Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS.

  Le Leggi della Maschera richiedono che una persona mascherata non

  sia salutata per nome da uno che la conosce malgrado il suo

  travestimento.

  CASTIGLIONE.

  PREFACE.

  In what manner the following Epistles came into my hands, it is not necessary for the public to know. It will be seen by Mr. FUDGE’S Second Letter, that he is one of those gentlemen whose Secret Services in Ireland, under the mild ministry of my Lord CASTLEREAGH, have been so amply and gratefully remunerated. Like his friend and associate, THOMAS REYNOLDS, Esq., he had retired upon the reward of his honest industry; but has lately been induced to appear again in active life, and superintend the training of that Delatorian Cohort which Lord SIDMOUTH, in his wisdom and benevolence, has organized.

  Whether Mr. FUDGE, himself, has yet made any discoveries, does not appear from the following pages. But much may be expected from a person of his zeal and sagacity, and, indeed, to him, Lord SIDMOUTH, and the Greenland-bound ships, the eyes of all lovers of discoveries are now most anxiously directed.

  I regret much that I have been obliged to omit Mr. BOB FUDGE’S Third Letter, concluding the adventures of his Day with the Dinner, Opera, etc.; — but, in consequence of some remarks upon Marinette’s thin drapery, which, it was thought, might give offence to certain 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.

  It will not, I hope, be thought presumptuous, if I take this opportunity of complaining of a very serious injustice 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” — 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 complacently as if it actually belonged to him.

  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 honor of assuring them, in propriâ personâ, that I am — his, or her,

  Very obedient and very humble Servant,

  April 17, 1818.

  THOMAS BROWN THE YOUNGER.

  LETTER I.

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

  Amiens.

  Dear DOLL, while the tails of our horses are plaiting,

  The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door,

  Into very bad French is as usual translating

  His English resolve not to give a sou more,

  I sit down to write you a line — only think! —

  A letter from France, with French pens and French ink,

  How delightful! tho’, would you believe it, my dear?

  I have seen nothing yet very wonderful here;

  No adventure, no sentiment, far as we’ve come,

  But the cornfields and trees quite as dull as at home;

  And but for the post-boy, his boots and his queue,

  I might just as well be at Clonkilty with you!

  In vain, at DESSEIN’S, did I take from my trunk

  That divine fellow, STERNE, and fall reading “The Monk;”

  In vain did I think of his charming Dead 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, tho’ one little Neddy we saw in our drive

  Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive!

  By the by, tho’ at Calais, Papa had a touch

  Of romance on the pier, which affected me much.

  At the sight of that spot, where our darling DIXHUIT

  Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet,1

  (Modelled out so exactly, and — God bless the mark!

  ’Tis a foot, DOLLY, worthy so Grand a Monarque).

  He exclaimed, “Oh, mon Roi!” and, with tear-dropping eye,

  Stood to gaze on the spot — while some Jacobin, nigh,

  Muttered out with a shrug (what an insolent thing!)

  “Ma foi, he be right— ’tis de Englishman’s King;

  And dat gros pied de cochon — begar me vil say

  Dat de foot look mosh better, if turned toder way.”

  There’s the pillar, too — Lord! I had nearly forgot —

  What a charming idea! — raised close to the spot;

  The mode being now, (as you’ve heard, I suppose,)

  To build tombs over legs and raise pillars to toes.

  This is all that’s occurred sentimental as yet;

  Except indeed some little flower-nymphs we’ve met,

  Who disturb one’s romance with pecuniary views,

  Flinging flowers in your path, and then — bawling for sous!

  And some picturesque beggars, whose multitudes seem

  To recall the good days of the ancien regime,

  All as ragged and brisk, you’ll be happy to learn,

  And as thin as they were in the time of poor STERNE.

  Our party consists (in a neat Calais job)

  Of Papa and myself, Mr. CONNOR and BOB.

  You remember how sheepish BOB lookt at Kilrandy,

  But, Lord! he’s quite altered — they’ve made him a Dandy;

  A thing, you know, whiskered, great-coated, and laced,

  Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist;

  Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scholars,

  With beads so immovably 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,

  À la braise, petits pâtés, and — what d’ ye call that

  They inflict on potatoes? — oh! maître d’hôtel —

  I assure you, dear DOLLY, he knows them as well

  As if nothing else all his life he had eat,

  Tho’ a bit of them BOBBY has never touched yet;

  But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks,

  As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and books.

  As to Pa, what d’ ye think? — mind, it’s all entre nous,

  But you know, love, I never keep secrets from you —

  Why, he’s writing a book — what! a tale? a romance?

  No, we Gods, would it were! — but his travels in France;

  At the special desire (he let out t’other day)

  Of his great friend and patron, my Lord CASTLEREAGH,

  Who said, “My dear FUDGE” — I forget the exact words,

  And, it’s strange, no one ever remembers my Lord’s;

  But ’twas something to say that, as all must allow

  A good orthodox work is much wanting just now,

  To expound to the world the new — thingummie — science,

  Found out by the — what’s-its-name — Holy Alliance,

  And prove to mankind that their rights are but folly,

  Their freedom a joke (which it is, you know, DOLLY),

  “There’s none,” said his 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 — advertisement
s, praises —

  Starts post from the door, with his tablets — French phrases —

  “SCOTT’S Visit” of course — in short, everything he has

  An author can want, except words and ideas: —

  And, lo! the first thing, in the spring of the year,

  Is PHIL. FUDGE at the front of a Quarto, my dear!

  But, bless me, my paper’s near out, so I’d better

  Draw fast to a close: — this exceeding long letter

  You owe to a 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 BONAPARTE,

  His nose and his chin — which Papa rather dreads,

  As the Bourbons, you know, are suppressing all heads

  That resemble old NAP’S, and who knows but their honors

  May think, in their fright, of suppressing poor CONNOR’S?

  Au reste (as we say), the young lad’s well enough,

  Only talks much of Athens, Rome, virtue and stuff;

  A third cousin of ours, by the way — poor as Job

  (Tho’ of royal descent by the side of Mamma),

  And for charity made private tutor to BOB;

  Entre nous, too, a Papist — how liberal of Pa!

  This is all, dear, — forgive me for breaking off thus,

  But BOB’S déjeûner’s done, and Papa’s in a fuss.

  B. F.

  P. S.

  How provoking of Pa! he will not let me stop

  Just to run in and rummage some milliner’s shop;

  And my début in Paris, I blush to think on it,

  Must now, DOLL, be made in a hideous low bonnet.

  But Paris, dear Paris! — oh, there will be joy,

  And romance, and high bonnets, and Madame Le Roi!2

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

  2 A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris.

  LETTER II.

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

  Paris.

  At length, my Lord, I have the bliss

  To date to you a line from this

  “Demoralized” metropolis;

  Where, by plebeians low and scurvy,

  The throne was turned quite topsy-turvy,

  And Kingship, tumbled from its seat,

  “Stood prostrate” at the people’s feet;

  Where (still to use your Lordship’s tropes)

  The level of obedience slopes

  Upward and downward, as the stream

  Of hydra faction kicks the beam!1

  Where the poor Palace changes masters

  Quicker than a snake its skin,

  And LOUIS is rolled out on castors,

  While BONEY’S borne on shoulders in: —

  But where, in every change, no doubt,

  One special good your Lordship traces, —

  That ’tis the Kings alone turn out,

  The Ministers still keep their places.

  How oft, dear Viscount CASTLEREAGH,

  I’ve thought of thee upon the way,

  As in my job (what place could be

  More apt to wake a thought of thee?) —

  Or, oftener far, when gravely sitting

  Upon my dicky, (as is fitting

  For him who writes a Tour, that he

  May more of men and manners see.)

  I’ve thought of thee and of thy glories,

  Thou guest of Kings and King of Tories!

  Reflecting how thy fame has grown

  And spread, beyond man’s usual share,

  At home, abroad, till thou art known,

  Like Major SEMPLE, everywhere!

  And marvelling with what powers of breath

  Your Lordship, having speeched to death

  Some hundreds of your fellow-men,

  Next speeched to Sovereign’s ears, — and when

  All Sovereigns else were dozed, at last

  Speeched down the Sovereign of Belfast.

  Oh! mid the praises and the trophies

  Thou gain’st from Morosophs and Sophis;

  Mid all the tributes to thy fame,

  There’s one thou shouldst be chiefly pleased at —

  That Ireland gives her snuff thy name,

  And CASTLEREAGH’S the thing now sneezed at!

  But hold, my pen! — a truce to praising —

  Tho’ even your 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 metaphorie fringes,

  I must embark into the feature

  On which this letter chiefly hinges;)

  My Book, the Book that is to prove —

  And will, (so help ye Sprites above,

  That sit on clouds, as grave as judges,

  Watching the labors of the FUDGES!)

  Will prove that all the world, at present,

  Is in a state extremely pleasant;

  That Europe — thanks to royal swords

  And bayonets, and the Duke commanding —

  Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord’s,

  Passeth all human understanding:

  That France prefers her go-cart King

  To such a coward scamp as BONEY;

  Tho’ round, with each a leading-string.

  There standeth many a Royal crony,

  For fear the chubby, tottering thing

  Should fall, if left there loney-poney; —

  That England, too, the more her debts,

  The more she spends, the richer gets;

  And that the Irish, grateful nation!

  Remember when by thee reigned over,

  And bless thee for their flagellation,

  As HELOISA did her lover!2 —

  That Poland, left for Russia’s lunch

  Upon the sideboard, snug reposes:

  While Saxony’s as pleased as Punch,

  And Norway “on a bed of roses!”

  That, as for some few million souls,

  Transferred by contract, bless the clods!

  If half were strangled — Spaniards, Poles,

  And Frenchmen— ’twouldn’t make much odds,

  So Europe’s goodly Royal ones

  Sit easy on their sacred thrones;

  So FERDINAND embroiders gayly,3

  And Louis eats his salmi daily;

  So time is left to Emperor SANDY

  To be half Caesar and half Dandy;

  And GEORGE the REGENT (who’d forget

  That doughtiest chieftain of the set?)

  Hath wherewithal for trinkets new,

  For dragons, after Chinese models,

  And chambers where Duke Ho and Soo

  Might come and nine times knock their noddles! —

  All this my Quarto’ll prove — much more

  Than Quarto ever proved before: —

  In reasoning with the Post I’ll vie,

  My facts the Courier shall supply,

  My jokes VANSITTART, PEELE my sense,

  And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence!

  My Journal, penned by fits and starts,

  On BIDDY’S back or BOBBY’S shoulder,

  (My son, my Lord, a youth of parts,

  Who longs to be a small placeholder,)

  Is — tho’ I say’t, that shouldnt say —

  Extremely good; and, by the way,

  One extract from it — only one —

  To show its spirit, and I’ve done.

  “Jul. thirty-first. — Went, after snack,

  “To the Cathedral of St. Denny;

  “Sighed o’er the Kings of ages back,

  “And — gave the old Concierge a penny.

  “
(Mem. — Must see Rheims, much famed, ’tis said,

  “For making Kings and ginger-bread.)

  “Was shown the tomb where lay, so stately,

  “A little Bourbon, buried lately,

  “Thrice high and puissant, we were told,

  “Tho’ only twenty-four hours old!

  “Hear this, thought I, ye Jacobins:

  “Ye Burdetts, tremble in your skins!

  “If Royalty, but aged a day,

  “Can boast such high and puissant sway

  “What impious hand its power would fix,

  “Full fledged and wigged at fifty-six!”

  The argument’s quite new, you see,

  And proves exactly Q. E. D.

  So now, with duty to the KEGENT,

  I am dear Lord,

  Your most obedient,

  P. F.

  Hôtel Breteuil, Rue Rivoli.

  Neat lodgings — rather dear for me;

  But BIDDY said she thought ’twould look!

  Genteeler thus to date my Book;

  And BIDDY’S right — besides, it curries

  Some favor with our friends at MURRAY’S,

  Who scorn what any man can say,

  That dates from Rue St. Honoré!4

  1 This excellent imitation of the noble Lord’s style shows how deeply Mr. Fudge must have studied his great original. Irish oratory, indeed, abounds with such startling peculiarities. Thus the eloquent Counsellor B —— , in describing some hypocritical pretender to charity, said, “He put his hand in his breeches-pocket, like a crocodile, and,” etc.

  2 See her Letters.

  3 It would be an edifying thing to write a history of the private amusements of sovereigns, tracing them down from the fly-sticking of Domitian, the mole-catching of Artabanus, the, hog-mimicking of Parmenides, the horse-currying of Aretas, to the petticoat-embroidering of Ferdinand, and the patience-playing of the Prince Regent!

  4 See the Quarterly Review for May, 1816 where Mr. Hobhouse is accused of having written his book “in a back street of the French capital.”

  LETTER III.

  FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD —— , ESQ.

  Oh Dick! you may talk of your writing and reading,

  Your Logic and Greek, but there’s nothing like feeding;

  And this is the place for it, DICKY, you dog,

  Of all places on earth — the headquarters of Prog!

  Talk of England — her famed Magna Charta, I swear, is

  A humbug, a flam, to the Carte1 at old VÉRY’S;

  And as for your Juries — who would not set o’er ’em

  A Jury of Tasters, with woodcocks before ’em?