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
R. FUDGE.
[1] The Bill of Fare.--Véry, a well-known _Restaurateur_.
[2] The favorite wine of Napoleon.
[3] A celebrated restaurateur.