DEAR DOLL, while the tails of our horses are plait- Except, indeed, some little flow'r-nymphs we've ing, 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; home; And but for the post-boy, his boots and his queue, In vain did I think of his charming Dead Ass, met, Who disturb one's romance with pecuniary views, Flinging flow'rs in your path, and then-bawling for sous! And some picturesque beggars, whose multitudes seem To recall the good days of the ancien régime, Our party consists (in a neat Calais job) But, Lord! he's quite alter'd-they've made him a 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 But just knows the names of French dishes and Au reste, (as we say,) the young lad's well enough, 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, ye gods, would it were!-but his Travels in At the special desire (he let out t'other day) REAGH, 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-thingummiescience, 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 judge, be Paris. 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, praisesStarts post from the door, with his tablets-French phrases "SCOTT's Visit," of course-in short, ev'ry thing 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 CON NOR'S ? AT length, my Lord, I have the bliss Where, by plebeians low and scurvy, While BONEY's borne on shoulders in:- The Ministers still keep their places. How oft, dear Viscount CASTLEReagh, For him who writes a Tour, that he And spread, beyond man's usual share, Like Major SEMPLE, everywhere! 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- 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 ;)—* And bay'nets, and the Duke commanding— Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord's, Passeth all human understanding: Should fall, if left there loney-poney;— Remember when by thee reign'd over, That, as for some few million souls, For dragons, after Chinese models, Might come and nine times knock their noddles!— All this my Quarto 'll prove-much more Than Quarto ever proved before: In reas'ning with the Post I'll vie, My facts the Courier shall supply, My jokes VANSITTART, POLE 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 shouldn'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, "And-gave the old Concierge a penny. “ (Mem.—Must see Rheims, much famed, 'tis said, "For making Kings and gingerbread.) "Was shown the tomb where lay, so stately, "A little Bourbon, buried lately, "Thrice high and puissant, we were told, "Though 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 pow'r would fix, "Full fledged and wigg'd" at fifty-six !" The argument's quite new, you see, Your most obedient, P. F. Where so ready all nature its cookery yields, Almost as tight as some lads who go out of it. "The mirror to nature"-so bright you could sup Off the leather like china; with coat, too, that draws OH Dick! you may talk of your writing and read- On the tailor, who suffers, a martyr's applause! feeding; And this is the place for it, DICKY, you dog, Of all places on earth-the head-quarters of Prog! | A humbug, a flam, to the Carte1 at old VERY'S; year; But those friends of short Commons would never And, let ROMILLY speak as he will on the question, By the by, DICK, I fatten but n'importe for that, tried too, Of a breakfast in England, your cursed tea and toast;16 But a sideboard, you dog, where one's eye roves Like a Turk's in the Haram, and thence singles out Then, some glasses of Beaune, to dilute—or, may- Chambertin," which you know's the pet tipple of NAP, And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler, But, though somewhat imperial in paunch, 'twouldn't Much scruples to taste, but I'm not so partic`lar.— do: He improved, indeed, much in this point, when he wed, But he ne'er grew right royally fat in the head. DICK, DICK, what a place is this Paris!-but stay- As we pass it, myself and some comrades I've got, After dreaming some hours of the land of Cocaigne," That Elysium of all that is friand and nice, Where for hail they have bon-bons, and claret for rain, And the skaters in winter show off on cream-ice; Your coffee comes next, by prescription: and then, The coffee's ne'er-failing and glorious appendix, The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad, pear in't, We lounge up the Boulevards, where-oh, DICK, The turn-outs, we meet-what a nation of quizzes! A laced hat, worsted stockings, and-noble old While, for the faith my fathers held to God, soul! A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole; Just such as our PRINCE, who nor reason nor fun dreads, Inflicts, without ev'n a court-martial, on hundreds.19 In a silk that has stood since the time of the There goes a French Dandy-ah, DICK! unlike some ones We've seen about WHITE's-the Mounseers are but rum ones; Ev'n in the fields where free those fathers trod, * * * * Still hope and suffer, all who can!—but I, Such hats!-fit for monkeys-I'd back Mrs. DRA- But whither?-everywhere the scourge pursues— From the Boulevards-but hearken!-yes-as I'm Pronounced, but he doth banquet on thy shame; Hears maledictions ring from every side Of hope, of freedom-but to drain her blood! If thus to hear thee branded be a bliss That Vengeance loves, there's yet more sweet than this, |