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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!