The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Including His Melodies, Ballads, Etc

well-meaning persons, the manuscript was sent back to Paris for his revision, and had not returned when the last sheet was put to press.

At the sight of that spot, where our darling
Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet1
(Modell'd out so exactly, and-God bless the mark!--
'T is a foot, Dolly, worthy so Grand a M****que),
He exclaim'd « Oh mon R ̈* !» and, with tear-dropping eye,
Stood to gaze on the spot-while some Jacobin, nigh,
Mutter'd out with a shrug (what an insolent thing!)
Ma foi, he be right-'t is de Englishman's K*g;
And dat gros pied de cochon-begar, me vil say,
Dat de foot look mosh better, if turn'd toder way. »
There's the pillar, too-Lord! I had nearly forgot—

It will not, I hope, be thought presumptuous, if I take
this opportunity of complaining of a very serious in-
justice I have suffered from the public. Dr KING wrote
a treatise to prove that BENTLEY was not the author of
his own book, and a similar absurdity has been asserted
of me, in almost all the best informed literary circles.
With the name of the real author staring them in the
face, they have yet persisted in attributing my works to
other people; and the fame of the Twopenny Post-Bag-What a charming idea!—raised close to the spot;
such as it is—having hovered doubtfully over various
persons, has at last settled upon the head of a certain
little gentleman, who wears it, I understand, as com-
placently as if it actually belonged to him; without
even the honesty of avowing, with his own favourite
author (he will excuse the pun)

Εγω δ' Ὁ ΜΩΡΟΣ αρας
Εδησαμην μετωπῳ.

I can only add, that if any lady or gentleman, curious in such matters, will take the trouble of calling at my lodgings, 245, Piccadilly, I shall have the honour of assuring them, in propria persona, that I am-his, or her,

Very obedient and very humble servant,
THOMAS BROWN, THE YOUNGER.

April, 17, 1818.

THE

FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS.

LETTER I.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY-—,
OF CLONSKILTY, 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! though, 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 corn-fields 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 Clonskilty 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 Ass,
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, though one little Neddy we saw in our drive
Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive!

By the bye, though, at Calais, Papa had a touch
Of romance on the pier, which affected me much.

The mode being now (as you 've heard, I suppose)
To build tombs over legs,3 and raise pillars to toes.

This is all that's occurr'd 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 multitudes seem
To recal the good days of the ancien régime,
All as ragged and brisk, you'll be happy to learn,
And as thin, as they were in the time of dear STERNE.

Our party consists, in a neat Calais job,
Of Papa and myself, Mr CONNOR and BOB.
You remember how sheepish Boв look'd at Kilrandy,
But Lord! he's quite alter'd-they 've made him a Dandy;
A thing, you know, whisker'd, great-coated, and laced,
Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist:
Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scholars,
With heads so immoveably stuck in shirt-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 petits pâtés, and—what d'ye call that
They inflict on potatoes? oh! maitre d'hôtel-
I assure you, dear DOLLY, he knows them as well
As if nothing but these all his life he had ate,
Though a bit of them BOBBY has never touch'd yet;
But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks,
As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and books.

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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 Lordship, 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-advertisements, praises— Starts post from the door, with his tablets-French phrases

SCOTT's Visit, of course-in short, every thing he has
An author can want, except words and ideas:-
And, lo! the first thing in the spring of the year,
dear!
IS PHIL. FUDGE at the front of a Quarto, my
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 déjeûner à 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 BoN****TE,
His nose and his chin,-which Papa rather dreads,
As the B*****Ns, you know, are suppressing all heads
That resemble old NAP's, and who knows but their ho-

nours

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
(Though 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 déjeûner's done, and Papa's in a fuss.

B. F.

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. etc.

upon

How oft, dear Viscount C▬▬▬▬GH,
I've thought of thee 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 dickey (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, every where!
And marvelling with what powers of breath
Your Lordship, having speech'd to death
Some hundreds of your fellow-men,
Next speech'd to Sovereigns' ears,—and when
All sovereigns else were dozed, at last
Speech'd 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 atThat Ireland gives her snuff thy name,

And C-GH's the thing now sneezed at!

But hold, my pen!-a truce to praising-
Though even your Lordship 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 metaphoric fringes),

I must embark into the feature

On which this letter chiefly hinges ;—2
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 labours 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,
Passeth all human understanding:
That F***ce prefers her go-cart

To such a coward

scamp as

Though round, with each a leading-string,
There standeth many a R'y'l crony,

The title of the chief magistrate of Belfast, before whom his Lordship (with the studium immane loquendi attributed by Ovid to that chattering and rapacious class of birds, the pies) delivered sundry long and self-gratulatory orations, on his return from the Continent. It was at one of these Irish dinners that his gallant brother Lord S. proposed the health of The best cavalry officer in Euro e-the Regent !»

* Verbatim from one of the noble Viscount's speeches- And now, Sir, I must embark into the feature on which this question chiefly hinges.

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 reign'd over,
And bless thee for their flagellation,
AS HELOISA did her lover!!
That Poland, left for Russia's lunch,
Upon the side-board snug reposes;
While Saxony 's as pleased as Punch,

And Norway « on a bed of roses!»
That, as for some few million souls,

Transferr'd by contract, bless the clods! If half were strangled-Spaniards, Poles,

And Frenchmen-'t would n't make such odds,

So Europe's goodly royal ones

Sit easy on their sacred thrones;
So FERDINAND embroiders gaily,
And *****
eats his salmi daily;

So time is left to Emperor SANDY
To be half Cæsar and half Dandy;

And G-GE the R-G-T (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 beforeIn reasoning with the Post I'll vie, My facts the Courier shall supply, My jokes V-NS-T, P-LE my sense, And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence!

My Journal, penn'd 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 place-holder), Is-though I say 't that should n't sayExtremely good; and, by the way, One extract from it-only oneTo show its spirit, and I've done.

« Jul. thirty-first. Went, after snack, To the cathedral of St Denny; Sigh'd o'er the kings of ages back,

And-gave the old concierge a penny!
(Mem.-Must see Rheims, much famed, 't is said,
For making kings and gingerbread.)
Was shown the tomb where lay, so stately,
A little Bbon buried lately,
Thrice high and puissant, we were told,
Though only twenty-four hours old!3
Hear this, thought I, ye jacobins;
Ye Burdetts, tremble in your skins!
If Ralty, but aged a day,

Can boast such high and puissant sway,
What impious hand its power would fix,
Full fledged and wigg'd,4 at fifty-six?»

O 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 head quarters of prog.
Talk of England,―her famed Magna Charta, I swear, is
A humbug, a flam, to the Carte3 at old Very's;
And as for your Juries—who would not set o'er 'em.
A jury of tasters,3 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 bye, Dick, I fatten, but n'importe for that,
'T is the mode-your legitimates always get fat;
There's the R-G—T, there's *****, and B'n'y tried too,
But, though somewhat imperial in paunch, 't wouldn't do:
He improved, indeed, much in this point when he wed,
But he ne'er grew right r'y'lly fat in the head.

Dick, Dick, what a place is this Paris!--but stayAs 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,4
That Elysium of all that is friand and nice,
Where for hail they have bons-bons, and claret for rain,
And the skaiters 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 !5

reminds us of what Pliny says, in speaking of Trajan's great qualities:- nonne longe lateque Principem ostentant?»

1 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."

The bill of Fare.-Véry, a well-known Restaurateur.

Mr Bob alludes particularly, I presume, to the famous Jury Dégustateur, which used to assemble at the Hotel of M. Grimod de la Reynière, and of which this modern Archestratus has given an account in his Almanach des Gourmands, cinquième année, p. 78.

4 The fairy-land of cookery and gourmandise; « Pays, où le ciel offre les viandes toutes cuites, et où, comme on parle, les alouettes tombent toutes roties. Du Latin, coquere.--DACHAT.

The process by which the liver of the unfortunate goose is en larged, in order to produce that richest of all dainties, the foie gras, of which such renowned pâtés are made at Strasbourg and Toulouse,

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
go out of it.

doubt of it

Almost as tight as some lads who

With whiskers well oil'd, 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 Café Hardy, which yet
Beats the field at a déjeuner à 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 pâté 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 cham-
pagne!

And coats-how I wish, if it would n't distress 'em,
They 'd club for old B--M-L, from Calais, to dress 'em!
The collar sticks out from the neck such a space,
That
you
'd swear 't was 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.
From the Boulevards-but hearken!-yes-as I 'm a
sinner,

The clock is just striking the half-hour for dinner :
So no more at present-short time for adorning-
My day must be finish'd some other fine morning.
And, once there, if the goddess of beauty and joy
Now, hey for old Beauvilliers' larder, my boy!
Were to write « Come and kiss me, dear Bob!» I'd not
budge-

Then some glasses of Beaune, to dilute-or, mayhap,
Chambertin,' which, you know 's the pet tipple of Nap, Not a step, Dick, as sure as my name is

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

A neat glass of parfait-amour, which one sips
Just as if bottled velvet tipp'd 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 air'd 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 One;
A laced hat, worsted stockings, and-noble old soul!-
A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole;
Just such as our Pa-E, who nor reason nor fun dreads,
Inflicts, without even a court-martial, on hundreds.3
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

LETTER IV.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO

R. FUDGE.

<< RETURN!»—no, never, while the withering hand
Of bigot power is on that hapless land;
While for the faith my fathers held to God,
Even in the fields where free those fathers trode,
I am proscribed, and-like the spot left bare
In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair
Amidst their mirth that slavery had been there-
On all I love-home, parents, friends,-I trace
The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!
No!-let them stay, who in their country's pangs
See nought but food for factions and harangues;
Who yearly kneel before their master's doors,
And hawk their wrongs as beggars do their sores;
Still let your

Still hope and suffer, all who can!—but I,
Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly.
But whither?-every where the scourge pursues—
Turn where he will, the wretched wanderer views,
In the bright, broken hopes of all his race,
Countless reflexions of the oppressor's face!
Every where gallant hearts, and spirits true,
Are served up victims to the vile and few;
While E******, everywhere—the general foe
Of truth and freedom, wheresoe'er they glow-
Is first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow!
O E******! could such poor revenge atone
For wrongs that well might claim the deadliest one;

A celebrated Restaurateur.

They used to leave a yard square of the wall of the house unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, either the fore-mentioned verse of the Psalmist (If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, etc.) or the words-The memory of the desolation.'s Leo of Modena.

I have thought it prudent to omit some parts of Mr Phelim Connor's letter. He is evidently an intemperate young man, and has ar sociated with his cousins, the Fudge, to very little purpose.

Were it a vengeance, sweet enough to sate
The wretch who flies from thy intolerant hate,
To hear his curses, on such barbarous sway,
Echoed where'er he bends his cheerless way;
Could this content him, every lip he meets
Teems for his vengeance with such poisonous sweets;
Were this his luxury, never is thy name
Pronounced, but he doth banquet on thy shame;
Hears maledictions ring from every side
Upon that grasping power, that selfish pride,
Which vaunts its own, and scorns all rights beside;
That low and desperate envy which, to blast
A neighbour's blessings, risks the few thou hast ;-
That monster, self, too gross to be conceal'd,
Which ever lurks behind thy proffer'd shield ;
That faithless craft, which, in thy hour of need,
Can court the slave, can swear he shall be freed,
Yet basely spurns him, when thy point is gain'd,
Back to his masters, ready gagg'd and chain'd!
Worthy associate of that band of kings,

That royal, ravening flock, whose vampire wings
O'er sleeping Europe treacherously brood,
And fan her into dreams of promised good,
Of hope, of freedom-but to drain her blood!

If thus to hear thee branded be a bliss

Who

Who, proud to kiss each separate rod of power,
Bless, while he reigns, the minion of the hour;
Worship each would-be God, that o'er them moves,
And take the thundering of his brass for Jove's!
If this be wisdom, then farewell, my books,
Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye classic brooks,
Which fed my soul with currents, pure and fair,
Of living truth, that now must stagnate there!-
Instead of themes that touch the lyre with light,
Instead of Greece, and her immortal fight
For liberty, which once awaked my strings,
Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings,
The High L'gitates, the Holy Band,
Who, bolder even than he of Sparta's land,
Against whole millions, panting to be free,
Would guard the pass of right-line tyranny!
Instead of him, the Athenian bard, whose blade
Had stood the onset which his pen pourtray'd,
Welcome

And, 'stead of Aristides-woe the day

Such names should mingle !-welcome C--gh! Here break we off; at this unhallow'd name,

That vengeance loves, there's yet more sweet than this,- Like priests of old, when words ill-omen'd came. That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart,

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When will the world shake off such yokes! oh when
Will that redeeming day shine out on men,
That shall behold them rise, erect and free
As Heaven and Nature meant mankind should be!
When Reason shall no longer blindly bow
To the vile pagod things, that o'er her brow,
Like him of Jaghernaut, drive trampling now;
Nor conquest dare to desolate God's earth;
Nor drunken Victory, with a Nero's mirth,
Strike her lewd harp amidst a people's groans;-
But, built on love, the world's exalted thrones
Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given-
Those bright, those sole legitimates of Heaven!

When will this be;-or, oh! is it in truth,

But one of those sweet day-break dreams of youth,
In which the Soul, as round her morning springs,
'Twixt sleep and waking, sees such dazzling things!
And must the hope, as vain as it is bright,
Be all given up?-and are they only right,
Who this world of thinking souls was made
To be by kings partition'd, truck'd, and weigh'd
In scales that, ever since the world begun,
Have counted millions but as dust to one?
Are they the only wise, who laugh to scorn
The rights, the freedom to which man was born?

say

Membra et Herculeos toros

Urit lues Nessea.

Itle, ille victor vincitur.-Senec. Hercul. OE.

My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell, Thoughts that

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ---.

WHAT a time since I wrote!-I'm a sad naughty girl-
Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl,
Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum
Between all its twirls gives a letter to note 'em.
But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses,
My gowns, so divine!-there's no language expresses,
Except just the two words « superbe,»> « magnifique,»
The trimmings of that which I had home last week!
It is call'd-I forget-à la-something, which sounded
Like alicampane—but, in truth, I'm confounded
And bother'd my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's
(Bob's) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi's:
What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal,
Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,
One's hair and one's cutlets both en papillote,
And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote,
I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase,
Between beef à la Psyché and curls a la braise.—
But, in short dear, I'm trick'd out quite à la française,
With my bonnet-so beautiful!-high up and poking,
Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

Where shall I begin with the endless delights
Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights-
This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting,
But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?

Imprimis, the Opera-mercy, my ears!

Brother Bobby's remark t'other night was a true one;

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The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Including His Melodies, Ballads, Etc ...