The Fudge Family In Paris Letter III. From Mr. Bob Fudge To Richard ----, Esq.

A poem by Thomas Moore

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

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