by Thomas Moore
Caught 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; —
Who did not hope the lust of spoil was gone;
That that rapacious spirit, which had played
The 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 only quite untameable 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 given
To 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 again
With all the monkery it had spurned in vain;
Her crown disgraced by one, who dared to own
He 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 then
Were dared thro’ Europe, cry aloud to men,
With voice like that of crashing ice that rings
Round Alpine huts, the perfidy of Kings;
And tell the world, when hawks shall harmless bear
The shrinking dove, when wolves shall learn to spare
The helpless victim for whose blood they lusted,
Then and then only monarchs may be trusted.
It could not last — these horrors could not last —
France would herself have risen in might to cast
The 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 of all the game of one!
Then would the world have seen again what power
A people can put forth in Freedom’s hour;
Then would the fire of France once more have blazed; —
For every single sword, reluctant raised
In the stale cause of an oppressive throne,
Millions would then have leaped forth in her own;
And never, never had the unholy stain
Of 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 made
His own transgressions whiten in their shade;
Well might he hope a world thus trampled o’er
By clumsy tyrants would be his once more: —
Forth from his cage the eagle burst; to light,
From steeple on to steeple1 winged his flight,
With calm and easy grandeur, to that throne
From which a Royal craven just had flown;
And resting there, as in his eyry, furled
Those wings, whose very rustling shook the world!
What was your fury then, ye crowned array,
Whose feast of spoil, whose plundering holiday
Was 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 from you — from you, 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 see
Such low-born apes of Royal perfidy!
Yes — yes — to you alone did it belong
To sin for ever, and yet ne’er do wrong, —
The frauds, the lies of Lords legitimate
Are but fine policy, deep strokes of state;
But let some upstart dare to soar so high
In Kingly craft, and “outlaw” is the cry!
What, tho’ long years of mutual treachery
Had peopled full your diplomatic shelves
With 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 two
In some blest fountain made as good as new!
Most faithful Russia — faithful to whoe’er
Could plunder best and give him amplest share;
Who, even when vanquisht, sure to gain his ends,
For want of foes to rob, made free with friends,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 ears
In persecuted Poland’s blood and tears,
And now, with all her harpy wings outspread
O’er severed Saxony’s devoted head!
Pure Austria too — whose history naught repeats
But 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 shy
As cloistered maids, of shame or perfidy,
Art now broke in, and, thanks to CASTLEREAGH,
In all that’s worst and falsest lead’st the way!
Such was the pure divan, whose pens and wits
The 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! — who would not gladly fly
To 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 boast
Of faith and honor, when they’ve stained them most;
From whose affection men should shrink as loath
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br /> As from their hate, for they’ll be fleeced by both;
Who, even while plundering, forge Religion’s name
To frank their spoil, and without fear or shame
Call down the Holy Trinity4 to bless
Partition leagues and deeds of devilishness!
But hold — enough — soon would this swell of rage
O’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!”
LETTER VIII.
FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD —— , ESQ.
Dear DICK, while old DONALDSON’S1 mending my stays, —
Which I knew would 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 bottle
Of neat old Constantia, on my leaning back
Just to order another, by Jove, I went crack! —
Or, as honest TOM said, in his nautical phrase,
“Damn my eyes, BOB, in doubling the Cape you’ve missed
stays.”2
So, of course, as no gentleman’s seen out without them,
They’re now at the Schneider’s3 — 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 as
Man 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 degrees
To 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, fiacres and 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 sees
Jew clothes-men, like shepherds, reclined under trees;
Or Quidnuncs, on Sunday, just fresh from the barber’s,
Enjoying their news and groseille4 in those arbors;
While gayly their wigs, like the tendrils, are curling,
And founts of red currant-juice5 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 wealth
And 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 us
Neatly as now, and good cookery flourishes —
Long as, by bayonets protected, we Natties
May have our full fling at their salmis and pâtés?
And, truly, I always declared ’twould be pity
To burn to the ground such a choice-feeding city.
Had Dad but his way, he’d have long ago blown
The whole batch to old Nick — and the people, 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 that I care, 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 the Marmite Perpétuelle bubbling 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 us
Six 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 find twice as 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,
Here hangs o’er a beer-shop, and tempts in his turn;
While there St. VENECIA6 sits hemming and frilling her
Holy mouchoir o’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 of ton,
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’s affiches —
Or, if some, who’re Lotharios in feeding, should wish
Just to flirt with a luncheon, (a devilish bad trick,
As it takes off the bloom of one’s appetite, DICK.)
To the Passage des — what d’ye call’t — des Panoramas8
We quicken our pace, and there heartily cram as
Seducing young pâtés, as ever could cozen
One out of one’s appetite, down by the dozen.
We vary, of course — petits pâtés do one day,
The next we’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, —
Divine maresquino, which — Lord, how one swallows!
Once more, then, we saunter forth after our snack, or
Subscribe a few francs for the price of a fiacre,
; And drive far away to the old Montagnes Russes,
Where we find a few twirls in the car of much use
To 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, for digestion,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 a solvent I’ve found them,
That, let me but rattle the Monarch well down them,
The fiend, Indigestion, would fly far away,
And the regicide lampreys12 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 the Schneider,
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’s13 eloquent carte to 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 ask
That my life, like “the Leap of the German,” may be,
“Du lit à la table, d’la table du lit!”
R. F.
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 and eau-de-groseille are 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 the moëlleux of his Gaufres.
