The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 256

Thoughts that--could patience hold--'twere wiser far To leave still hid and burning where they are.

[1] "They used to leave a square yard of the wall of the house unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, either the fore- mentioned verse of the Psalmist ('If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,' etc.) or the words--'The memory of the desolation.'"--Leo of Modena.

[2] I have thought it prudent to omit some parts of Mr. Phelim Connor's letter. He is evidently an intemperate young man, and has a.s.sociated with his cousins, the Fudges, to very little purpose.

[3] The late Lord C. of Ireland had a curious theory about names;--he held that every man with _three_ names was a Jacobin.

LETTER V.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ----.

What a time since I wrote!--I'm a sad, naughty girl-- For, tho' like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl;-- Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum Between all its twirls gives a _letter_ to note 'em.

But, Lord, such a place! and then, DOLLY, my dresses, My gowns, so divine!--there's no language expresses, Except just the _two_ words "_superbe_, _magnifique_,"

The tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs of that which I had home last week!

It is called--I forget--_a la_--something which sounded Like _alicampane_--but in truth I'm confounded And bothered, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's (BOB'S) cookery language, and Madame LE ROI'S: What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal, Things _garni_ with lace, and things _garni_ with eel, One's hair and one's cutlets both _en papillote_, And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote, I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase, Between beef _a la Psyche_ and curls _a la braise_.-- But in short, dear, I'm trickt out quite _a la Francaise_, With my bonnet--so beautiful!--high up and poking, Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

Where _shall_ I begin with the endless delights Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys and sights-- This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?

Imprimis, the Opera--mercy, my ears!

Brother BOBBY'S remark, t'other night, was a true one:-- "This _must_ be the music," said he, "of the _spears_, For I'm curst if each note of it doesn?t run thro' one!"

Pa says (and you know, love, his Book's to make out 'Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about) That this pa.s.sion for roaring has come in of late, Since the rabble all tried for a _voice_ in the State.-- What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm!

What a chorus, dear DOLLY, would soon be let loose of it, If, when of age, every man in the realm Had a voice like old LAIS,[1] and chose to make use of it!

No--never was known in this riotous sphere Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.

So bad too, you'd swear that the G.o.d of both arts, Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts, And composing a fine rumbling ba.s.s to a cholic!

But, the dancing--_ah parlez-moi_, DOLLY, _de ca_-- There, _indeed_, is a treat that charms all but Papa.

Such beauty--such grace--oh ye sylphs of romance!

Fly, fly to t.i.tANIA, and ask her if _she_ has One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance Like divine BIGOTTINI and sweet f.a.n.n.y BIAS!

f.a.n.n.y BIAS in FLORA--dear creature!--you'd swear, When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round, That her steps are of light, that her home is the air, And she only _par complaisance_ touches the ground.

And when BIGOTTINI in PSYCHE dishevels Her black flowing hair, and by daemons is driven, Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils, That hold her and hug her, and keep her from heaven?

Then, the music--so softly its cadences die, So divinely--oh, DOLLY! between you and I, It's as well for my peace that there's n.o.body nigh To make love to me then--_you've_ a soul, and can judge What a crisis 'twould be for your friend BIDDY FUDGE!

The next place (which BOBBY has near lost his heart in) They call it the Play-house--I think--of St. Martin;[2]

Quite charming--and _very_ religious--what folly To say that the French are not pious, dear DOLLY, Where here one beholds, so correctly and rightly, The Testament turned into melodrames nightly;[3]

And doubtless so fond they're of scriptural facts, They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.

Here DANIEL, in pantomime,[4] bids bold defiance To NEBUCHADNEZZAR and all his stuft lions, While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet, In very thin clothing, and _but_ little of it;-- Here BEGRAND,[5] who s.h.i.+nes in this scriptural path, As the lovely SUSANNA, without even a relic Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath In a manner that, BOB says, is quite _Eve-angelic_!

But in short, dear, 'twould take me a month to recite All the exquisite places we're at, day and night; And, besides, ere I finish, I think you'll be glad Just to hear one delightful adventure I've had.

Last night, at the Beaujon, a place where--I doubt If its charms I can paint--there are cars, that set out From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air, And rattle you down, DOLL--you hardly know where.

These vehicles, mind me, in which you go thro'

This delightfully dangerous journey, hold _two_, Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether You'll venture down _with_ him--you smile--'tis a match; In an instant you're seated, and down both together Go thundering, as if you went post to old scratch![6]

Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remarkt On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embarkt, The impatience of some for the perilous flight, The forced giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright,-- That, there came up--imagine, dear DOLL, if you can-- A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werterfaced man, With mustachios that gave (what we read of so oft) The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft, As Hyenas in love may be fancied to look, or A something between ABELARD and old BLUCHER!

Up he came, DOLL, to me, and uncovering his head, (Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said, "Ah! my dear--if Ma'mselle vil be so very good-- Just for von littel course"--tho' I scarce understood What he wisht me to do, I said, thank him, I would.

Off we set--and, tho' 'faith, dear, I hardly knew whether My head or my heels were the uppermost then, For 'twas like heaven and earth, DOLLY, coming together,-- Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again.

And oh! as I gazed on the features and air Of the man, who for me all this peril defied, I could fancy almost he and I were a pair Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side, Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara!

This achieved, thro' the gardens we sauntered about, Saw the fire-works, exclaimed "_magnifique_!" at each cracker, And, when 'twas all o'er, the dear man saw us out With the air I _will_ say, of a Prince, to our _fiacre_.

Now, hear me--this Stranger,--it may be mere folly-- But _who_ do you think we all think it is, DOLLY?

Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia, Who's here now incog.[7]--he, who made so much fuss, you Remember, in London, with BLUCHER and PLATOF, When SAL was near kissing old BLUCHER'S cravat off!

Pa says he's come here to look after his money, (Not taking things now as he used under BONEY,) Which suits with our friend, for BOB saw him, he swore, Looking sharp to the silver received at the door.

Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen (Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen) Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is, Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris.

Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief Should--unless 'twould to utter despairing its folly push-- Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief By rattling, as BOB says, "like shot thro' a holly-bush."

I must now bid adieu;--only think, DOLLY, think If this _should_ be the King--I have scarce slept a wink With imagining how it will sound in the papers, And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge, When they read that Count RUPPIN, to drive away vapors, Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss BIDDY FUDGE.

_Nota Bene_.--Papa's almost certain 'tis he-- For he knows the Legitimate cut and could see, In the way he went poising and managed to tower So erect in the car, the true _Balance of Power_.

[1] The oldest, most celebrated, and most noisy of the singers at the French Opera.

[2] The Theatre de la Porte St. Martin which was built when the Opera House in the Palais Royal was burned down, in 1781.

[3] "The Old Testament," says the theatrical Critic in the _Gazette de France_, "is a mine of gold for the managers of our small play-houses. A mult.i.tude crowd round the Theatre de la Gaiete every evening to see the Pa.s.sage of the Red Sea."

[4] A piece very popular last year, called "_Daniel, ou La Fosse aux Lions_."

[5] Madame Begrand, a finely formed woman, who acts in "Susanna and the Elders,"--"_L'Amour et la Folie_." etc.

[6] According to Dr. Cotterel the cars go at the rate of forty-eight miles an hour.

[7] His Majesty, who was at Paris under the travelling name of Count Ruppin, is known to have gone down the Beaujon very frequently.

LETTER VI.

FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO HIS BROTHER TIM FUDGE, ESQ., BARRISTER AT LAW.

Yours of the 12th received, just now-- Thanks, for the hint, my trusty brother!

'Tis truly pleasing to see how We, FUDGES, stand by one another.

But never fear--I know my chap, And he knows _me_ too--_verb.u.m sap_, My Lord and I are kindred spirits, Like in our ways as two young ferrets; Both fas.h.i.+oned, as that supple race is, To twist into all sorts of places;-- Creatures lengthy, lean and hungering, Fond of blood and _burrow_-mongering.

As to my Book in 91, Called "Down with Kings, or, Who'd have thought it?"

Bless you! the Book's long dead and gone,-- Not even the Attorney-General bought it.

And tho' some few seditious tricks I played in '95 and '6, As you remind me in your letter, His Lords.h.i.+p likes me all the better;-- We proselytes, that come with news full, Are, as he says, so vastly useful!

REYNOLDS and I--(you know TOM REYNOLDS-- Drinks his claret, keeps his chaise-- Lucky the dog that first unkennels Traitors and Luddites now-a-days; Or who can help to _bag_ a few, When SIDMOUTH wants a death, or two;) REYNOLDS and I and some few more, All men like us of _information_, Friends whom his Lords.h.i.+p keeps in store, As _under_-saviors of the nation[1]-- Have, formed a Club this season, where His Lords.h.i.+p sometimes takes the chair, And gives us many a bright oration In praise of our sublime vocation; Tracing it up to great King MIDAS, Who, tho' in fable typified as A royal a.s.s, by grace, divine And right of ears, most asinine, Was yet no more, in fact historical, Than an exceeding well-bred tyrant; And these, his _ears_, but allegorical, Meaning Informers, kept at high rent-- Gem'men, who touched the Treasury glisteners, Like us, for being trusty listeners; And picking up each tale and fragment, For royal MIDAS'S Green Bag meant.

"And wherefore," said this best of Peers, "Should not the REGENT too have ears, "To reach as far, as long and wide as "Those of his model, good King MIDAS?"

This speech was thought extremely good, And (rare for him) was understood-- Instant we drank "The REGENT'S Ears,"