The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 258

[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 ma.s.sacre of Warsaw, ordered a solemn "thanksgiving to G.o.d 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 G.o.d, and his terrible judgment, kissing the holy word and cross of their Saviour!"

LETTER VIII.

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

Dear d.i.c.k, 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, "d.a.m.n 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 paG.o.das, Its founts and old Counts sipping beer in the sun: With its houses of all architectures you please, From the Grecian and Gothic, d.i.c.k, 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, d.i.c.k, 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, d.i.c.k, arm in arm as we chattering stray, And receive a few civil "G.o.ddems" 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, d.i.c.k, 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, d.a.m.n 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, d.i.c.k, 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, d.i.c.k, in spite of them cries of "G.o.d-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 G.o.ds 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 appet.i.te, d.i.c.k.) To the _Pa.s.sage 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 appet.i.te, down by the dozen.

We vary, of course--_pet.i.ts 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, d.i.c.k--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, d.i.c.k, are the cla.s.sical 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 Ma.s.sINOT'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, d.i.c.k--here goes for the task; _Au revoir_, my old boy--of the G.o.ds 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 s.h.i.+p 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 const.i.tution."

[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 Lords.h.i.+p 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!"