FullReads

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!