The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 260

[6] "I remember," says Bernier, "that all the Omrahs expressed great joy that the King weighed two pounds more now than the year preceding."-- Another author tells us that "Fatness, as well as a very large head, is considered, throughout India, as one of the most precious gifts of heaven." An enormous skull is absolutely revered, and the happy owner is looked up to as a superior being. To a _Prince_ a joulter head is invaluable."--_Oriental Field Sports_.

[7] Major Cartwright.

[8] The name of the first worthy who set up the trade of informer at Rome (to whom our Olivers and Castleses ought to erect a statue) was Roma.n.u.s Hispo.

[9] Short boots so called.

[10] The _open countenance_, recommended by Lord Chesterfield.

[11] Mr. Fudge is a little mistaken here. It was _not_ Grimaldi, but some very inferior performer, who played this part of "Lord Morley" in the Pantomime,--so much to the horror of the distinguished Earl of that name.

LETTER X.

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

Well, it _isn't_ the King, after all, my dear creature!

But _don't_ you go laugh, now--there's nothing to quiz in't-- For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature, He _might_ be a King, DOLL, tho', hang him, he isn't.

At first, I felt hurt, for I wisht it, I own, If for no other cause but to vex Miss MALONE,-- (The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here, Showing off with _such_ airs, and a real Cashmere, While mine's but a paltry, old rabbit-skin, dear!) But Pa says, on deeply considering the thing, "I am just as well pleased it should _not_ be the King; "As I think for my BIDDY, so _gentille_ and _jolie_.

"Whose charms may their price in an _honest_ way fetch, "That a Brandenburgh"--(what _is_ a Brandenburgh, DOLLY?)-- "Would be, after all, no such very great catch.

"If the REGENT indeed"--added he, looking sly-- (You remember that comical squint of his eye) But I stopt him with "La, Pa, how _can_ you say so, "When the REGENT loves none but old women, you know!"

Which is fact, my dear DOLLY--we, girls of eighteen, And so slim--Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen: And would like us much better as old-as, as old As that Countess of DESMOND, of whom I've been told That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten, And was killed by a fall from a cherry-tree then!

What a frisky old girl! but--to come to my lover, Who, tho' not a King, is a _hero_ I'll swear,-- You shall hear all that's happened, just briefly run over, Since that happy night, when we whiskt thro' the air!

Let me see--'twas on Sat.u.r.day--yes, DOLLY, yes-- From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss; When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage, Whose journey, BOB says, is so like Love and Marriage, "Beginning gay, desperate, das.h.i.+ng, down-hilly, "And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!"[1]

Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night thro'; And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you, With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet, I set out with Papa, to see Louis DIX-HUIT Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys, Who get up a small concert of shrill _Vive le Rois_- And how vastly genteeler, my dear, even this is, Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses!

The gardens seemed full--so, of Course, we walkt o'er 'em, 'Mong orange-trees, clipt into town-bred decorum, And daphnes and vases and many a statue There staring, with not even a st.i.tch on them, at you!

The ponds, too, we viewed--stood awhile on the brink To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes-- "_Live bullion_," says merciless BOB, "which, I think, "Would, if _coined_, with a little _mint_ sauce, be delicious!"

But _what_, DOLLY, what, is the gay orange-grove, Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love?

In vain did I wildly explore every chair Where a thing _like_ a man was--no lover sat there!

In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast At the whiskers, mustachios and wigs that went past, To obtain if I could but a glance at that curl,-- A glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl, As the lock that, Pa says,[2]is to Mussulman given, For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!"

Alas, there went by me full many a quiz, And mustachios in plenty, but nothing like his!

Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day,"-- Thought of the words of TOM MOORE'S Irish Melody, Something about the "green spot of delight"

(Which, you know, Captain MACKINTOSH sung to us one day): Ah DOLLY, _my_ "spot" was that Sat.u.r.day night, And its verdure, how fleeting, had withered by Sunday!

We dined at a tavern--La, what do I say?

If BOB was to know!--a _Restaurateur's_, dear; Where your _properest_ ladies go dine every day, And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer.

Fine BOB (for he's really grown _super_-fine) Condescended for once to make one of the party; Of course, tho' but three, we had dinner for nine, And in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty.

Indeed, DOLL, I know not how 'tis, but, in grief, I have always found eating a wondrous relief; And BOB, who's in love, said he felt the same, _quite_-- "My sighs," said he, "ceased with the first gla.s.s I drank you; "The _lamb_ made me tranquil, the _puffs_ made me light, "And--now that all's o'er--why, I'm--pretty well, thank you!"

To _my_ great annoyance, we sat rather late; For BOBBY and Pa had a furious debate About singing and cookery--BOBBY, of course, Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force; And Pa saying, "G.o.d only knows which is worst, "The French Singers or Cooks, but I wish us well over it-- "What with old LA'S and VeRY, I'm curst "If _my_ head or my stomach will ever recover it!"

'Twas dark when we got to the Boulevards to stroll, And in vain did I look 'mong the street Macaronis, When, sudden it struck me--last hope of my soul-- That some angel might take the dear man to TORTONI'S![3]

We entered--and, scarcely had BOB, with an air, For a _grappe a la jardiniere_ called to the waiters, When, oh DOLL! I saw him--my hero was there (For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters), A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him,[4]

And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him!

Oh! DOLLY, these heroes--what creatures they are; In the _boudoir_ the same as in fields full of slaughter!

As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car, As when safe at TORTONI'S, o'er iced currant water!

He joined us--imagine, dear creature, my ecstasy-- Joined by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see!

BOB wished to treat him with Punch _a la glace_, But the sweet fellow swore that my _beaute_, my _grace_, And my _ja-ne-sais-quoi_ (then his whiskers he twirled) Were to him, "on de top of all Ponch in de vorld."-- How pretty!--tho' oft (as of course it must be) Both his French and his English are Greek, DOLL, to me.

But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did; And happier still, when 'twas fixt, ere we parted, That, if the next day should be _pastoral_ weather.

We all would set off, in French buggies, _together_, To see _Montmorency_--that place which, you know, Is so famous for cherries and JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU.

His card then he gave us--the _name_, rather creased-- But 'twas CALICOT--something--a Colonel, at least!

After which--sure there never was hero so civil--he Saw us safe home to our door in _Rue Rivoli_, Where his _last_ words, as, at parting, he threw A soft look o'er his shoulders, were--"How do you do!"

But, lord!--there's Papa for the post--I'm so vext-- _Montmorency_ must now, love, be kept for my next.

That dear Sunday night--I was charmingly drest, And--_so_ providential!--was looking my best; Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce--and my frills, You've no notion how rich--(tho' Pa has by the bills) And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near, Colonel CALICOT eyeing the cambric, my dear.

Then the flowers in my bonnet--but, la! it's in vain-- So, good-by, my sweet DOLL--I shall soon write again.

B. F.

_Nota bene_--our love to all neighbors about-- Your Papa in particular--how is his gout?

P.S.--I've just opened my letter to say, In your next you must tell me, (now _do_, DOLLY, pray, For I hate to ask BOB, he's so ready to quiz,) What sort of a thing, dear, a _Brandenburgh_ is.

[1] The cars, on return, are dragged up slowly by a chain.

[2] For this sc.r.a.p of knowledge "Pa" was, I suspect, indebted to a note upon Volney's "Ruins:"

"It is by this tuft of hair (on the crown of the head), worn by the majority of Mussulmans, that the Angel of the Tomb is to take the elect and carry them to Paradise."

[3] A fas.h.i.+onable _cafe glacier_ on the Italian Boulevards.

[4] "You eat your ice at Tortoni's," says Mr. Scott, "under a Grecian group."

LETTER XI.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO ----.

Yes, 'twas a cause, as n.o.ble and as great As ever hero died to vindicate-- A Nation's right to speak a Nation's voice, And own no power but of the Nation's choice!

Such was the grand, the glorious cause that now Hung trembling on NAPOLEON'S single brow; Such the sublime arbitrament, that poured, In patriot eyes, a light around his sword, A hallowing light, which never, since the day Of his young victories, had illumed its way!

Oh 'twas not then the time for tame debates, Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates; When he, who late had fled your Chieftain's eye.

As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly,[1]

Denounced against the land, that spurned his chain, Myriads of swords to bind it fast again-- Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track Thro' your best blood his path of vengeance back; When Europe's Kings, that never yet combined But (like those upper Stars, that, when conjoined, Shed war and pestilence,) to scourge mankind, Gathered around, with hosts from every sh.o.r.e, Hating NAPOLEON much, but Freedom more, And, in that coming strife, appalled to see The world yet left one chance for liberty!-- No, 'twas not _then_ the time to weave a net Of bondage round your Chief; to curb and fret Your veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight, When every hope was in his speed and might-- To waste the hour of action in dispute, And coolly plan how freedom's _boughs_ should shoot, When your Invader's axe was at the _root_!

No sacred Liberty! that G.o.d, who throws, Thy light around, like His own suns.h.i.+ne, knows How well I love thee and how deeply hate _All_ tyrants, upstart and Legitimate-- Yet, in that hour, were France my native land, I would have followed, with quick heart and hand, NAPOLEON, NERO--ay, no matter whom-- To s.n.a.t.c.h my country from that d.a.m.ning doom, That deadliest curse that on the conquered waits-- A Conqueror's satrap, throned within her gates!