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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?