But hold, my pen!—a truce to praising—
Tho' even your Lordship will allow
The theme's temptations are amazing;
But time and ink run short, and now,
(As thou wouldst say, my guide and teacher
In these gay metaphorie fringes,
I must embark into the feature
On which this letter chiefly hinges;)
My Book, the Book that is to prove—
And will, (so help ye Sprites above,
That sit on clouds, as grave as judges,
Watching the labors of the FUDGES!)
Will prove that all the world, at present,
Is in a state extremely pleasant;
That Europe—thanks to royal swords
And bayonets, and the Duke commanding—
Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord's,
Passeth all human understanding:
That France prefers her go-cart King
To such a coward scamp as BONEY;
Tho' round, with each a leading-string.
There standeth many a Royal crony,
For fear the chubby, tottering thing
Should fall, if left there loney-poney;—
That England, too, the more her debts,
The more she spends, the richer gets;
And that the Irish, grateful nation!
Remember when by thee reigned over,
And bless thee for their flagellation,
As HELOISA did her lover![2]—
That Poland, left for Russia's lunch
Upon the sideboard, snug reposes:
While Saxony's as pleased as Punch,
And Norway "on a bed of roses!"
That, as for some few million souls,
Transferred by contract, bless the clods!
If half were strangled—Spaniards, Poles,
And Frenchmen—'twouldn't make much odds,
So Europe's goodly Royal ones
Sit easy on their sacred thrones;
So FERDINAND embroiders gayly,[3]
And Louis eats his salmi daily;
So time is left to Emperor SANDY
To be half Caesar and half Dandy;
And GEORGE the REGENT (who'd forget
That doughtiest chieftain of the set?)
Hath wherewithal for trinkets new,
For dragons, after Chinese models,
And chambers where Duke Ho and Soo
Might come and nine times knock their noddles!—
All this my Quarto'll prove—much more
Than Quarto ever proved before:—
In reasoning with the Post I'll vie,
My facts the Courier shall supply,
My jokes VANSITTART, PEELE my sense,
And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence!
My Journal, penned 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 placeholder,)
Is—tho' I say't, that shouldnt say—
Extremely good; and, by the way,
One extract from it—only one—
To show its spirit, and I've done.
"Jul. thirty-first.—Went, after snack,
"To the Cathedral of St. Denny;
"Sighed o'er the Kings of ages back,
"And—gave the old Concierge a penny.
"(Mem.—Must see Rheims, much famed, 'tis said,
"For making Kings and ginger-bread.)
"Was shown the tomb where lay, so stately,
"A little Bourbon, buried lately,
"Thrice high and puissant, we were told,
"Tho' 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 power would fix,
"Full fledged and wigged at fifty-six!"
The argument's quite new, you see,
And proves exactly Q. E. D.
So now, with duty to the KEGENT,
I am dear Lord,
Your most obedient,
P. F.
Hôtel Breteuil, Rue Rivoli.
Neat lodgings—rather dear for me;
But BIDDY said she thought 'twould look!
Genteeler thus to date my Book;
And BIDDY'S right—besides, it curries
Some favor with our friends at MURRAY'S,
Who scorn what any man can say,
That dates from Rue St. Honoré![4]
[1] This excellent imitation of the noble Lord's style shows how deeply Mr. Fudge must have studied his great original. Irish oratory, indeed, abounds with such startling peculiarities. Thus the eloquent Counsellor B——, in describing some hypocritical pretender to charity, said, "He put his hand in his breeches-pocket, like a crocodile, and," etc.
[2] See her Letters.
[3] It would be an edifying thing to write a history of the private amusements of sovereigns, tracing them down from the fly-sticking of Domitian, the mole-catching of Artabanus, the, hog-mimicking of Parmenides, the horse-currying of Aretas, to the petticoat-embroidering of Ferdinand, and the patience-playing of the Prince Regent!
[4] See the Quarterly Review for May, 1816 where Mr. Hobhouse is accused of having written his book "in a back street of the French capital."