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 Carte[1] at old VÉRY'S; And as for your Juries--_who_ would not set o'er 'em A Jury of Tasters, 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 by, DICK, _I_ fatten--but _n'importe_ for that, 'Tis the mode--your Legitimates always get fat. There's the REGENT, there's LOUIS--and BONEY tried too, But, tho' somewhat imperial in paunch, 'twouldn't 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 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, 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; 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! 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 doubt of it-- Almost as tight as _some_ lads who _go out of it_. With whiskers well oiled, 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 _déjeûner a 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 champagne! Then, some glasses of _Beaune_, to dilute--or, mayhap, _Chambertin_,[2]which you know's the pet tipple of NAP, 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 The coffee's ne'er-failing and glorious appendix, (If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on't, I'd swallow e'en Watkins', for sake of the end on't,) A neat glass of _parfait-amour_, which one sips Just as if bottled velvet tipt 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 aired 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 1.; A laced hat, worsted stockings, and--noble old soul! A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole; Just such as our PRINCE, who nor reason nor fun dreads, Inflicts, without even a court-martial, on hundreds. 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 ones; Such hats!--fit for monkies--I'd back Mrs. DRAPER To cut neater weather-boards out of brown paper: And coats--how I wish, if it wouldn't distress 'em, They'd club for old BRUMMEL, from Calais, to dress 'em! The collar sticks out from the neck such a space, That you'd swear 'twas 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 to dinner: So _no_ more at present--short time for adorning-- My Day must be finisht some other fine morning. Now, hey for old BEAUVILLIERS'S[3] larder, my boy! And, once _there_, if the Goddess of Beauty and Joy Were to write "Come and kiss me, dear BOB!" I'd not budge-- Not a step, DICK, as sure as my name is R. FUDGE.

[1] The Bill of Fare.--Véry, a well-known _Restaurateur_.

[2] The favorite wine of Napoleon.

[3] A celebrated restaurateur.