The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 254

THOMAS BROWN THE YOUNGER.

THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS

LETTER I.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ----, OF CLONKILTY, IN IRELAND.

Amiens.

Dear DOLL, while the tails of our horses are plaiting, The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door, Into very bad French is as usual translating His English resolve not to give a _sou_ more, I sit down to write you a line--only think!-- A letter from France, with French pens and French ink, How delightful! tho', would you believe it, my dear?

I have seen nothing yet _very_ wonderful here; No adventure, no sentiment, far as we've come, But the cornfields and trees quite as dull as at home; And _but_ for the post-boy, his boots and his queue, I might _just_ as well be at Clonkilty with you!

In vain, at DESSEIN'S, did I take from my trunk That divine fellow, STERNE, and fall reading "The Monk;"

In vain did I think of his charming Dead a.s.s, And remember the crust and the wallet--alas!

No monks can be had now for love or for money, (All owing, Pa says, to that infidel BONEY;) And, tho' _one_ little Neddy we saw in our drive Out of cla.s.sical Nampont, the beast was alive!

By the by, tho' at Calais, Papa _had_ a touch Of romance on the pier, which affected me much.

At the sight of that spot, where our darling DIXHUIT Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet,[1]

(Modelled out so exactly, and--G.o.d bless the mark!

'Tis a foot, DOLLY, worthy so _Grand a Monarque_).

He exclaimed, "_Oh, mon Roi_!" and, with tear-dropping eye, Stood to gaze on the spot--while some Jacobin, nigh, Muttered out with a shrug (what an insolent thing!) "_Ma foi_, he be right--'tis de Englishman's King; And dat _gros pied de cochon_--begar me vil say Dat de foot look mosh better, if turned toder way."

There's the pillar, too--Lord! I had nearly forgot-- What a charming idea!--raised close to the spot; The mode being now, (as you've heard, I suppose,) To build tombs over legs and raise pillars to toes.

This is all that's occurred sentimental as yet; Except indeed some little flower-nymphs we've met, Who disturb one's romance with pecuniary views, Flinging flowers in your path, and then--bawling for _sous_!

And some picturesque beggars, whose mult.i.tudes seem To recall the good days of the _ancien regime_, All as ragged and brisk, you'll be happy to learn, And as thin as they were in the time of poor STERNE.

Our party consists (in a neat Calais job) Of Papa and myself, Mr. CONNOR and BOB.

You remember how sheepish BOB lookt at Kilrandy, But, Lord! he's quite altered--they've made him a Dandy; A thing, you know, whiskered, great-coated, and laced, Like an hour-gla.s.s, exceedingly small in the waist; Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scholars, With beads so immovably stuck in s.h.i.+rt-collars, That seats, like our music-stools, soon must be found them, To twirl, when the creatures may wish, to look round them, In short, dear, "a Dandy" describes what I mean, And BOB's far the best of the _genus_ I've seen: An improving young man, fond of learning, ambitious, And goes now to Paris to study French dishes.

Whose names--think, how quick! he already knows pat, _a la braise, pet.i.ts pates_, and--what d' ye call that They inflict on potatoes?--oh! _maitre d'hotel_-- I a.s.sure you, dear DOLLY, he knows them as well As if nothing else all his life he had eat, Tho' a bit of them BOBBY has never touched yet; But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks, As dear Pa knows the t.i.tles of authors and books.

As to Pa, what d' ye think?--mind, it's all _entre nous_, But you know, love, I never keep secrets from you-- Why, he's writing a book--what! a tale? a romance?

No, we G.o.ds, would it were!--but his travels in France; At the special desire (he let out t'other day) Of his great friend and patron, my Lord CASTLEREAGH, Who said, "My dear FUDGE"--I forget the exact words, And, it's strange, no one ever remembers my Lord's; But 'twas something to say that, as all must allow A good orthodox work is much wanting just now, To expound to the world the new--thingummie--science, Found out by the--what's-its-name--Holy Alliance, And prove to mankind that their rights are but folly, Their freedom a joke (which it _is_, you know, DOLLY), "There's none," said his Lords.h.i.+p, "if _I_ may be judge, Half so fit for this great undertaking as FUDGE!"

The matter's soon, settled--Pa flies to _the Row_ (The _first_ stage your tourists now usually go), Settles all for his quarto--advertis.e.m.e.nts, praises-- Starts post from the door, with his tablets--French phrases-- "SCOTT'S Visit" of course--in short, everything _he_ has An author can want, except words and ideas:-- And, lo! the first thing, in the spring of the year, Is PHIL. FUDGE at the front of a Quarto, my dear!

But, bless me, my paper's near out, so I'd better Draw fast to a close:--this exceeding long letter You owe to a _dejeuner a la fourchette_, Which BOBBY _would_ have, and is hard at it yet.-- What's next? oh? the tutor, the last of the party, Young CONNOR:--they say he's so like BONAPARTE, His nose and his chin--which Papa rather dreads, As the Bourbons, you know, are suppressing all heads That resemble old NAP'S, and who knows but their honors May think, in their fright, of suppressing poor CONNOR'S?

_Au reste_ (as we say), the young lad's well enough, Only talks much of Athens, Rome, virtue and stuff; A third cousin of ours, by the way--poor as Job (Tho' of royal descent by the side of Mamma), And for charity made private tutor to BOB; _Entre nous_, too, a Papist--how liberal of Pa!

This is all, dear,--forgive me for breaking off thus, But BOB'S _dejeuner_'s done, and Papa's in a fuss.

B. F.

P. S.

How provoking of Pa! he will not let me stop Just to run in and rummage some milliner's shop; And my _debut_ in Paris, I blush to think on it, Must now, DOLL, be made in a hideous low bonnet.

But Paris, dear Paris!--oh, _there_ will be joy, And romance, and high bonnets, and Madame Le Roi![2]

[1] To commemorate the landing of Louis le Desire from England, the impression of his foot is marked out on the pier at Calais, and a pillar with an inscription raised opposite to the spot.

[2] A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris.

LETTER II.

FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE LORD VISCOUNT CASTLEREAGH.

Paris.

At length, my Lord, I have the bliss To date to you a line from this "Demoralized" metropolis; Where, by plebeians low and scurvy, The throne was turned quite topsy-turvy, And Kings.h.i.+p, tumbled from its seat, "Stood prostrate" at the people's feet; Where (still to use your Lords.h.i.+p's tropes) The _level_ of obedience _slopes_ Upward and downward, as the _stream_ Of _hydra_ faction _kicks the beam_![1]

Where the poor Palace changes masters Quicker than a snake its skin, And LOUIS is rolled out on castors, While BONEY'S borne on shoulders in:-- But where, in every change, no doubt, One special good your Lords.h.i.+p traces,-- That 'tis the _Kings_ alone turn out, The _Ministers_ still keep their places.

How oft, dear Viscount CASTLEREAGH, I've thought of thee upon the way, As in my _job_ (what place could be More apt to wake a thought of thee?)-- Or, oftener far, when gravely sitting Upon my d.i.c.ky, (as is fitting For him who writes a Tour, that he May more of men and manners see.) I've thought of thee and of thy glories, Thou guest of Kings and King of Tories!

Reflecting how thy fame has grown And spread, beyond man's usual share, At home, abroad, till thou art known, Like Major SEMPLE, everywhere!

And marvelling with what powers of breath Your Lords.h.i.+p, having speeched to death Some hundreds of your fellow-men, Next speeched to Sovereign's ears,--and when All Sovereigns else were dozed, at last Speeched down the Sovereign of Belfast.

Oh! mid the praises and the trophies Thou gain'st from Morosophs and Sophis; Mid all the tributes to thy fame, There's one thou shouldst be chiefly pleased at-- That Ireland gives her snuff thy name, And CASTLEREAGH'S the thing now sneezed at!

But hold, my pen!--a truce to praising-- Tho' even your Lords.h.i.+p will allow The theme's temptations are amazing; But time and ink run short, and now, (As _thou_ wouldst say, my guide and teacher In these gay metaphorie fringes, I must _embark_ into the _feature_ On which this letter chiefly _hinges_;) My Book, the Book that is to prove-- And _will_, (so help ye Sprites above, That sit on clouds, as grave as judges, Watching the labors of the FUDGES!) _Will_ prove that all the world, at present, Is in a state extremely pleasant; That Europe--thanks to royal swords And bayonets, and the Duke commanding-- Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord's, Pa.s.seth all human understanding: That France prefers her go-cart King To such a coward scamp as BONEY; Tho' round, with each a leading-string.

There standeth many a Royal crony, For fear the chubby, tottering thing Should fall, if left there _loney-poney_;-- That England, too, the more her debts, The more she spends, the richer gets; And that the Irish, grateful nation!

Remember when by _thee_ reigned over, And bless thee for their flagellation, As HELOISA did her lover![2]-- That Poland, left for Russia's lunch Upon the sideboard, snug reposes: While Saxony's as pleased as Punch, And Norway "on a bed of roses!"

That, as for some few million souls, Transferred by contract, bless the clods!

If half were strangled--Spaniards, Poles, And Frenchmen--'twouldn't make much odds, So Europe's goodly Royal ones Sit easy on their sacred thrones; So FERDINAND embroiders gayly,[3]

And Louis eats his _salmi_ daily; So time is left to Emperor SANDY To be _half_ Caesar and _half_ Dandy; And GEORGE the REGENT (who'd forget That doughtiest chieftain of the set?) Hath wherewithal for trinkets new, For dragons, after Chinese models, And chambers where Duke Ho and Soo Might come and nine times knock their noddles!-- All this my Quarto'll prove--much more Than Quarto ever proved before:-- In reasoning with the _Post_ I'll vie, My facts the _Courier_ shall supply, My jokes VANSITTART, PEELE my sense, And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence!

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!