LETTER VIII.

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

Dear DICK, while old DONALDSON'S[1] 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'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 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 _groseille_[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 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. VENECIA[6] 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 Panoramas_[8] 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 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 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's[13] 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.

[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.