommends, for this purpose, the Beaujon or French Mountains, and calls them "une médecine aérienne, couleur de rose;" but I own I prefer the authority of Mr. Bob, who seems, from the following note found in his own hand-writing, to have studied all these mountains very carefully:

Memoranda-The Swiss little notice deserves,

While the fall at Ruggieri's is death to weak nerves ;
And (whate'er Doctor Cott'rel may write on the question)
The turn at the Beaujon's too sharp for digestion.

I doubt whether Mr. Bob is quite correct in accenting the second syllable of
Ruggieri.