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!