So now, with duty to the R—G—T, I am, dear Lord, Your most obedient, P. F. Hôtel Breteuil, Rue Rivoli. Neat lodgings-rather dear for me; But BIDDY said she thought 'twould look And BIDDY's right-besides, it curries That dates from Rue St. Honoré !* * See the Quarterly Review for May, 1816, where Mr. Hobhouse is accused of having written his book "in a back street of the French capital." LETTER III. FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD ESQ. 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 head-quarters of Prog! Talk of England-her famed Magna Charta, I swear, is A humbug, a flam, to the Carte* 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; * The Bill of Fare. — Véry, a well-known Restaurateur. Mr. Bob alludes particularly, I presume, to the famous Jury Dégustateur, which used to assemble at the Hotel of M. Grimod de la Reynière, and of which this modern Archestratus has given an account in his Almanach des Gourmands, cinquième année, p. 78. 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 R-G-T, there's Louis-and BONEY tried too, But, tho' somewhat imperial in paunch, 'twouldn't do: He improv'd, 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 stayAs 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, * The fairy-land of cookery and gourmandise; "Pais, où le ciel offre les viandes toutes cuites, et où, comme on parle, les alouettes tombent toutes roties. Du Latin, coquère.”— Duchat. Where for hail they have bon-bons, and claret for rain, And the skaiters 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 oil'd, 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! *The process by which the liver of the unfortunate goose is enlarged, in order to produce that richest of all dainties, the foie gras, of which such renowned patés are made at Strasbourg and Toulouse, is thus described in the Cours Gastronomique : -"On déplume l'estomac des oies; on attache ensuite ces animaux aux chenets d'une cheminée, et on les nourrit devant le feu. La captivité et la chaleur donnent à ces volatiles, une maladie hépatique, qui fait gonfler leur foie," &c. p. 206. 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 à la fourchette. There, DICK, what a breakfast!—oh, not like your ghost Of a breakfast in England, your curst tea and toast* ; * Is Mr. Bob aware that his contempt for tea renders him liable to a charge of atheism? Such, at least, is the opinion cited in Christian. Falster. Amanitat. Philolog. - "Atheum interpretabatur hominem ad herbâ The aversum." He would not, I think, have been so irreverent to this beverage of scholars, if he had read Peter Petit's Poem in praise of Tea, addressed to the learned Huet or the Epigraphe which Pechlinus wrote for an altar he meant to dedicate to this herb —or the Anacreontics of Peter Francius, in which he calls Tea Θεαν, θεην, θεαιναν. The following passage from one of these Anacreontics will, I have no doubt, be gratifying to all true Theists. Θεοις, θεων τε πατρι, Σκύφοις εν μυρρινοισι, Καλαις χερεσσι κουραι. Which may be thus translated: Yes, let Hebe, ever young, |