Yours of the 12th received, just now—Thanks, for the hint, my trusty brother!'Tis truly pleasing to see howWe, FUDGES, stand by one another.But never fear—I know my chap,And he knowsmetoo—verbum sap,My Lord and I are kindred spirits,Like in our ways as two young ferrets;Both fashioned, as that supple race is,To twist into all sorts of places;—Creatures lengthy, lean and hungering,Fond of blood andburrow-mongering.
As to my Book in 91,Called "Down with Kings, or, Who'd have thought it?"Bless you! the Book's long dead and gone,—Not even the Attorney-General bought it.And tho' some few seditious tricksI played in '95 and '6,As you remind me in your letter,His Lordship likes me all the better;—We proselytes, that come with news full,Are, as he says, so vastly useful!
REYNOLDS and I—(you know TOM REYNOLDS—Drinks his claret, keeps his chaise—Lucky the dog that first unkennelsTraitors and Luddites now-a-days;Or who can help tobaga few,When SIDMOUTH wants a death, or two;)REYNOLDS and I and some few more,All men like us ofinformation,Friends whom his Lordship keeps in store,Asunder-saviors of the nation[1]—Have, formed a Club this season, whereHis Lordship sometimes takes the chair,And gives us many a bright orationIn praise of our sublime vocation;Tracing it up to great King MIDAS,Who, tho' in fable typified asA royal Ass, by grace, divineAnd right of ears, most asinine,Was yet no more, in fact historical,Than an exceeding well-bred tyrant;And these, hisears, but allegorical,Meaning Informers, kept at high rent—Gem'men, who touched the Treasury glisteners,Like us, for being trusty listeners;And picking up each tale and fragment,For royal MIDAS'S Green Bag meant."And wherefore," said this best of Peers,"Should not the REGENT too have ears,"To reach as far, as long and wide as"Those of his model, good King MIDAS?"This speech was thought extremely good,And (rare for him) was understood—Instant we drank "The REGENT'S Ears,"With three times three illustrious cheers,Which made the room resound like thunder—"The REGENT'S Ears, and may he ne'er"From foolish shame, like MIDAS, wear"Old paltrywigsto keep them[2] under!"This touch at our old friends, the Whigs,Made us as merry all as grigs.In short (I'll thank you not to mentionThese things again), we get on gayly;And thanks to pension and Suspension,Our little Club increases daily.CASTLES, and OLIVER, and such,Who dont as yet full salary touch,Nor keep their chaise and pair, nor buyHouses and lands, like TOM and I,Of course dont rank with ussalvators,[3]But merely serve the Club as waiters,Like Knights, too, we've ourcollardays,(Forus, I own, an awkward phrase,)When, in our new costume adorned,—The REGENT'S buff-and-blue coatsturned—We have the honor to give dinnersTo the chief Rats in upper stations:Your WEMYS, VAUGHANS,—half-fledged sinners,Who shame us by their imitations;Who turn, 'tis true—but what of that?Give me the usefulpeachingRat;Notthings as mute as Punch, when bought,Whose wooden heads are all they've brought;Who, false enough to shirk their friends,But too faint-hearted to betray,Are, after all their twists and bends,But souls in Limbo, damned half way.No, no, we nobler vermin areAgenususeful as we're rare;Midst all the things miraculousOf which your natural histories brag,The rarest must be Rats like us,Wholet the cat out of the bag.Yet still these Tyros in the causeDeserve, I own, no small applause;And they're by us received and treatedWith all due honors—only seatedIn the inverse scale of their reward,The merelypromisednext my Lord;Small pensions then, and so on, down,Rat after rat, they graduateThro' job, red ribbon and silk gown,To Chancellorship and Marquisate.This serves to nurse the ratting spirit;The less the bribe the more the merit.
Our music's good, you may be sure;My Lord, you know, 's an amateur[4]—Takes every part with perfect ease,Tho' to the Base by nature suited;And, formed for all, as best may please,For whips and bolts, or chords and keys,Turns from his victims to his glees,And has them both wellexecuted.[5]HERTFORD, who, tho' no Rat himself,Delights in all such liberal arts,Drinks largely to the House of Guelph,And superintends theCorniparts.While CANNING, who'd befirstby choice,Consents to take anundervoice;And GRAVES,[6] who well that signal knows,Watches theVolti Subitos.[7]
In short, as I've already hinted,We take of late prodigiously;But as our Club is somewhat stintedForGentlemen, like TOM and me,We'll take it kind if you'll provideA fewSquireens[8] from t'other side;—Some of those loyal, cunning elves(We often tell the tale with laughter),Who used to hide the pikes themselves,Then hang the fools who found them after.I doubt not you could find us, too,Some Orange Parsons that might do:Among the rest, we've heard of one,The Reverend—something—HAMILTON,Who stuft a figure of himself(Delicious thought!) and had it shot at,To bring some Papists to the shelf,That couldn't otherwise be got at—Ifhe'll but join the Association,We'll vote him in by acclamation.
And now, my brother, guide and friend,This somewhat tedious scrawl must end.I've gone into this long detail,Because I saw your nerves were shakenWith anxious fears lest I should failIn this new,loyal, course I've taken.But, bless your heart! you need not doubt—We FUDGES know what we're about.Look round and say if you can seeA much more thriving family.There's JACK, the Doctor—night and dayHundreds of patients so besiege him,You'd swear that all the rich and gayFell sick on purpose to oblige him.And while they think, the precious ninnies,He's counting o'er their pulse so steady,The rogue but counts how many guineasHe's fobbed for that day's work already.I'll ne'er forget the old maid's alarm,When, feeling thus Miss Sukey Flirt, heSaid, as he dropt her shrivelled arm,"Damned bad this morning—only thirty!"
Your dowagers, too, every one,So generous are, when they callhimin,That he might now retire uponThe rheumatisms of three old women.Then whatsoe'er your ailments are,He can so learnedly explain ye'em—Your cold of course is acatarrh,Your headache is ahemi-cranium:—His skill too in young ladies' lungs,The grace with which, most mild of men,He begs them to put out their tongues.Then bids them—put them in again;In short, there's nothing now like JACK!—Take all your doctors great and small,Of present times and ages back,Dear Doctor FUDGE is worth them all.
So much for physic—then, in law too,Counsellor TIM, to thee we bow;Not one of us gives more éclat toThe immortal name of FUDGE than thou.Not to expatiate on the artWith which you played the patriot's part,Till something good and snug should offer;—Like one, who, by the way he actsTheenlighteningpart of candle-snuffer,The manager's keen eye attracts,And is promoted thence by himTo strut in robes, like thee, my TIM!—Whoshall describe thy powers of face,Thy well-fed zeal in every case,Or wrong or right—but ten times warmer(As suits thy calling) in the former—Thy glorious, lawyer-like delightIn puzzling all that's clear and right,Which, tho' conspicuous in thy youth,Improves so with a wig and band on,That all thy pride's to waylay Truth,And leave her not a leg to stand on.Thy patent prime morality,—Thy cases cited from the Bible—Thy candor when it falls to theeTo help in trouncing for a libel;—"God knows, I, from my soul, profess"To hate all bigots and be-nighters!"God knows, I love, to even excess,"The sacred Freedom of the Press,"My only aim's to—crush the writers."These are the virtues, TIM, that drawThe briefs into thy bag so fast;And these, oh TIM—if Law be Law—Will raise thee to the Bench at last.
I blush to see this letter's length—But 'twas my wish to prove to theeHow full of hope, and wealth, and strength,Are all our precious family.And, should affairs go on as pleasantAs, thank the Fates, they do at present—Should we but still enjoy the swayOf SIDMOUTH and of CASTLEREAGH,I hope, ere long, to see the dayWhen England's wisest statesmen, judges,Lawyers, peers, will all be—FUDGES!
Good-by—my paper's out so nearly,I've room only forYours sincerely.
[1] Lord C.'s tribute to the character of his friend, Mr. Reynolds, will long be remembered with equal credit to both.
[2] It was not under wigs, but tiaras, that King Midas endeavored to conceal these appendages. The Noble Giver of the toast, however, had evidently, with his usual clearness, confounded King Midas, Mr. Liston, and the Prince Regent together.
[3] Mr. Fudge and his friends ought to go by this name—as the man who, some years since, saved the late Right Hon. George Rose from drowning, was ever after calledSalvator Rosa.
[4] His Lordship, during one of the busiest periods of his Ministerial career, took lessons three times a week from a celebrated music-master, in glee-singing.
[5] How amply these two propensities of the Noble Lord would have been gratified among that ancient people of Etruria, who, as Aristotle tells us, used to whip their slaves once a year to the sound of flutes!
[6] The rapidity of this Noble Lord's transformation, at the same instant, into a Lord of the Bed-chamber and an opponent of the Catholic Claims, was truly miraculous.
[7]Turn instantly—a frequent direction in music-books.
[8] The Irish diminutive ofSquire.
Before we sketch the Present—let us castA few, short, rapid glances to the Past.
When he, who had defied all Europe's strength,Beneath his own weak rashness sunk at length;—When, loosed as if by magic from a chainThat seemed like Fate's the world was free again,And Europe saw, rejoicing in the sight,The cause of Kings,for once, the cause of Right;—Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to thoseWho sighed for justice—liberty—repose,And hoped the fall ofonegreat vulture's nestWould ring its warning round, and scare the rest.All then was bright with promise;—Kings beganTo own a sympathy with suffering Man,And man was grateful; Patriots of the SouthCaught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth,And heard, like accents thawed in Northern air,Unwonted words of freedom burst forth there!
Who did not hope, in that triumphant time,When monarchs, after years of spoil and crime,Met round the shrine of Peace, and Heaven lookt on;—Whodid not hope the lust of spoil was gone;That that rapacious spirit, which had playedThe game of Pilnitz o'er so oft, was laid;And Europe's Rulers, conscious of the past,Would blush and deviate into right at last?But no—the hearts, that nurst a hope so fair,Had yet to learn what men on thrones can dare;Had yet to know, of all earth's ravening things,The onlyquiteuntameable are Kings!Scarce had they met when, to its nature true,The instinct of their race broke out anew;Promises, treaties, charters, all were vain,And "Rapine! rapine!" was the cry again.How quick they carved their victims, and how well,Let Saxony, let injured Genoa tell;-Let all the human stock that, day by day,Was, at that Royal slave-mart, truckt away,—The million souls that, in the face of heaven,Were split to fractions, bartered, sold or givenTo swell some despot Power, too huge before,And weigh down Europe with one Mammoth more.How safe the faith of Kings let France decide;—Her charter broken, ere its ink had dried;—Her Press enthralled—her Reason mockt againWith all the monkery it had spurned in vain;Her crown disgraced by one, who dared to ownHe thankt not France but England for his throne;Her triumphs cast into the shade by those,Who had grown old among her bitterest foes,And now returned, beneath her conqueror's shields,Unblushing slaves! to claim her heroes' fields;To tread down every trophy of her fame,And curse that glory which to them was shame!—Let these—let all the damning deeds, that thenWere dared thro' Europe, cry aloud to men,With voice like that of crashing ice that ringsRound Alpine huts, the perfidy of Kings;And tell the world, when hawks shall harmless bearThe shrinking dove, when wolves shall learn to spareThe helpless victim for whose blood they lusted,Then and then only monarchs may be trusted.
It could not last—these horrorscouldnot last—France would herself have risen in might to castThe insulters off—and oh! that then as now,Chained to some distant islet's rocky brow,NAPOLEON ne'er had come to force, to blight,Ere half matured, a cause so proudly bright;—To palsy patriot arts with doubt and shame,And write on Freedom's flag a despot's name;—To rush into the list, unaskt, alone,And make the stake ofallthe game ofone!Then would the world have seen again what powerA people can put forth in Freedom's hour;Then would the fire of France once more have blazed;—For every single sword, reluctant raisedIn the stale cause of an oppressive throne,Millions would then have leaped forth in her own;And never, never had the unholy stainOf Bourbon feet disgraced her shores again.
But fate decreed not so—the Imperial Bird,That, in his neighboring cage, unfeared, unstirred,Had seemed to sleep with head beneath his wing,Yet watched the moment for a daring spring;—Well might he watch, when deeds were done, that madeHis own transgressions whiten in their shade;Well might he hope a world thus trampled o'erBy clumsy tyrants would be his once more:—Forth from his cage the eagle burst; to light,From steeple on to steeple[1] winged his flight,With calm and easy grandeur, to that throneFrom which a Royal craven just had flown;And resting there, as in his eyry, furledThose wings, whose very rustling shook the world!
What was your fury then, ye crowned array,Whose feast of spoil, whose plundering holidayWas thus broke up, in all its greedy mirth,By one bold chieftain's stamp on Gallic earth!Fierce was the cry, and fulminant the ban,—"Assassinate, who will—enchain, who can,"The vile, the faithless, outlawed, lowborn man!""Faithless!"—and this fromyou—fromyou, forsooth,Ye pious Kings, pure paragons of truth,Whose honesty all knew, for all had tried;Whose true Swiss zeal had served on every side;Whose fame for breaking faith so long was known,Well might ye claim the craft as all your own,And lash your lordly tails and fume to seeSuch low-born apes of Royal perfidy!Yes—yes—to you alone did it belongTo sin for ever, and yet ne'er do wrong,—The frauds, the lies of Lords legitimateAre but fine policy, deep strokes of state;But let some upstart dare to soar so highIn Kingly craft, and "outlaw" is the cry!What, tho' long years of mutual treacheryHad peopled full your diplomatic shelvesWith ghosts of treaties, murdered 'mong yourselves;Tho' each by turns was knave and dupe—what then?A holy League would set all straight again;Like JUNO'S virtue, which a dip or twoIn some blest fountain made as good as new!Most faithful Russia—faithful to whoe'erCould plunder best and give him amplest share;Who, even when vanquisht, sure to gain his ends,For want offoesto rob, made free withfriends,[2]And, deepening still by amiable gradations,When foes were stript of all, then fleeced relations![3]Most mild and saintly Prussia—steeped to the earsIn persecuted Poland's blood and tears,And now, with all her harpy wings outspreadO'er severed Saxony's devoted head!Pure Austria too—whose history naught repeatsBut broken leagues and subsidized defeats;Whose faith, as Prince, extinguisht Venice shows,Whose faith, as man, a widowed daughter knows!And thou, oh England—who, tho' once as shyAs cloistered maids, of shame or perfidy,Art nowbroke in, and, thanks to CASTLEREAGH,In all that's worst and falsest lead'st the way!
Such was the pure divan, whose pens and witsThe escape from Elba frightened into fits;—Such were the saints, who doomed NAPOLEON'S life,In virtuous frenzy, to the assassin's knife.Disgusting crew!—whowould not gladly flyTo open, downright, bold-faced tyranny,To honest guilt, that dares do all but lie,From the false, juggling craft of men like these,Their canting crimes and varnisht villanies;—These Holy Leaguers, who then loudest boastOf faith and honor, when they've stained them most;From whose affection men should shrink as loathAs from their hate, for they'll be fleeced by both;Who, even while plundering, forge Religion's nameTo frank their spoil, and without fear or shameCall down the Holy Trinity[4] to blessPartition leagues and deeds of devilishness!But hold—enough—soon would this swell of rageO'erflow the boundaries of my scanty page;—So, here I pause—farewell—another day,Return we to those Lords of prayer and prey,Whose loathsome cant, whose frauds by right divine,Deserve a lash—oh! weightier far than mine!
[1] Napoleon's Proclamation on landing from Elba.
[2] At the Peace of Tilsit, where he abandoned his ally, Prussia, to France, and received a portion of her territory.
[3] The seizure of Finland from his relative of Sweden.
[4] The usual preamble of these flagitious compacts. In the same spirit, Catherine, after the dreadful massacre of Warsaw, ordered a solemn "thanksgiving to God in all the churches, for the blessings conferred upon the Poles"; and commanded that each of them should "swear fidelity and loyalty to her, and to shed in her defence the last drop of their blood, as they should answer for it to God, and his terrible judgment, kissing the holy word and cross of their Saviour!"
Dear DICK, while old DONALDSON'S[1] mending my stays,—Which Iknewwould go smash with me one of these days,And, at yesterday's dinner, when, full to the throttle,We lads had begun our dessert with a bottleOf neat old Constantia, onmyleaning backJust to order another, by Jove, I went crack!—Or, as honest TOM said, in his nautical phrase,"Damn my eyes, BOB, indoublingtheCapeyou'vemissedstays."[2]So, of course, as no gentleman's seen out without them,They're now at theSchneider's[3]—and, while he's about them,Here goes for a letter, post-haste, neck and crop.Let us see—in my last I was—where did I stop?Oh! I know—at the Boulevards, as motley a road asMan ever would wish a day's lounging upon;With its cafés and gardens, hotels and pagodas,Its founts and old Counts sipping beer in the sun:With its houses of all architectures you please,From the Grecian and Gothic, DICK, down by degreesTo the pure Hottentot or the Brighton Chinese;Where in temples antique you may breakfast or dinner it,Lunch at a mosque and see Punch from a minaret.Then, DICK, the mixture of bonnets and bowers.Of foliage and frippery,fiacresand flowers,Green-grocers, green gardens—one hardly knows whether'Tis country or town, they're so messed up together!And there, if one loves the romantic, one seesJew clothes-men, like shepherds, reclined under trees;Or Quidnuncs, on Sunday, just fresh from the barber's,Enjoying their news andgroseille[4] in those arbors;While gayly their wigs, like the tendrils, are curling,And founts of red currant-juice[5] round them are purling.
Here, DICK, arm in arm as we chattering stray,And receive a few civil "Goddems" by the way,—For, 'tis odd, these mounseers,—tho' we've wasted our wealthAnd our strength, till we've thrown ourselves into a phthisic;—To cram down their throats an old King for their health.As we whip little children to make them take physic;—Yet, spite of our good-natured money and slaughter,They hate us, as Beelzebub hates holy-water!But who the deuce cares, DICK, as long as they nourish usNeatly as now, and good cookery flourishes—Long as, by bayonets protected, we NattiesMay have our full fling at theirsalmisandpâtés?And, truly, I always declared 'twould be pityTo burn to the ground such a choice-feeding city.HadDadbut his way, he'd have long ago blownThe whole batch to old Nick—and thepeople, I own,If for no other cause than their curst monkey looks,Well deserve a blow-up—but then, damn it, their Cooks!As to Marshals, and Statesmen, and all their whole lineage,For aught thatIcare, you may knock them to spinage;But think, DICK, their Cooks—what a loss to mankind!What a void in the world would their art leave behind!Their chronometer spits—their intense salamanders—Their ovens—their pots, that can soften old ganders,All vanisht for ever,—their miracles o'er,And theMarmite Perpétuellebubbling no more!Forbid it, forbid it, ye Holy Allies!Take whatever ye fancy—take statues, take money—But leave them, oh leave them, their Perigueux pies,Their glorious goose-livers and high pickled tunny!Tho' many, I own, are the evils they've brought us,Tho' Royalty's here on her very last legs,Yet who can help loving the land that has taught usSix hundred and eighty-five ways to dress eggs?
You see, DICK, in spite of them cries of "God-dam,""Coquin Anglais," et cetera—how generous I am!And now (to return, once again, to my "Day,"Which will take us all night to get thro' in this way.)From the Boulevards we saunter thro' many a street,Crack jokes on the natives—mine, all very neat—Leave the Signs of the Times to political fops,And findtwiceas much fun in the Signs of the Shops;—Here, a Louis Dix-huit—there, a Martinmas goose,(Much in vogue since your eagles are gone out of use)—Henri Quatres in shoals, and of Gods a great many,But Saints are the most on hard duty of any:—St. TONY, who used all temptations to spurn,Herehangs o'er a beer-shop, and tempts in his turn;WhilethereSt. VENECIA[6] sits hemming and frilling herHolymouchoiro'er the door of some milliner;—Saint AUSTIN'S the "outward and visible sign"Of an inward" cheap dinner, and pint of small wine;While St. DENYS hangs out o'er some hatter ofton,And possessing, good bishop, no head of his own,[7]Takes an interest in Dandies, who've got—next to none!Then we stare into shops—read the evening'saffiches—Or, if some, who're Lotharios in feeding, should wishJust to flirt with a luncheon, (a devilish bad trick,As it takes off the bloom of one's appetite, DICK.)To thePassage des—what d'ye call't—des Panoramas[8]We quicken our pace, and there heartily cram asSeducing youngpâtés, as ever could cozenOne out of one's appetite, down by the dozen.We vary, of course—petits pâtésdooneday,Thenextwe've our lunch with the Gauffrier Hollandais,[9]That popular artist, who brings out, like SCOTT,His delightful productions so quick, hot and hot;Not the worse for the exquisite comment that follows,—Divinemaresquino, which—Lord, how one swallows!Once more, then, we saunter forth after our snack, orSubscribe a few francs for the price of afiacre,And drive far away to the oldMontagnes Russes,Where we find a few twirls in the car of much useTo regenerate the hunger and thirst of us sinners,Who've lapst into snacks—the perdition of dinners.And here, DICK—in answer to one of your queries,About which we Gourmands have had much discussion—I've tried all these mountains, Swiss, French, and Ruggieri's,And think, fordigestion,[10] there's none like the Russian;So equal the motion—so gentle, tho' fleet—It in short such a light and salubrious scamper is,That take whom you please—take old Louis DIX-HUIT,And stuff him—ay, up to the neck—with stewed lampreys,[11]So wholesome these Mounts, such asolventI've found them,That, let me but rattle the Monarch well down them,The fiend, Indigestion, would fly far away,And the regicide lampreys[12] be foiled of their prey!Such, DICK, are the classical sports that content us,Till five o'clock brings on that hour so momentous,That epoch—but whoa! my lad—here comes theSchneider,And, curse him, has made the stays three inches wider—Too wide by an inch and a half—what a Guy!But, no matter—'twill all be set right by-and-by.As we've MASSINOT's[13] eloquentcarteto eat still up.An inch and a half's but a trifle to fill up.So—not to lose time, DICK—here goes for the task;Au revoir, my old boy—of the Gods I but askThat my life, like "the Leap of the German," may be,"Du lit à la table, d'la table du lit!"
[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 andeau-de-groseilleare 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 themoëlleuxof 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.
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 atallincomprehensibly.
I feel the inquiries in your letterAbout 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 compareWith his who made the Congress stare(A certain Lord we need not name),Who, even in French, would have his trope,And talk of "batirun systême"Surl'équilibrede 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 doOr sayun-Englishthings like you:And, if the schemes that fill thy breastCould but a vent congenial seek,And use the tongue that suits them best,What charming Turkish wouldst thou speak!But as forme, a Frenchless grub,At Congress never born to stammer,Nor learn like thee, my Lord, to snubFallen Monarchs, out of CHAMBAUD'S grammar—Bless you, you do not,can not, knowHow far a little French will go;For all one's stock, one need but drawOn 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 scrapsI sent you from my Journal lately,(Enveloping a few laced capsFor Lady C,) delight me greatly.Herflattering 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 sendA few more extracts by a friend;And I should hope they'll be no lessApproved of than my last MS.—The former ones, I fear, were creased,As BIDDY round the capswouldpin them;But these will come to hand, at leastUnrumpled, 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 FiendOf 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 awrong one.Accordingly, he still cries outThis 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—("Tamcarum" it may well be said)If by some curious chance it cameTo settle on BILL SOAMES'S[3] shoulders,The effect would turn out much the sameOn all respectable cash-holders;Except that while, in itsnewsocket,The head was planning schemes to winAzig-zagway into one's pocket,The hands would plunge directly in.
Good Viscount SIDMOUTH, too, insteadOf his own grave, respected head,Might wear (for aught I see that bars)Old Lady WILHELMINA FRUMP'S—So while the hand signedCirculars,The head might lisp out "What is trumps?"—The REGENT'S brains could we transferTo some robust man-milliner,The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbonWould go, I doubt not, quite as glib on;And,vice versa, take the painsTo give the PRINCE the shopman's brains,One only change from thence would flow,Ribbonswould 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 suitmyself.'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 shownThe House of Commons and the Throne,Whose velvet cushion's just the sameNAPOLEON 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,Andcushiontoo—and keep them free;From accidents, whichhavebeen knownTo happen even to Royalty![4]
August 28.
Read, at a stall (for oft one popsOn something at these stalls and shops,That does toquoteand gives one's BookA 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 EastA monarch'sfat'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 beIncreased, there's quite a jubilee![6]Suppose, my Lord—and far from meTo treat such things with levity—But just suppose the Regent's weightWere made thus an affair of state;And, every sessions, at the close,—'Stead of a speech, which, all can see, isHeavy and dull enough, God knows—We were to try how heavyheis.Much would it glad all hearts to hear—That, while the Nation's RevenueLoses so many pounds a year,The PRINCE, God bless him!gainsa 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 muchheavierthings:For instance——-'s quarto volumes,Which, tho' not spices, serve to wrap them;DominieSTODDART'S Daily columns,"Prodigious!"—in, of course, we'd clap them—Letters, that CARTWRIGHT'S[7] pen indites,In which, with logical confusion,TheMajorlike aMinorwrites,And never comes to aConclusion:—Lord SOMERS'S pamphlet—or his head—(Ah!thatwere worth its weight in lead!)Along with which weinmay 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 nighUnto their wigs in whispering goes,That you may always know him byA patch of powder on his nose!—If this wont do, we in must cramThe "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 bundlethatin!And,stillshould all these masses failTo 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—Ifthatwont raise him, devil's in it!
August 31.
Consulted MURPHY'S TACITUSAbout 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, theycan'tbe 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 toAll sorts of spies—so doth the Peer, too.'Tis true, my Lord's elect tell fibs,And deal in perjury—dittoTIB's.'Tis true, the Tyrant screened and hidHis rogues from justice—dittoSID.'Tis true the Peer is grave and glibAt moral speeches—dittoTIB.'Tis true the feats the Tyrant didWere in his dotage—dittoSID.
So far, I own, the parallel'Twixt TIB and SIB goes vastly well;But there are points in TIB that strikeMy humble mind as much more likeYourself, 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 brokeUpon 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 somethingquitetoo funny.In this respect, my Lord, you seeThe Roman wag and ours agree:Now as toyourresemblance—mum—This parallel we need not follow:Tho' 'tis, in Ireland, said by someYour Lordship beats TIBERIUS hollow;Whips, chains—but these are things too seriousFor me to mention or discuss;Whene'er your Lordship acts TIBERIUS,PHIL. FUDGE'S part isTacitus!
September 2.
Was thinking, had Lord SIDMOUTH gotAny good decent sort of PlotAgainst the winter-time—if not,Alas, alas, our ruin's fated;All done up andspiflicated!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 eventhatbrought gibes and mockingsUpon our heads—so,mem.—must neverKeep ammunition in old stockings;For fear some wag should in his curst headTake it to say our force wasworsted.Mem.too—when SID an army raises,It must not be "incog." likeBayes's:Nor must the General be a hobblingProfessor of the art of cobbling;Lest men, who perpetrate such puns,Should say, with Jacobinic grin,He felt, fromsoleing Wellingtons,[9]AWellington'sgreatsoulwithin!Nor must an old ApothecaryGo take the Tower, for lack of pence,With (what these wags would call, so merry,)Physicalforce andphial-ence!No—no—our Plot, my Lord, must beNext time contrived more skilfully.John Bull, I grieve to say, is growingSo troublesomely sharp and knowing,So wise—in short, so Jacobin—'Tis monstrous hard totake him in.
September 6.
Heard of the fate of our AmbassadorIn China, and was sorely nettled;But think, my Lord, we should not pass it o'erTill all this matter's fairly settled;And here's the mode occurs tome:—As none of our Nobility,Tho' for theirownmost gracious King(They would kiss hands, or—anything),Can be persuaded to go thro'This farce-like trick of theKo-tou;And as these Mandarinswon'tbend,Without some mumming exhibition,Suppose, my Lord, you were to sendGRIMALDI to them on a mission:AsLegate, JOE could play his part,And if, in diplomatic art,The "volto sciolto"'s meritorius,[10]Let JOE but grin, he has it, glorious!
Atitlefor him's easily made;And, by the by, one Christmas time,If I remember right, he playedLord MORLEY in some pantomime:—[1]As Earl of Morley then gazette him,Ift'otherEarl of MORLEY'll let him,(And why should not the world be blest"Withtwosuch stars, for East and West?)Then, when before the Yellow ScreenHe's brought—and, sure, the very essenceOf etiquette would be that sceneOf 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 consultyourEmperor's liking,"At least you'll do the same formyKing."
He then should give them nine such grins,As would astound even Mandarins;And throw such somersets beforeThe picture of King GEORGE (God bless him!)As, should Duke Ho but try them o'er,Would, by CONFUCIUS,muchdistress 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 (youknowpoor BOB),Would in the suite be glad to goAnd help his Excellency, JOE:—At least, like noble AMHERST'S son,The lad will do topractiseon.
[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 aPrincea 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] Theopen countenance, recommended by Lord Chesterfield.
[11] Mr. Fudge is a little mistaken here. It wasnotGrimaldi, 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.