FullReads

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!”