Yet still 'twas, who could stamp the floor most, Russia and Austria 'mong the foremost.— And now, to an Italian air, This precious brace would, hand in hand, go; Now—while old Louis, from his chair, Intreated them his toes to spare— Called loudly out for a Fandango.

And a Fandango, 'faith, they had, At which they all set to, like mad! Never were Kings (tho' small the expense is Of wit among their Excellencies) So out of all their princely senses, But ah! that dance—that Spanish dance— Scarce was the luckless strain begun, When, glaring red, as 'twere a glance Shot from an angry Southern sun, A light thro' all the chambers flamed, Astonishing old Father Frost, Who, bursting into tears, exclaimed, "A thaw, by Jove—we're lost, we're lost! "Run, France—a second Waterloo "Is come to drown you-sauve qui peut!"

Why, why will monarchs caper so In palaces without foundations?— Instantly all was in a flow, Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations— Those Royal Arms, that lookt so nice, Cut out in the resplendent ice— Those Eagles, handsomely provided With double heads for double dealings— How fast the globes and sceptres glided Out of their claws on all the ceilings! Proud Prussia's double bird of prey Tame as a spatch cock, slunk away; While—just like France herself, when she Proclaims how great her naval skill is— Poor Louis's drowning fleurs-de-lys Imagined themselves water-lilies.

And not alone rooms, ceilings, shelves, But—still more fatal execution— The Great Legitimates themselves Seemed in a state of dissolution. The indignant Tsar—when just about To issue a sublime Ukase, "Whereas all light must be kept out"— Dissolved to nothing in its blaze. Next Prussia took his turn to melt, And, while his lips illustrious felt The influence of this southern air, Some word, like "Constitution"—long Congealed in frosty silence there— Came slowly thawing from his tongue. While Louis, lapsing by degrees, And sighing out a faint adieu To truffles, salmis, toasted cheese And smoking fondus, quickly grew, Himself, into a fondu too;— Or like that goodly King they make Of sugar for a Twelfth-night cake, When, in some urchin's mouth, alas! It melts into a shapeless mass!

In short, I scarce could count a minute, Ere the bright dome and all within it, Kings, Fiddlers, Emperors, all were gone— And nothing now was seen or heard But the bright river, rushing on, Happy as an enfranchised bird, And prouder of that natural ray, Shining along its chainless way— More proudly happy thus to glide In simple grandeur to the sea, Than when, in sparkling fetters tied, 'Twas deckt with all that kingly pride Could bring to light its slavery!

Such is my dream—and, I confess, I tremble at its awfulness. That Spanish Dance—that southern beam— But I say nothing—there's my dream— And Madame Kruedener, the she-prophet, May make just what she pleases of it.

[1] "It is well-known that the Empress Anne built a palace of ice on the Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in length, and when illuminated had a surprising effect."—PINKERTON.



FABLE II.

THE LOOKING-GLASSES.

PROEM.

Where Kings have been by mob-elections Raised to the throne, 'tis strange to see What different and what odd perfections Men have required in Royalty. Some, liking monarchs large and plumpy, Have chosen their Sovereigns by the weight;— Some wisht them tall, some thought your Dumpy, Dutch-built, the true Legitimate.[1] The Easterns in a Prince, 'tis said, Prefer what's called a jolterhead:[2] The Egyptians weren't at all partic'lar, So that their Kings had not red hair— This fault not even the greatest stickler For the blood-royal well could bear.

A thousand more such illustrations Might be adduced from various nations. But, 'mong the many tales they tell us, Touching the acquired or natural right Which some men have to rule their fellows, There's one which I shall here recite:—

FABLE.

There was a land—to name the place Is neither now my wish nor duty— Where reigned a certain Royal race, By right of their superior beauty.

What was the cut legitimate Of these great persons' chins and noses, By right of which they ruled the state, No history I have seen discloses.

But so it was—a settled case— Some Act of Parliament, past snugly, Had voted them a beauteous race, And all their faithful subjects ugly.

As rank indeed stood high or low, Some change it made in visual organs; Your Peers were decent—Knights, so so— But all your common people, gorgons!

Of course, if any knave but hinted That the King's nose was turned awry, Or that the Queen (God bless her!) squinted— The judges doomed that knave to die.

But rarely things like this occurred, The people to their King were duteous, And took it, on his Royal word, That they were frights and He was beauteous.

The cause whereof, among all classes, Was simply this—these island elves Had never yet seen looking-glasses, And therefore did not know themselves.

Sometimes indeed their neighbors' faces Might strike them as more full of reason, More fresh than those in certain places— But, Lord, the very thought was treason!

Besides, howe'er we love our neighbor, And take his face's part, 'tis known We ne'er so much in earnest labor, As when the face attackt's our own.

So on they went—the crowd believing— (As crowds well governed always do) Their rulers, too, themselves deceiving— So old the joke, they thought 'twas true.

But jokes, we know, if they too far go, Must have an end—and so, one day, Upon that coast there was a cargo Of looking-glasses cast away.

'Twas said, some Radicals, somewhere, Had laid their wicked heads together, And forced that ship to founder there,— While some believe it was the weather.

However this might be, the freight Was landed without fees or duties; And from that hour historians date The downfall of the Race of Beauties.

The looking-glasses got about, And grew so common thro' the land, That scarce a tinker could walk out, Without a mirror in his hand.

Comparing faces, morning, noon, And night, their constant occupation— By dint of looking-glasses, soon, They grew a most reflecting nation.

In vain the Court, aware of errors In all the old, establisht mazards, Prohibited the use of mirrors And tried to break them at all hazards:—

In vain—their laws might just as well Have been waste paper on the shelves; That fatal freight had broke the spell; People had lookt—and knew themselves.

If chance a Duke, of birth sublime, Presumed upon his ancient face, (Some calf-head, ugly from all time,) They popt a mirror to his Grace;—

Just hinting, by that gentle sign, How little Nature holds it true, That what is called an ancient line, Must be the line of Beauty too.

From Dukes' they past to regal phizzes, Compared them proudly with their own, And cried. "How could such monstrous quizzes "In Beauty's name usurp the throne!"—

They then wrote essays, pamphlets, books, Upon Cosmetical Oeconomy, Which made the King try various looks, But none improved his physiognomy.

And satires at the Court were levelled, And small lampoons, so full of slynesses, That soon, in short, they quite bedeviled Their Majesties and Royal Highnesses.

At length—but here I drop the veil, To spare some royal folks' sensations;— Besides, what followed is the tale Of all such late-enlightened nations;

Of all to whom old Time discloses A truth they should have sooner known— That kings have neither rights nor noses A whit diviner than their own.

[1] The Goths had a law to choose always a short, thick man for their King.—Munster, "Cosmog." lib. iii. p. 164.

[2] "In a Prince a jolter-head is invaluable."—Oriental Field Sports.



FABLE III.

THE TORCH OF LIBERTY.

I saw it all in Fancy's glass— Herself, the fair, the wild magician, Who bade this splendid day-dream pass, And named each gliding apparition.

'Twas like a torch-race—such as they Of Greece performed, in ages gone, When the fleet youths, in long array, Past the bright torch triumphant on.

I saw the expectant nations stand, To catch the coming flame in turn;— I saw, from ready hand to hand, The clear tho' struggling glory burn.

And oh! their joy, as it came near, 'Twas in itself a joy to see;— While Fancy whispered in my ear. "That torch they pass is Liberty!"

And each, as she received the flame, Lighted her altar with its ray; Then, smiling, to the next who came, Speeded it on its sparkling way.

From ALBION first, whose ancient shrine Was furnisht with the fire already, COLUMBIA caught the boon divine, And lit a flame, like ALBION'S, steady.

The splendid gift then GALLIA took, And, like a wild Bacchante, raising The brand aloft, its sparkles shook, As she would set the world a-blazing!

Thus kindling wild, so fierce and high Her altar blazed into the air, That ALBION, to that fire too nigh, Shrunk back and shuddered at its glare!

Next, SPAIN, so new was light to her, Leapt at the torch—but, ere the spark That fell upon her shrine could stir, 'Twas quenched—and all again was dark.

Yet, no—not quenched—a treasure worth So much to mortals rarely dies: Again her living light lookt forth, And shone, a beacon, in all eyes.

Who next received the flame? alas! Unworthy NAPLES—shame of shames, That ever thro' such hands should pass That brightest of all earthly flames!

Scarce had her fingers touched the torch. When, frighted by the sparks it shed, Nor waiting even to feel the scorch, She dropt it to the earth—and fled.

And fallen it might have long remained; But GREECE, who saw her moment now, Caught up the prize, tho' prostrate, stained, And waved it round her beauteous brow.

And Fancy bade me mark where, o'er Her altar, as its flame ascended, Fair, laurelled spirits seemed to soar, Who thus in song their voices blended:—

"Shine, shine for ever, glorious Flame, "Divinest gift of Gods to men! "From GREECE thy earliest splendor came, "To GREECE thy ray returns again.

"Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round, "When dimmed, revive, when lost, return, "Till not a shrine thro' earth be found, "On which thy glories shall not burn."



FABLE IV.

THE FLY AND THE BULLOCK.

PROEM.

Of all that, to the sage's survey, This world presents of topsy-turvy, There's naught so much disturbs one's patience, As little minds in lofty stations. 'Tis like that sort of painful wonder. Which slender columns, laboring under Enormous arches, give beholders;— Or those poor Caryatides, Condemned to smile and stand at ease, With a whole house upon their shoulders.

If as in some few royal cases, Small minds are born into such places— If they are there by Right Divine Or any such sufficient reason, Why—Heaven forbid we should repine!— To wish it otherwise were treason; Nay, even to see it in a vision, Would be what lawyers call misprision.

SIR ROBERT FILMER saith—and he, Of course, knew all about the matter— "Both men and beasts love Monarchy;" Which proves how rational the latter. SIDNEY, we know, or wrong or right. Entirely differed from the Knight: Nay, hints a King may lose his head. By slipping awkwardly his bridle:— But this is treasonous, ill-bred, And (now-a-days, when Kings are led In patent snaffles) downright idle.

No, no—it isn't right-line Kings, (Those sovereign lords in leading strings Who, from their birth, are Faith-Defenders,) That move my wrath—'tis your pretenders, Your mushroom rulers, sons of earth, Who—not, like t'others, bores by birth, Establisht gratia Dei blockheads, Born with three kingdoms in their pockets— Yet, with a brass that nothing stops, Push up into the loftiest stations, And, tho' too dull to manage shops, Presume, the dolts, to manage nations!

This class it is, that moves my gall, And stirs up bile, and spleen and all. While other senseless things appear To know the limits of their sphere— While not a cow on earth romances So much as to conceit she dances— While the most jumping frog we know of, Would scarce at Astley's hope to show off— Your ***s, your ***s dare, Untrained as are their minds, to set them To any business, any where, At any time that fools will let them.

But leave we here these upstart things— My business is just now with Kings; To whom and to their right-line glory, I dedicate the following story.

FABLE

The wise men of Egypt were secret as dummies; And even when they most condescended to teach, They packt up their meaning, as they did their mummies, In so many wrappers, 'twas out of one's reach.

They were also, good people, much given to Kings— Fond of craft and of crocodiles, monkeys and mystery; But blue-bottle flies were their best beloved things— As will partly appear in this very short history.

A Scythian philosopher (nephew, they say, To that other great traveller, young Anacharsis,) Stept into a temple at Memphis one day, To have a short peep at their mystical farces.

He saw a brisk blue-bottle Fly on an altar, Made much of, and worshipt, as something divine; While a large, handsome Bullock, led there in a halter, Before it lay stabbed at the foot of the shrine.

Surprised at such doings, he whispered his teacher— "If 'tisn't impertinent, may I ask why "Should a Bullock, that useful and powerful creature, "Be thus offered up to a bluebottle Fly?"

"No wonder"—said t'other—"you stare at the sight, "But we as a Symbol of Monarchy view it— "That Fly on the shrine is Legitimate Right, "And that Bullock, the People that's sacrificed to it."



FABLE V.

CHURCH AND STATE.

PROEM

"The moment any religion becomes national, or established, its purity must certainly be lost, because it is then impossible to keep it unconnected with men's interests; and, if connected, it must inevitably be perverted by them." —SOAME JENYNS

Thus did SOAME JENYNS—tho' a Tory, A Lord of Trade and the Plantations; Feel how Religion's simple glory Is stained by State associations.

When CATHARINE, ere she crusht the Poles, Appealed to the benign Divinity; Then cut them up in protocols, Made fractions of their very souls— All in the name of the blest Trinity; Or when her grandson, ALEXANDER, That mighty Northern salamander,[1] Whose icy touch, felt all about, Puts every fire of Freedom out— When he, too, winds up his Ukases With God and the Panagia's praises— When he, of royal Saints the type, In holy water dips the sponge, With which, at one imperial wipe, He would all human rights expunge; When LOUIS (whom as King, and eater, Some name Dix-huit, and some Deshuitres.) Calls down "St. Louis's God" to witness The right, humanity, and fitness Of sending eighty thousand Solons, Sages with muskets and laced coats, To cram instruction, nolens volens, Down the poor struggling Spaniards' throats— I can't help thinking, (tho' to Kings I must, of course, like other men, bow,) That when a Christian monarch brings Religion's name to gloss these things— Such blasphemy out-Benbows Benbow![2]

Or—not so far for facts to roam, Having a few much nearer home- When we see Churchmen, who, if askt, "Must Ireland's slaves be tithed, and taskt, "And driven, like Negroes or Croats, "That you may roll in wealth and bliss?" Look from beneath their shovel hats With all due pomp and answer "Yes!" But then, if questioned, "Shall the brand "Intolerance flings throughout that land,— "Shall the fierce strife now taught to grow 'Betwixt her palaces and hovels, "Be ever quenched?"—from the same shovels Look grandly forth and answer "No."— Alas, alas! have these a claim To merciful Religion's name? If more you seek, go see a bevy Of bowing parsons at a levee— (Choosing your time, when straw's before Some apoplectic bishop's door,) Then if thou canst with life escape That rush of lawn, that press of crape, Just watch their reverences and graces, As on each smirking suitor frisks, And say, if those round shining faces To heaven or earth most turn their disks? This, this it is—Religion, made, Twixt Church and State, a truck, a trade— This most ill-matched, unholy Co., From whence the ills we witness flow; The war of many creeds with one— The extremes of too much faith and none— Till, betwixt ancient trash and new, 'Twixt Cant and Blasphemy—the two Rank ills with which this age is curst— We can no more tell which is worst, Than erst could Egypt, when so rich In various plagues, determine which She thought most pestilent and vile, Her frogs, like Benbow and Carlisle, Croaking their native mud-notes loud, Or her fat locusts, like a cloud Of pluralists, obesely lowering, At once benighting and devouring!—

This—this it is—and here I pray Those sapient wits of the Reviews. Who make us poor, dull authors say, Not what we mean, but what they choose; Who to our most abundant shares Of nonsense add still more of theirs, And are to poets just such evils As caterpillars find those flies,[3] Which, not content to sting like devils, Lay eggs upon their backs like wise— To guard against such foul deposits Of other's meaning in my rhymes, (A thing more needful here because it's A subject, ticklish in these times)— I, here, to all such wits make known, Monthly and Weekly, Whig and Tory, 'Tis this Religion—this alone— I aim at in the following story:—

FABLE.

When Royalty was young and bold, Ere, touched by Time, he had become— If 'tisn't civil to say old, At least, a ci-devant jeune homme;

One evening, on some wild pursuit Driving along, he chanced to see Religion, passing by on foot, And took him in his vis-a-vis.

This said Religion was a Friar, The humblest and the best of men, Who ne'er had notion or desire Of riding in a coach till then.

"I say"—quoth Royalty, who rather Enjoyed a masquerading joke— "I say, suppose, my good old father, "You lend me for a while your cloak."

The Friar consented—little knew What tricks the youth had in his head; Besides, was rather tempted too By a laced coat he got instead.

Away ran Royalty, slap-dash, Scampering like mad about the town; Broke windows, shivered lamps to smash, And knockt whole scores of watchmen down.

While naught could they, whose heads were broke, Learn of the "why" or the "wherefore," Except that 'twas Religion's cloak The gentleman, who crackt them, wore,

Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turned By the laced coat, grew frisky too; Lookt big—his former habits spurned— And stormed about, as great men do:

Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses— Said "Damn you" often, or as bad— Laid claim to other people's purses— In short, grew either knaves or mad.

As work like this was unbefitting, And flesh and blood no longer bore it, The Court of Common Sense, then sitting, Summoned the culprits both before it.

Where, after hours in wrangling spent (As Courts must wrangle to decide well). Religion to St. Luke's was sent, And Royalty packt off to Bridewell.

With this proviso—should they be Restored, in due time, to their senses, They both must give security, In future, against such offences— Religion ne'er to lend his cloak, Seeing what dreadful work it leads to; And Royalty to crack his joke,— But not to crack poor people's heads too.

[1] The salamander is supposed to have the power of extinguishing fire by its natural coldness and moisture.

[2] A well-known publisher of irreligious books.

[3] "The greatest number of the ichneumon tribe are seen settling upon the back of the caterpillar, and darting at different intervals their stings into its body—at every dart they deposit an egg"—GOLDSMITH.



FABLE VI.

THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA.

PROEM.

Novella, a young Bolognese, The daughter of a learned Law Doctor,[1] Who had with all the subtleties Of old and modern jurists stockt her, Was so exceeding fair, 'tis said, And over hearts held such dominion, That when her father, sick in bed, Or busy, sent her, in his stead, To lecture on the Code Justinian, She had a curtain drawn before her, Lest, if her charms were seen, the students Should let their young eyes wander o'er her, And quite forget their jurisprudence. Just so it is with Truth, when seen, Too dazzling far,—'tis from behind A light, thin allegoric screen, She thus can safest leach mankind.

FABLE.

In Thibet once there reigned, we're told, A little Lama, one year old— Raised to the throne, that realm to bless, Just when his little Holiness Had cut—as near as can be reckoned— Some say his first tooth, some his second. Chronologers and Nurses vary, Which proves historians should be wary. We only know the important truth, His Majesty had cut a tooth. And much his subjects were enchanted,— As well all Lamas' subjects may be, And would have given their heads, if wanted, To make tee-totums for the baby. Throned as he was by Right Divine— (What Lawyers call Jure Divino, Meaning a right to yours and mine And everybody's goods and rhino.) Of course, his faithful subjects' purses Were ready with their aids and succors; Nothing was seen but pensioned Nurses; And the land groaned with bibs and tuckers.

Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet, Then sitting in the Thibet Senate, Ye Gods! what room for long debates Upon the Nursery Estimates! What cutting down of swaddling-clothes And pinafores, in nightly battles! What calls for papers to expose The waste of sugar-plums and rattles! But no—if Thibet had M.P.s, They were far better bred than these; Nor gave the slightest opposition, During the Monarch's whole dentition.

But short this calm;—for, just when he, Had reached the alarming age of three, When Royal natures and no doubt Those of all noble beasts break out— The Lama, who till then was quiet, Showed symptoms of a taste for riot; And, ripe for mischief, early, late, Without regard for Church or State, Made free with whosoe'er came nigh; Tweakt the Lord Chancellor by the nose, Turned all the Judges' wigs awry, And trod on the old Generals' toes; Pelted the Bishops with hot buns, Rode cock-horse on the City maces, And shot from little devilish guns, Hard peas into the subjects' faces. In short, such wicked pranks he played, And' grew so mischievous, God bless him! That his Chief Nurse—with even the aid Of an Archbishop—was afraid. When in these moods, to comb or dress him. Nay, even the persons most inclined Thro' thick and thin, for Kings to stickle, Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind; Which they did not) an odious pickle.

At length some patriot lords—a breed Of animals they've got in Thibet, Extremely rare and fit indeed For folks like Pidcock, to exhibit— Some patriot lords, who saw the length To which things went, combined their strength, And penned a manly, plain and free, Remonstrance to the Nursery; Protesting warmly that they yielded To none that ever went before 'em, In loyalty to him who wielded The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em; That, as for treason, 'twas a thing That made them almost sick to think of— That they and theirs stood by the King, Throughout his measles and his chincough, When others, thinking him consumptive, Had ratted to the Heir Presumptive!— But, still—tho' much admiring Kings (And chiefly those in leading-strings), They saw, with shame and grief of soul, There was no longer now the wise And constitutional control Of birch before their ruler's eyes; But that of late such pranks and tricks And freaks occurred the whole day long, As all but men with bishoprics Allowed, in even a King, were wrong. Wherefore it was they humbly prayed That Honorable Nursery, That such reforms be henceforth made, As all good men desired to see;— In other words (lest they might seem Too tedious), as the gentlest scheme For putting all such pranks to rest, And in its bud the mischief nipping— They ventured humbly to suggest His Majesty should have a whipping!

When this was read, no Congreve rocket, Discharged into the Gallic trenches E'er equalled the tremendous shock it Produced upon the Nursery benches. The Bishops, who of course had votes, By right of age and petticoats, Were first and foremost in the fuss— "What, whip a Lama! suffer birch "To touch his sacred—infamous! "Deistical!—assailing thus "The fundamentals of the Church!— "No—no—such patriot plans as these, "(So help them Heaven—and their Sees!) "They held to be rank blasphemies."

The alarm thus given, by these and other Grave ladies of the Nursery side, Spread thro' the land, till, such a pother, Such party squabbles, far and wide, Never in history's page had been Recorded, as were then between The Whippers and Non-whippers seen. Till, things arriving at a state, Which gave some fears of revolution, The patriot lords' advice, tho' late, Was put at last in execution. The Parliament of Thibet met— The little Lama, called before it, Did, then and there, his whipping get, And (as the Nursery Gazette Assures us) like a hero bore it.

And tho', 'mong Thibet Tories, some Lament that Royal Martyrdom (Please to observe, the letter D In this last word's pronounced like B), Yet to the example of that Prince So much is Thibet's land a debtor, That her long line of Lamas, since, Have all behaved themselves much better.

[1] Andreas.



FABLE VII.

THE EXTINGUISHERS.

PROEM.

Tho' soldiers are the true supports, The natural allies of Courts, Woe to the Monarch, who depends Too much on his red-coated friends; For even soldiers sometimes think— Nay, Colonels have been known to reason,—

And reasoners, whether clad in pink Or red or blue, are on the brink (Nine cases out of ten) of treason

Not many soldiers, I believe, are As fond of liberty as Mina; Else—woe to Kings! when Freedom's fever Once turns into a Scarletina! For then—but hold—'tis best to veil My meaning in the following tale:—

FABLE.

A Lord of Persia, rich and great, Just come into a large estate, Was shockt to find he had, for neighbors, Close to his gate, some rascal Ghebers, Whose fires, beneath his very nose, In heretic combustion rose. But Lords of Persia can, no doubt, Do what they will—so, one fine morning, He turned the rascal Ghebers out, First giving a few kicks for warning. Then, thanking Heaven most piously, He knockt their Temple to the ground, Blessing himself for joy to see Such Pagan ruins strewed around. But much it vext my Lord to find, That, while all else obeyed his will, The Fire these Ghebers left behind, Do what he would, kept burning still. Fiercely he stormed, as if his frown Could scare the bright insurgent down; But, no—such fires are headstrong things, And care not much for Lords or Kings. Scarce could his Lordship well contrive The flashes in one place to smother, Before—hey presto!—all alive, They sprung up freshly in another.

At length when, spite of prayers and damns, 'Twas found the sturdy flame defied him, His stewards came, with low salams, Offering, by contract, to provide him Some large Extinguishers, (a plan, Much used, they said, at Ispahan, Vienna, Petersburg—in short, Wherever Light's forbid at court), Machines no Lord should be without, Which would at once put promptly out All kinds of fires,—from staring, stark Volcanoes to the tiniest spark; Till all things slept as dull and dark, As in a great Lord's neighborhood 'Twas right and fitting all things should.

Accordingly, some large supplies Of these Extinguishers were furnisht (All of the true Imperial size), And there, in rows, stood black and burnisht, Ready, where'er a gleam but shone Of light or fire, to be clapt on.

But ah! how lordly wisdom errs, In trusting to extinguishers! One day, when he had left all sure, (At least, so thought he) dark, secure— The flame, at all its exits, entries, Obstructed to his heart's content, And black extinguishers, like sentries, Placed over every dangerous vent— Ye Gods, imagine his amaze, His wrath, his rage, when, on returning, He found not only the old blaze, Brisk as before, crackling and burning,— Not only new, young conflagrations, Popping up round in various stations— But still more awful, strange and dire, The Extinguishers themselves on fire!![1] They, they—those trusty, blind machines His Lordship had so long been praising, As, under Providence, the means Of keeping down all lawless blazing, Were now, themselves—alas, too true, The shameful fact—turned blazers too, And by a change as odd as cruel Instead of dampers, served for fuel! Thus, of his only hope bereft, "What," said the great man, "must be done?"— All that, in scrapes like this, is left To great men is—to cut and run. So run he did; while to their grounds, The banisht Ghebers blest returned; And, tho' their Fire had broke its bounds, And all abroad now wildly burned, Yet well could they, who loved the flame, Its wandering, its excess reclaim; And soon another, fairer Dome Arose to be its sacred home, Where, cherisht, guarded, not confined, The living glory dwelt inshrined, And, shedding lustre strong, but even, Tho' born of earth, grew worthy heaven.

MORAL.

The moral hence my Muse infers Is, that such Lords are simple elves, In trusting to Extinguishers, That are combustible themselves.

[1] The idea of this Fable was caught from one of those brilliant mots, which abound in the conversation of my friend, the author of the "Letters to Julia,"—a production which contains some of the happiest specimens of playful poetry that have appeared in this or any age.



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 Ane!"[1]— Naught wanting, but some coup dramatic, To make French sentiment explode, Bring in, at once, the gout fanatic, And make the war "la derniere 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 eclat) 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 Coryphee 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 Pyrenees, "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 Ane, eh, eh, eh. Sire Ane."— 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 propria persona, 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, A la braise, petits pates, and—what d' ye call that They inflict on potatoes?—oh! maitre d'hotel— 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 dejeuner a 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 dejeuner'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 debut 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 Desire 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 shouldn't 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.

Hotel 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. Honore![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 VERY'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 Cafe Hardy, which yet Beats the field at a dejeuner 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 pate 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.—Very, 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—a 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 a la Psyche and curls a la braise.— But in short, dear, I'm trickt out quite a 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 doesn't 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 Theatre 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 Theatre de la Gaiete 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 Begrand, 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.



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 don't as yet full salary touch, Nor keep their chaise and pair, nor buy Houses and lands, like TOM and I, Of course don't 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 eclat 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 cafes 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 pates? 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 Perpetuelle 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 pates, as ever could cozen One out of one's appetite, down by the dozen. We vary, of course—petits pates 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 a 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 moelleux 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 systeme "Sur l'equilibre 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 ca—par-la—la-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!