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 _moëlleux_ 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 systême "Sur _l'équilibre_ 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 ça--par-là--là-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!

While to his case a tear I dropt, And sauntered home, thought I--ye Gods! How many heads might thus be swopt, And, after all, not make much odds! For instance, there's VANSITTART'S head-- ("Tam _carum_" it may well be said) If by some curious chance it came To settle on BILL SOAMES'S[3] shoulders, The effect would turn out much the same On all respectable cash-holders; Except that while, in its _new_ socket, The head was planning schemes to win A _zig-zag_ way into one's pocket, The hands would plunge directly in.

Good Viscount SIDMOUTH, too, instead Of his own grave, respected head, Might wear (for aught I see that bars) Old Lady WILHELMINA FRUMP'S-- So while the hand signed _Circulars_, The head might lisp out "What is trumps?"-- The REGENT'S brains could we transfer To some robust man-milliner, The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbon Would go, I doubt not, quite as glib on; And, _vice versa_, take the pains To give the PRINCE the shopman's brains, One only change from thence would flow, _Ribbons_ would not be wasted so.

'Twas thus I pondered on, my Lord; And, even at night, when laid in bed, I found myself, before I snored, Thus chopping, swopping head for head. At length I thought, fantastic elf! How such a change would suit _myself_. 'Twixt sleep and waking, one by one, With various pericraniums saddled, At last I tried your Lordship's on, And then I grew completely addled-- Forgot all other heads, od rot 'em! And slept, and dreamt that I was--BOTTOM.

_August 21_.

Walked out with daughter BID--was shown The House of Commons and the Throne, Whose velvet cushion's just the same NAPOLEON sat on--what a shame! Oh! can we wonder, best of speechers, When LOUIS seated thus we see, That France's "fundamental features" Are much the same they used to be? However,--God preserve the Throne, And _cushion_ too--and keep them free; From accidents, which _have_ been known To happen even to Royalty![4]

_August 28_.

Read, at a stall (for oft one pops On something at these stalls and shops, That does to _quote_ and gives one's Book A classical and knowing look.-- Indeed, I've found, in Latin, lately, A course of stalls improves me greatly)-- 'Twas thus I read that in the East A monarch's _fat_'s a serious matter; And once in every year, at least, He's weighed--to see if he gets fatter:[5] Then, if a pound or two he be Increased, there's quite a jubilee![6] Suppose, my Lord--and far from me To treat such things with levity-- But just suppose the Regent's weight Were made thus an affair of state; And, every sessions, at the close,-- 'Stead of a speech, which, all can see, is Heavy and dull enough, God knows-- We were to try how heavy _he_ is. Much would it glad all hearts to hear-- That, while the Nation's Revenue Loses so many pounds a year, The PRINCE, God bless him! _gains_ a few. With bales of muslin, chintzes, spices, I see the Easterns weigh their Kings;-- But, for the REGENT, my advice is, We should throw in much _heavier_ things: For instance-----'s quarto volumes, Which, tho' not spices, serve to wrap them; _Dominie_ STODDART'S Daily columns, "Prodigious!"--in, of course, we'd clap them-- Letters, that CARTWRIGHT'S[7] pen indites, In which, with logical confusion, The _Major_ like a _Minor_ writes, And never comes to a _Conclusion_:-- Lord SOMERS'S pamphlet--or his head-- (Ah! _that_ were worth its weight in lead!) Along with which we _in_ may whip, sly, The Speeches of Sir JOHN COX HIPPISLY; That Baronet of many words, Who loves so, in the House of Lords, To whisper Bishops--and so nigh Unto their wigs in whispering goes, That you may always know him by A patch of powder on his nose!-- If this won’t do, we in must cram The "Reasons" of Lord BUCKINGHAM; (A Book his Lordship means to write, Entitled "Reasons for my Ratting":) Or, should these prove too small and light, His rump's a host--we'll bundle _that_ in! And, _still_ should all these masses fail To stir the REGENT'S pondrous scale, Why, then, my Lord, in heaven's name, Pitch in, without reserve or stint, The whole of RAGLEY'S beauteous Dame-- If _that_ won’t raise him, devil's in it!

_August 31_.

Consulted MURPHY'S TACITUS About those famous spies at Rome,[8] Whom certain Whigs--to make a fuss-- Describe as much resembling us, Informing gentlemen, at home. But, bless the fools, they _can't_ be serious, To say Lord SIDMOUTH'S like TIBERIUS! What! _he_, the Peer, that injures no man, Like that severe, blood-thirsty Roman!-- 'Tis true, the Tyrant lent an ear to All sorts of spies--so doth the Peer, too. 'Tis true, my Lord's elect tell fibs, And deal in perjury--_ditto_ TIB's. 'Tis true, the Tyrant screened and hid His rogues from justice--_ditto_ SID. 'Tis true the Peer is grave and glib At moral speeches--_ditto_ TIB. 'Tis true the feats the Tyrant did Were in his dotage--_ditto_ SID.

So far, I own, the parallel 'Twixt TIB and SIB goes vastly well; But there are points in TIB that strike My humble mind as much more like _Yourself_, my dearest Lord, or him, Of the India Board--that soul of whim! Like him, TIBERIUS loved his joke, On matters, too, where few can bear one; _E. g._ a man cut up, or broke Upon the wheel--a devilish fair one! Your common fractures, wounds and fits, Are nothing to such wholesale wits; But, let the sufferer gasp for life, The joke is then, worth any money; And, if he writhe beneath a knife,-- Oh dear, that's something _quite_ too funny. In this respect, my Lord, you see The Roman wag and ours agree: Now as to _your_ resemblance--mum-- This parallel we need not follow: Tho' 'tis, in Ireland, said by some Your Lordship beats TIBERIUS hollow; Whips, chains--but these are things too serious For me to mention or discuss; Whene'er your Lordship acts TIBERIUS, PHIL. FUDGE'S part is _Tacitus_!

_September 2_.

Was thinking, had Lord SIDMOUTH got Any good decent sort of Plot Against the winter-time--if not, Alas, alas, our ruin's fated; All done up and _spiflicated_! Ministers and all their vassals, Down from CASTLEREAGH to CASTLES,-- Unless we can kick up a riot, Ne'er can hope for peace or quiet! What's to be done?--Spa-Fields was clever; But even _that_ brought gibes and mockings Upon our heads--so, _mem._--must never Keep ammunition in old stockings; For fear some wag should in his curst head Take it to say our force was _worsted. Mem._ too--when SID an army raises, It must not be "_incog._" like _Bayes's_: Nor must the General be a hobbling Professor of the art of cobbling; Lest men, who perpetrate such puns, Should say, with Jacobinic grin, He felt, from _soleing Wellingtons_,[9] A _Wellington's_ great _soul_ within! Nor must an old Apothecary Go take the Tower, for lack of pence, With (what these wags would call, so merry,) _Physical_ force and _phial_-ence! No--no--our Plot, my Lord, must be Next time contrived more skilfully. John Bull, I grieve to say, is growing So troublesomely sharp and knowing, So wise--in short, so Jacobin-- 'Tis monstrous hard to _take him in_.

_September 6_.

Heard of the fate of our Ambassador In China, and was sorely nettled; But think, my Lord, we should not pass it o'er Till all this matter's fairly settled; And here's the mode occurs to _me_:-- As none of our Nobility, Tho' for their _own_ most gracious King (They would kiss hands, or--anything), Can be persuaded to go thro' This farce-like trick of the _Ko-tou_; And as these Mandarins _won't_ bend, Without some mumming exhibition, Suppose, my Lord, you were to send GRIMALDI to them on a mission: As _Legate_, JOE could play his part, And if, in diplomatic art, The "_volto sciolto_"'s meritorius,[10] Let JOE but grin, he has it, glorious!

A _title_ for him's easily made; And, by the by, one Christmas time, If I remember right, he played Lord MORLEY in some pantomime:--[1] As Earl of Morley then gazette him, If _t'other_ Earl of MORLEY'll let him, (And why should not the world be blest "With _two_ such stars, for East and West?) Then, when before the Yellow Screen He's brought--and, sure, the very essence Of etiquette would be that scene Of JOE in the Celestial Presence!--

He thus should say:--"Duke Ho and Soo, "I'll play what tricks you please for you, "If you'll, in turn, but do for me "A few small tricks you now shall see. "If I consult _your_ Emperor's liking, "At least you'll do the same for _my_ King."

He then should give them nine such grins, As would astound even Mandarins; And throw such somersets before The picture of King GEORGE (God bless him!) As, should Duke Ho but try them o'er, Would, by CONFUCIUS, _much_ distress him!

I start this merely as a hint, But think you'll find some wisdom in't; And, should you follow up the job, My son, my Lord (you _know_ poor BOB), Would in the suite be glad to go And help his Excellency, JOE:-- At least, like noble AMHERST'S son, The lad will do to _practise_ on.

[1] The celebrated letter to Prince Hardenburgh (written, however, I believe, originally in English) in which his Lordship, professing to see "no moral or political objection" to the dismemberment of Saxony, denounced the unfortunate King as "not only the most devoted, but the most favored, of Bonaparte's vassals".

[2] This extraordinary madman is, I believe, in the Bicêtre. He imagines, exactly as Mr. Fudge states it, that when the heads of those who had been guillotined were restored, he by mistake got some other person's instead of his own.

[3] A celebrated pickpocket.

[4] I am afraid that Mr. Fudge alludes here to a very awkward accident, which is well known to have happened to poor Louis le Désiré, some years since, at one of the Regent's Fêtes. He was sitting next our gracious Queen at the time.

[5] "The third day of the Feast the King causeth himself to be weighed with great care,"--_F. Bernier's "Voyage to Surat," etc_.

[6] "I remember," says Bernier, "that all the Omrahs expressed great joy that the King weighed two pounds more now than the year preceding."-- Another author tells us that "Fatness, as well as a very large head, is considered, throughout India, as one of the most precious gifts of heaven." An enormous skull is absolutely revered, and the happy owner is looked up to as a superior being. To a _Prince_ a joulter head is invaluable."--_Oriental Field Sports_.

[7] Major Cartwright.

[8] The name of the first worthy who set up the trade of informer at Rome (to whom our Olivers and Castleses ought to erect a statue) was Romanus Hispo.

[9] Short boots so called.

[10] The _open countenance_, recommended by Lord Chesterfield.

[11] Mr. Fudge is a little mistaken here. It was _not_ Grimaldi, but some very inferior performer, who played this part of "Lord Morley" in the Pantomime,--so much to the horror of the distinguished Earl of that name.

LETTER X.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ----.

Well, it _isn't_ the King, after all, my dear creature! But _don't_ you go laugh, now--there's nothing to quiz in't-- For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature, He _might_ be a King, DOLL, tho', hang him, he isn't. At first, I felt hurt, for I wisht it, I own, If for no other cause but to vex Miss MALONE,-- (The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here, Showing off with _such_ airs, and a real Cashmere, While mine's but a paltry, old rabbit-skin, dear!) But Pa says, on deeply considering the thing, "I am just as well pleased it should _not_ be the King; "As I think for my BIDDY, so _gentille_ and _jolie_. "Whose charms may their price in an _honest_ way fetch, "That a Brandenburgh"--(what _is_ a Brandenburgh, DOLLY?)-- "Would be, after all, no such very great catch. "If the REGENT indeed"--added he, looking sly-- (You remember that comical squint of his eye) But I stopt him with "La, Pa, how _can_ you say so, "When the REGENT loves none but old women, you know!" Which is fact, my dear DOLLY--we, girls of eighteen, And so slim--Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen: And would like us much better as old-as, as old As that Countess of DESMOND, of whom I've been told That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten, And was killed by a fall from a cherry-tree then! What a frisky old girl! but--to come to my lover, Who, tho' not a King, is a _hero_ I'll swear,-- You shall hear all that's happened, just briefly run over, Since that happy night, when we whiskt thro' the air!

Let me see--'twas on Saturday--yes, DOLLY, yes-- From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss; When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage, Whose journey, BOB says, is so like Love and Marriage, "Beginning gay, desperate, dashing, down-hilly, "And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!"[1] Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night thro'; And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you, With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet, I set out with Papa, to see Louis DIX-HUIT Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys, Who get up a small concert of shrill _Vive le Rois_- And how vastly genteeler, my dear, even this is, Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses! The gardens seemed full--so, of Course, we walkt o'er 'em, 'Mong orange-trees, clipt into town-bred decorum, And daphnes and vases and many a statue There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you! The ponds, too, we viewed--stood awhile on the brink To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes-- "_Live bullion_," says merciless BOB, "which, I think, "Would, if _coined_, with a little _mint_ sauce, be delicious!"

But _what_, DOLLY, what, is the gay orange-grove, Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love? In vain did I wildly explore every chair Where a thing _like_ a man was--no lover sat there! In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast At the whiskers, mustachios and wigs that went past, To obtain if I could but a glance at that curl,-- A glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl, As the lock that, Pa says,[2]is to Mussulman given, For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!" Alas, there went by me full many a quiz, And mustachios in plenty, but nothing like his! Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day,"-- Thought of the words of TOM MOORE'S Irish Melody, Something about the "green spot of delight" (Which, you know, Captain MACKINTOSH sung to us one day): Ah DOLLY, _my_ "spot" was that Saturday night, And its verdure, how fleeting, had withered by Sunday! We dined at a tavern--La, what do I say?

If BOB was to know!--a _Restaurateur's_, dear; Where your _properest_ ladies go dine every day, And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer. Fine BOB (for he's really grown _super_-fine) Condescended for once to make one of the party; Of course, tho' but three, we had dinner for nine, And in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty. Indeed, DOLL, I know not how 'tis, but, in grief, I have always found eating a wondrous relief; And BOB, who's in love, said he felt the same, _quite_-- "My sighs," said he, "ceased with the first glass I drank you; "The _lamb_ made me tranquil, the _puffs_ made me light, "And--now that all's o'er--why, I'm--pretty well, thank you!"

To _my_ great annoyance, we sat rather late; For BOBBY and Pa had a furious debate About singing and cookery--BOBBY, of course, Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force; And Pa saying, "God only knows which is worst, "The French Singers or Cooks, but I wish us well over it-- "What with old LAÏ'S and VÉRY, I'm curst "If _my_ head or my stomach will ever recover it!"

'Twas dark when we got to the Boulevards to stroll, And in vain did I look 'mong the street Macaronis, When, sudden it struck me--last hope of my soul-- That some angel might take the dear man to TORTONI'S![3] We entered--and, scarcely had BOB, with an air, For a _grappe à la jardinière_ called to the waiters, When, oh DOLL! I saw him--my hero was there (For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters), A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him,[4] And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him! Oh! DOLLY, these heroes--what creatures they are; In the _boudoir_ the same as in fields full of slaughter! As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car, As when safe at TORTONI'S, o'er iced currant water! He joined us--imagine, dear creature, my ecstasy-- Joined by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see! BOB wished to treat him with Punch _à la glace_, But the sweet fellow swore that my _beaute_, my _grâce_, And my _ja-ne-sais-quoi_ (then his whiskers he twirled) Were to him, "on de top of all Ponch in de vorld."-- How pretty!--tho' oft (as of course it must be) Both his French and his English are Greek, DOLL, to me. But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did; And happier still, when 'twas fixt, ere we parted, That, if the next day should be _pastoral_ weather. We all would set off, in French buggies, _together_, To see _Montmorency_--that place which, you know, Is so famous for cherries and JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. His card then he gave us--the _name_, rather creased-- But 'twas CALICOT--something--a Colonel, at least!

After which--sure there never was hero so civil--he Saw us safe home to our door in _Rue Rivoli_, Where his _last_ words, as, at parting, he threw A soft look o'er his shoulders, were--"How do you do!" But, lord!--there's Papa for the post--I'm so vext-- _Montmorency_ must now, love, be kept for my next. That dear Sunday night--I was charmingly drest, And--_so_ providential!--was looking my best; Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce--and my frills, You've no notion how rich--(tho' Pa has by the bills) And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near, Colonel CALICOT eyeing the cambric, my dear. Then the flowers in my bonnet--but, la! it's in vain-- So, good-by, my sweet DOLL--I shall soon write again.

B. F.

_Nota bene_--our love to all neighbors about-- Your Papa in particular--how is his gout?

P.S.--I've just opened my letter to say, In your next you must tell me, (now _do_, DOLLY, pray, For I hate to ask BOB, he's so ready to quiz,) What sort of a thing, dear, a _Brandenburgh_ is.

[1] The cars, on return, are dragged up slowly by a chain.

[2] For this scrap of knowledge "Pa" was, I suspect, indebted to a note upon Volney's "Ruins:"

"It is by this tuft of hair (on the crown of the head), worn by the majority of Mussulmans, that the Angel of the Tomb is to take the elect and carry them to Paradise."

[3] A fashionable _café glacier_ on the Italian Boulevards.

[4] "You eat your ice at Tortoni's," says Mr. Scott, "under a Grecian group."

LETTER XI.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO ----.

Yes, 'twas a cause, as noble and as great As ever hero died to vindicate-- A Nation's right to speak a Nation's voice, And own no power but of the Nation's choice! Such was the grand, the glorious cause that now Hung trembling on NAPOLEON'S single brow; Such the sublime arbitrament, that poured, In patriot eyes, a light around his sword, A hallowing light, which never, since the day Of his young victories, had illumed its way!

Oh 'twas not then the time for tame debates, Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates; When he, who late had fled your Chieftain's eye. As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly,[1] Denounced against the land, that spurned his chain, Myriads of swords to bind it fast again-- Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track Thro' your best blood his path of vengeance back; When Europe's Kings, that never yet combined But (like those upper Stars, that, when conjoined, Shed war and pestilence,) to scourge mankind, Gathered around, with hosts from every shore, Hating NAPOLEON much, but Freedom more, And, in that coming strife, appalled to see The world yet left one chance for liberty!-- No, 'twas not _then_ the time to weave a net Of bondage round your Chief; to curb and fret Your veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight, When every hope was in his speed and might-- To waste the hour of action in dispute, And coolly plan how freedom's _boughs_ should shoot, When your Invader's axe was at the _root_! No sacred Liberty! that God, who throws, Thy light around, like His own sunshine, knows How well I love thee and how deeply hate _All_ tyrants, upstart and Legitimate-- Yet, in that hour, were France my native land, I would have followed, with quick heart and hand, NAPOLEON, NERO--ay, no matter whom-- To snatch my country from that damning doom, That deadliest curse that on the conquered waits-- A Conqueror's satrap, throned within her gates!

True, he was false--despotic--all you please-- Had trampled down man's holiest liberties-- Had, by a genius, formed for nobler things Than lie within the grasp of _vulgar_ Kings, But raised the hopes of men--as eaglets fly With tortoises aloft into the sky-- To dash them down again more shatteringly! All this I own--but still

* * * * *

[1] See Aellan, _lib_. v. _cap_. 29.,--who tells us that these geese, from a consciousness of their own loquacity, always cross Mount Taurus with stones in their bills, to prevent any unlucky cackle from betraying them to the eagles.

LETTER XII.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ----.

At last, DOLLY,--thanks to potent emetic, Which BOBBY and Pa, grimace sympathetic, Have swallowed this morning, to balance the bliss, Of an eel _matelote_ and a _bisque d'écrevisses_-- I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down To describe you our heavenly trip out of town. How agog you must be for this letter, my dear! Lady JANE, in the novel, less languisht to hear, If that elegant cornet she met at Lord NEVILLE'S Was actually dying with love or--blue devils. But Love, DOLLY, Love is the theme _I_ pursue; With Blue Devils, thank heaven, I have nothing to do-- Except, indeed, dear Colonel CALICOT spies Any imps of that color in _certain_ blue eyes, Which he stares at till _I_, DOLL, at _his_ do the same; Then he simpers--I blush--and would often exclaim, If I knew but the French for it, "Lord, Sir, for shame!"

Well, the morning was lovely--the trees in full dress For the happy occasion--the sunshine _express_-- Had we ordered it, dear, of the best poet going, It scarce could be furnisht more golden and glowing. Tho' late when we started, the scent of the air Was like GATTIE'S rose-water,--and, bright, here and there, On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet, Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabbinet! While the birds seemed to warble as blest on the boughs, As if _each_ a plumed Calicot had for her spouse; And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows, And--in short, need I tell you wherever one goes With the creature one loves, 'tis _couleur de rose_; And ah! I shall ne'er, lived I ever so long, see A day such as that at divine Montmorency!

There was but _one_ drawback--at first when we started, The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted; How cruel--young hearts of such moments to rob! He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with BOB: And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to know That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so. For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of BONEY'S-- Served _with_ him of course--nay, I'm sure they were cronies. So martial his features! dear DOLL, you can trace Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face As you do on that pillar of glory and brass,[1] Which the poor DUC DE BERRI must hate so to pass! It appears, too, he made--as most foreigners do-- About English affairs an odd blunder or two. For example misled by the names, I dare say-- He confounded JACK CASTLES with LORD CASTLEREAGH; And--sure such a blunder no mortal hit ever on-- Fancied the _present_ Lord CAMDEN the _clever_ one!

But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade; 'Twas for war and the ladies my Colonel was made. And oh! had you heard, as together we walkt Thro' that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talkt; And how perfectly well he appeared, DOLL, to know All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU?-- "'Twas there," said he--not that his _words_ I can state-- 'Twas a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate;-- But "there," said he, (pointing where, small and remote, The dear Hermitage rose), "there his JULIE he wrote,-- "Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure; "Then sauded it over with silver and azure, "And--oh, what will genius and fancy not do!-- "Tied the leaves up together with _nonpareille_ blue!" What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions From sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here! Alas, that a man of such exquisite notions Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear! "'Twas here too perhaps," Colonel CALICOT said-- As down the small garden he pensively led-- (Tho' once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle) "'Twas here he received from the fair D'ÉPINAY "(Who called him so sweetly _her Bear_, every day,) "That dear flannel petticoat, pulled off to form "A waistcoat, to keep the enthusiast warm!"

Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we pondered, As, full of romance, thro' that valley we wandered. The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is!) Led us to talk about other commodities, Cambric, and silk, and--I ne'er shall forget, For the sun was then hastening in pomp to its set.

And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down, When he askt me, with eagerness,--who made my gown? The question confused me--for, DOLL, you must know, And I _ought_ to have told my best friend long ago, That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ[2] That enchanting _couturière_, Madame LE ROI; But am forced now to have VICTORINE, who--deuce take her!-- It seems is, at present, the King's mantua-maker-- I mean _of his party_--and, tho' much the smartest, LE ROI is condemned as a rank Bonapartist.[3] Think, DOLL, how confounded I lookt--so well knowing The Colonel's opinions--my cheeks were quite glowing; I stammered out something--nay, even half named The _legitimate_ sempstress, when, loud, he exclaimed, "Yes; yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen "It was made by that Bourbonite bitch, VICTORINE!" What a word for a hero!--but heroes _will_ err, And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things _just_ as they were. Besides tho' the word on good manners intrench, I assure you 'tis not _half_ so shocking in French.

But this cloud, tho' embarrassing, soon past away, And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day, The thoughts that arise, when such dear fellows woo us,-- The _nothings_ that then, love, are--_everything_ to us-- That quick correspondence of glances and sighs, And what BOB calls the "Two-penny-post of the Eyes"-- Ah, DOLL! tho' I _know_ you've a heart, 'tis in vain, To a heart so unpractised these things to explain. They can only be felt, in their fulness divine, By her who has wandered, at evening's decline, Thro' a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!

But here I must finish--for BOB, my dear DOLLY, Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy, Is seized with a fancy for churchyard reflections; And, full of all yesterday's rich recollections, Is just setting off for Montmartre--"for _there_ is," Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VÉRYS![4] "Long, long have I wisht as a votary true, "O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans; "And, to-day--as my stomach is not in good cue "For the _flesh_ of the VÉRYS--I'll visit their _bones_!" He insists upon _my_ going with him--how teasing! This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lie Unsealed in my drawer, that, if anything pleasing Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you--good-by.

B.F.

_Four o'clock_.

Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruined for ever-- I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never! To think of the wretch--what a victim was I! 'Tis too much to endure--I shall die, I shall die-- "My brain's in a fever--my pulses beat quick-- I shall die or at least be exceedingly sick! Oh! what do you think? after all my romancing, My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing, This Colonel--I scarce can commit it to paper-- This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!! 'Tis true as I live--I had coaxt brother BOB so, (You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so,) For some little gift on my birthday--September The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember-- That BOB to a shop kindly ordered the coach, (Ah! little I thought who the shopman would prove,) To bespeak me a few of those _mouchoirs de poche_, Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love-- (The most beautiful things--two Napoleons the price-- And one's name in the corner embroidered so nice!) Well, with heart full of pleasure, I entered the shop. But--ye Gods, what a phantom!--I thought I should drop-- There he stood, my dear DOLLY--no room for a doubt-- There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand, With a piece of French cambric, before him rolled out, And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand! Oh!--Papa, all along, knew the secret,' is clear-- 'Twas _a shopman_ he meant by a "Brandenburgh," dear! The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King, And, when _that_ too delightful illusion was past, As a hero had worshipt--vile, treacherous thing-- To turn out but a low linen-draper at last! My head swam around--the wretch smiled, I believe, But his smiling, alas, could no longer deceive-- I fell back on BOB--my whole heart seemed to wither-- And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither! I only remember that BOB, as I caught him, With cruel facetiousness said, "Curse the Kiddy! "A stanch Revolutionist always I've thought him, "But now I find out he's a _Counter_ one, BIDDY!"

Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known To that saucy, satirical thing, Miss MALONE! What a story 'twill be at Shandangan for ever! What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men! It will spread thro' the country--and never, oh! never Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again! Farewell--I shall do something desperate, I fear-- And, ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear, One tear of compassion my DOLL will not grudge To her poor--broken-hearted--young friend, BIDDY FUDGE.

_Nota bene_--I am sure you will hear, with delight, That we're going, all three, to see BRUNET to-night. A laugh will revive me--and kind Mr. COX (Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box.

[1] The column in the Place Vendôme.

[2] Miss Biddy's notions of French pronunciation may be perceived in the rhymes which she always selects for "_Le Roi_."

[3] LE ROI, who was the _Couturière_ of the Empress Maria Louisa, is at present, of course, out of fashion, and is succeeded in her station by the Royalist mantua-maker, VICTORINE.

[4] It is the _brother_ of the present excellent _Restaurateur_ who lies entombed so magnificently in the Cimetière Monmartre.

THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND

BEING A SEQUEL TO THE

"FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS."

PREFACE.

The name of the country town, in England--a well-known fashionable watering-place--in which the events that gave rise to the following correspondence occurred, is, for obvious reasons, suppressed. The interest attached, however, to the facts and personages of the story, renders it independent of all time and place; and when it is recollected that the whole train of romantic circumstances so fully unfolded in these Letters has passed during the short period which has now elapsed since the great Meetings in Exeter Hall, due credit will, it is hoped, be allowed to the Editor for the rapidity with which he has brought the details before the Public; while, at the same time any errors that may have been the result of such haste will, he trusts, with equal consideration, be pardoned.

THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND

LETTER I.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ----; CURATE OF ----, IN IRELAND.

Who d' ye think we've got here?--quite reformed from the giddy. Fantastic young thing that once made such a noise-- Why, the famous Miss Fudge--that delectable Biddy, Whom you and I saw once at Paris, when boys, In the full blaze of bonnets, and ribands, and airs-- Such a thing as no rainbow hath colors to paint; Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers, And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.

Poor "Pa" hath popt off--gone, as charity judges, To some choice Elysium reserved for the Fudges; And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectations From some much revered and much palsied relations, Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet,-- Age, thirty, or thereabouts--stature six feet, And warranted godly--to make all complete. _Nota bene_--a Churchman would suit, if he's _high_, But Socinians or Catholics need not apply.

What say you, Dick? doesn’t this tempt your ambition? The whole wealth of Fudge, that renowned man of pith. All brought to the hammer, for Church competition,-- Sole encumbrance, Miss Fudge to be taken therewith. Think, my boy, for a Curate how glorious a catch! While, instead of the thousands of souls you _now_ watch, To save Biddy Fudge's is all you need do; And her purse will meanwhile be the saving of _you_.

You may ask, Dick, how comes it that I, a poor elf, Wanting substance even more than your spiritual self, Should thus generously lay my own claims on the shelf, When, God knows! there ne'er was young gentleman yet So much lackt an old spinster to rid him from debt, Or had cogenter reasons than mine to assail her With tender love-suit--at the suit of his tailor.

But thereby there hangs a soft secret, my friend, Which thus to your reverend breast I commend: Miss Fudge hath a niece--such a creature!--with eyes Like those sparklers that peep out from summer-night skies At astronomers-royal, and laugh with delight To see elderly gentlemen spying all night.

While her figure--oh! bring all the gracefullest things That are borne thro' the light air by feet or by wings, Not a single new grace to that form could they teach, Which combines in itself the perfection of each; While, rapid or slow, as her fairy feet fall, The mute music of symmetry modulates all.

Ne'er in short was there creature more formed to bewilder A gay youth like me, who of castles aërial (And _only_ of such) am, God help me! a builder; Still peopling each mansion with lodgers ethereal, And now, to this nymph of the seraph-like eye, Letting out, as you see, my first floor next the sky.

But, alas! nothing's perfect on earth--even she, This divine little gipsy, does odd things sometimes; Talks learning--looks wise (rather painful to see), Prints already in two County papers her rhymes; And raves--the sweet, charming, absurd little dear, About _Amulets, Bijous_, and _Keepsakes_, next year. In a manner which plainly bad symptoms portends Of that Annual _blue_ fit, so distressing to friends; A fit which, tho' lasting but one short edition, Leaves the patient long after in sad inanition.

However, let's hope for the best--and, meanwhile, Be it mine still to bask in the niece's warm smile; While you, if you're wise, Dick, will play the gallant (Uphill work, I confess,) to her Saint of an Aunt. Think, my boy, for a youngster like you, who've a lack, Not indeed of rupees, but of all other specie.

What luck thus to find a kind witch at your back, An old goose with gold eggs, from all debts to release ye! Never mind, tho' the spinster be reverend and thin, What are all the Three Graces to her Three per Cents? While her aeres!--oh Dick, it don’t matter one pin How she touches the affections, so _you_ touch the rents; And Love never looks half so pleased as when, bless him, he Sings to an old lady's purse "Open, Sesame."

By the way, I've just heard, in my walks, a report, Which, if true, will insure for your visit some sport. 'Tis rumored our Manager means to bespeak The Church tumblers from Exeter Hall for next week; And certainly ne'er did a queerer or rummer set Throw, for the amusement of Christians, a summerset. 'Tis feared their chief "Merriman," C--ke, cannot come, Being called off, at present, to play Punch at home; And the loss of so practised a wag in divinity Will grieve much all lovers of jokes on the Trinity;-- His pun on the name Unigenitus, lately Having pleased Robert Taylor, the _Reverend_, greatly. 'Twill prove a sad drawback, if absent he be, As a wag Presbyterian's a thing quite to see; And, 'mong the Five Points of the Calvinists, none of 'em Ever yet reckoned a point of wit one of 'em. But even tho' deprived of this comical elf, We've a host of _buffoni_ in Murtagh himself. Who of all the whole troop is chief mummer and mime, And Coke takes the _Ground_ Tumbling, _he_ the _Sublime_;[1] And of him we're quite certain, so pray come in time.

[1] In the language of the play-bills, "Ground and _Lofty_ Tumbling."

LETTER II.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MRS. ELIZABETH ----.

Just in time for the post, dear, and monstrously busy, With godly concernments--and worldly ones, too; Things carnal and spiritual mixt, my dear Lizzy, In this little brain till, bewildered and dizzy, 'Twixt heaven and earth, I scarce know what I do.

First, I've been to see all the gay fashions from Town, Which our favorite Miss Gimp for the spring has had down. Sleeves _still_ worn (which _I_ think is wise), _à la folle_, Charming hats, _pou de soie_--tho' the shape rather droll. But you can’t think how nicely the caps of _tulle_ lace, With the _mentonnières_ look on this poor sinful face; And I mean, if the Lord in his mercy thinks right, To wear one at Mrs. Fitz-wigram's to-night.

The silks are quite heavenly:--I'm glad too to say Gimp herself grows more godly and good every day; Hath had sweet experience--yea, even doth begin To turn from the Gentiles, and put away sin-- And all since her last stock of goods was laid in. What a blessing one's milliner, careless of pelf, Should thus "walk in newness," as well as one's self! So much for the blessings, the comforts of Spirit I've had since we met, and they're more than I merit!-- Poor, sinful, weak creature in every respect, Tho' ordained (God knows why) to be one of the Elect. But now for the picture's reverse.--You remember That footman and cook-maid I hired last December; _He_ a Baptist Particular--_she_, of some sect Not particular, I fancy, in any respect; But desirous, poor thing, to be fed with the Word, And "to wait," as she said, "on Miss Fudge and the Lord."

Well, my dear, of all men, that Particular Baptist At preaching a sermon, off hand, was the aptest; And, long as he staid, do him justice, more rich in Sweet savors of doctrine, there never was kitchen. He preached in the parlor, he preached in the hall, He preached to the chambermaids, scullions and all. All heard with delight his reprovings of sin, But above all, the cook-maid:--oh, ne'er would she tire-- Tho', in learning to save sinful souls from the fire, She would oft let the soles she was frying fall in. (God forgive me for punning on points thus of piety!-- A sad trick I've learned in Bob's heathen society.) But ah! there remains still the worst of my tale; Come, Asterisks, and help me the sad truth to veil-- Conscious stars, that at even your own secret turn pale! * * * * * * * * * * In short, dear, this preaching and psalm-singing pair, Chosen "vessels of mercy," as _I_ thought they were, Have together this last week eloped; making bold To whip off as much goods as both vessels could hold-- Not forgetting some scores of sweet Tracts from my shelves, Two Family Bibles as large as themselves, And besides, from the drawer--I neglecting to lock it-- My neat "Morning Manna, done up for the pocket."[1] Was there e'er known a case so distressing, dear Liz? It has made me quite ill:-and the worst of it is, When rogues are _all_ pious, 'tis hard to detect _Which_ rogues are the reprobate, _which_ the elect. This man "had a _call_," he said--impudent mockery! What call had he to _my_ linen and crockery?

I'm now and have been for this week past in chase Of some godly young couple this pair to replace. The enclosed two announcements have just met my eyes In that venerable Monthly where Saints advertise For such temporal comforts as this world supplies; And the fruits of the Spirit are properly made An essential in every craft, calling and trade. Where the attorney requires for his 'prentice some youth Who has "learned to fear God and to walk in the truth;" Where the sempstress, in search of employment, declares That pay is no object, so she can have prayers; And the Establisht Wine Company proudly gives out That the whole of the firm, Co. and all, are devout.

Happy London, one feels, as one reads o'er the pages, Where Saints are so much more abundant than sages; Where Parsons may soon be all laid on the shelf, As each Cit can cite chapter and verse for himself, And the _serious_ frequenters of market and dock All lay in religion as part of their stock.[2] Who can tell to what lengths we may go on improving, When thus thro' all London the Spirit keeps moving, And heaven's so in vogue that each shop adver_tise_ment Is now not so much for the earth as the skies meant?

P. S.

Have mislaid the two paragraphs--can’t stop to look, But both describe charming--both Footman and Cook. She, "decidedly pious"--with pathos deplores The increase of French cookery and sin on our shores; And adds--(while for further accounts she refers To a great Gospel preacher, a cousin of hers,) That "tho' _some_ make their Sabbaths mere matter-of-fun days, She asks but for tea and the Gospel, on Sundays." The footman, too, full of the true saving knowledge;-- Has late been to Cambridge--to Trinity College; Served last a young gentleman, studying divinity, But left--not approving the morals of Trinity.

P. S.

I enclose, too, according to promise, some scraps Of my Journal--that Day-