My Lord, the Instructions, brought to-day,
"I shall in all my best obey."
Your Lordship talks and writes so sensibly!
And—whatsoe'er some wags may say—
Oh! not at all incomprehensibly.
I feel the inquiries in your letter
About my health and French most flattering;
Thank ye, my French, tho' somewhat better,
Is, on the whole, but weak and smattering:—
Nothing, of course, that can compare
With his who made the Congress stare
(A certain Lord we need not name),
Who, even in French, would have his trope,
And talk of "batir un systême
"Sur l'équilibre de l'Europe!"
Sweet metaphor!—and then the Epistle,
Which bid the Saxon King go whistle,—
That tender letter to "Mon Prince"[1]
Which showed alike thy French and sense;—
Oh no, my Lord—there's none can do
Or say un-English things like you:
And, if the schemes that fill thy breast
Could but a vent congenial seek,
And use the tongue that suits them best,
What charming Turkish wouldst thou speak!
But as for me, a Frenchless grub,
At Congress never born to stammer,
Nor learn like thee, my Lord, to snub
Fallen Monarchs, out of CHAMBAUD'S grammar—
Bless you, you do not, can not, know
How far a little French will go;
For all one's stock, one need but draw
On some half-dozen words like toese—
Comme ça—par-là—là-bas—ah ha!
They'll take you all thro' France with ease.
Your Lordship's praises of the scraps
I sent you from my Journal lately,
(Enveloping a few laced caps
For Lady C,) delight me greatly.
Her flattering speech—"What pretty things
"One finds in Mr. FUDGE's pages!"
Is praise which (as some poet sings)
Would pay one for the toils of ages.
Thus flattered, I presume to send
A few more extracts by a friend;
And I should hope they'll be no less
Approved of than my last MS.—
The former ones, I fear, were creased,
As BIDDY round the caps would pin them;
But these will come to hand, at least
Unrumpled, for there's—nothing in them.
Extracts from Mr. Fudge's Journal, addressed to Lord C.
August 10.
Went to the Mad-house—saw the man[2]
Who thinks, poor wretch, that, while the Fiend
Of Discord here full riot ran,
He, like the rest, was guillotined;—
But that when, under BONEY'S reign,
(A more discreet, tho' quite as strong one,)
The heads were all restored again,
He, in the scramble, got a wrong one.
Accordingly, he still cries out
This strange head fits him most unpleasantly;
And always runs, poor devil, about,
Inquiring for his own incessantly!
While to his case a tear I dropt,
And sauntered home, thought I—ye Gods!
How many heads might thus be swopt,
And, after all, not make much odds!
For instance, there's VANSITTART'S head—
("Tam carum" it may well be said)
If by some curious chance it came
To settle on BILL SOAMES'S[3] shoulders,
The effect would turn out much the same
On all respectable cash-holders;
Except that while, in its new socket,
The head was planning schemes to win
A zig-zag way into one's pocket,
The hands would plunge directly in.
Good Viscount SIDMOUTH, too, instead
Of his own grave, respected head,
Might wear (for aught I see that bars)
Old Lady WILHELMINA FRUMP'S—
So while the hand signed Circulars,
The head might lisp out "What is trumps?"—
The REGENT'S brains could we transfer
To some robust man-milliner,
The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbon
Would go, I doubt not, quite as glib on;
And, vice versa, take the pains
To give the PRINCE the shopman's brains,
One only change from thence would flow,
Ribbons would not be wasted so.
'Twas thus I pondered on, my Lord;
And, even at night, when laid in bed,
I found myself, before I snored,
Thus chopping, swopping head for head.
At length I thought, fantastic elf!
How such a change would suit myself.
'Twixt sleep and waking, one by one,
With various pericraniums saddled,
At last I tried your Lordship's on,
And then I grew completely addled—
Forgot all other heads, od rot 'em!
And slept, and dreamt that I was—BOTTOM.
August 21.