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or fear the chubby, tottering thing Should fall, if left there loney-poney: 'hat England, too, the more her debts, The more she spends, the richer gets : And that the Irish, grateful nation'

Remember when by thee reign'd over,
And bless thee for their flagellation,
AS HELOISA did her lover!

That Poland, left for Russia's lunch,

Upon the side-board snug reposes; While Saxony 's as pleased as Punch,

And Norway « on a bed of roses !» That, as for some few million souls,

Transferr'd by contract, bless the clods! If half were strangled-Spaniards, Poles,

And Frenchmen-'t would n't make such odds,

So Europe's goodly royal ones
Sit easy on their sacred thrones;
SO FERDINAND embroiders gaily,
And ***** cats his salmi daily;
So time is left to Emperor SANDY
To be half Cæsar and half Dandy;

And G-GE the R-G-T (who 'd forget
That doughtiest chieftain of the set?)
Hath wherewithal for trinkets new,

For dragons, after Chinese models,
And chambers where Duke Ho and Soo

Might come and nine times knock their noddles!

All this my Quarto 'll prove-much more
Than Quarto ever proved before-
In reasoning with the Post I'll vie,
My facts the Courier shall supply,
My jokes V-NS-T, P-LE my sense,
And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence!

My Journal, penn'd by fits and starts, On BIDDY'S back or BOBBY's shoulder (My son, my Lord, a youth of parts,

Who longs to be a small place-holder), Is-though I say 't that should n't say— Extremely good; and, by the way, One extract from it-only oneTo show its spirit, and I've done.

« Jul. thirty-first. Went, after snack,
To the cathedral of St Denny;
Sigh'd o'er the kings of
ages back,

And-gave the old concierge a penny! (Mem.-Must see Rheims, much famed, 't is said, For making kings and gingerbread.)

Was shown the tomb where lay, so stately,

A little B***bon buried lately,

Thrice high and puissant, we were told,
Though only twenty-four hours old!3
Hear this, thought I, ye jacobins;

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The argument's quite new, you see, And proves exactly Q. E. D.—

So, now, with duty to the R-g—t,

I am, dear Lord,

Your most obedient,

P. F.

Hotel Breteuil, Rue Rivoli.

Neat lodgings-rather dear for me;

But Biddy said she thought 't would look Genteeler thus to date my book,

And Biddy 's right-besides, it curries Some favour with our friends at Murray's, Who scorn what any man can say,

That dates from Rue St Honoré.'

LETTER III.

FROM MR BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD ——, ESQ.

O 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 Carte2 at old Very's;
And as for your Juries-who would not set o'er 'em.
A jury of tasters,3 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 bye, Dick, I fatten, but n'importe for that, 'T is the mode-your legitimates always get fat; There's the R-G-T, there's *****, and B'n'y tried too, But, though somewhat imperial in paunch, 't wouldn't do: lle improved, indeed, much in this point when he wed, But he ne'er grew right r'y'lly 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,4
That Elysium of all that is friand and nice,
Where for hail they have bons-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!5

reminds us of what Pliny says, in speaking of Trajan's great qualities:- nonne longe lateque Principem ostentant?»

1 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.

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.

4 The fairy-land of cookery and gourmandise; Pays, où le ciel offre les viandes toutes cuites, et où, comme on parle, les alouettes tombent toutes roties. Du Latin, coquere.-DACHAT.

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 pâtés are made at Strasbourg and Toulouse,

>

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 The collar sticks out from the neck such a space,

And coats-how I wish, if it would n't distress 'em,
They'd club for old B--M-L, from Calais, to dress 'em!

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!—
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 déjeuner à 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 cham-
pagne!

That you

'd swear 't was 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, aud 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 for dinner:
So no more at present-short time for adorning-
My day must be finish'd some other fine morning.
Now, hey for old Beauvilliers' 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-

Then some glasses of Beaune, to dilute—or, mayhap,
Chambertin,' which, you know 's the pet tipple of Nap, Not a step, Dick, as sure as my name is

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 even W-TK-N's, for sake of the end

on 't)

A neat glass of parfait-amour, which one sips
Just as if bottled velvet' tipp'd 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 air'd 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 One;
A laced hat, worsted stockings, and-noble old soul!-
A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole;
Just such as our PR-E, who nor reason nor fun dreads,
Inflicts, without even a court-martial, on hundreds, 3
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

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LETTER IV.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO

R. FUDGE.

<< RETURN!»-no, never, while the withering hand
Of bigot power is on that hapless land;
While for the faith my fathers held to God,
Even in the fields where free those fathers trode,
I am proscribed, and-like the spot left bare
In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair
Amidst their mirth that slavery had been there—1
On all I love-home, parents, friends,-I trace
The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!
No!-let them stay, who in their country's pangs
See nought but food for factions and harangues;
Who yearly kneel before their master's doors,
And hawk their wrongs as beggars do their sores;
Still let
your

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3*

Still hope and suffer, all who can!--but I,
Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly.
But whither?-every where the scourge pursues
Turn where he will, the wretched wanderer views,
In the bright, broken hopes of all his race,
Countless reflexions of the oppressor's face!
Every where gallant hearts, and spirits true,
Are served up victims to the vile and few;
While E******, everywhere—the general foe
Of truth and freedom, wheresoe'er they glow-
Is first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow!
O E******! could such poor revenge atone
For wrongs that well might claim the deadliest one;

A celebrated Restaurateur.

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

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

Were it a vengeance, sweet enough to sate
The wretch who flies from thy intolerant hate,
To hear his curses, on such barbarous sway,
Echoed where'er he bends his cheerless way;
Could this content him, every lip he meets
Teems for his vengeance with such poisonous sweets;
Were this his luxury, never is thy name
Pronounced, but he doth banquet on thy shame;
Hears maledictions ring from every side
Upon that grasping power, that selfish pride,
Which vaunts its own, and scorns all rights beside;
That low and desperate envy which, to blast
A neighbour's blessings, risks the few thou hast ;-
That monster, self, too gross to be conceal'd,
Which ever lurks behind thy proffer'd shield;
That faithless craft, which, in thy hour of need,
Can court the slave, can swear he shall be freed,
Yet basely spurns him, when thy point is gain'd,
Back to his masters, ready gagg'd and chain'd!
Worthy associate of that band of kings,

That royal, ravening flock, whose vampire wings
O'er sleeping Europe treacherously brood,
And fan her into dreams of promised good,
Of hope, of freedom-but to drain her blood!
If thus to hear thee branded be a bliss

Who

Who, proud to kiss each separate rod of power,
Bless, while he reigns, the minion of the hour;
Worship each would-be God, that o'er them moves,
And take the thundering of his brass for Jove's!
If this be wisdom, then farewell, my books,
Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye classic brooks,
Which fed my soul with currents, pure and fair,
Of living truth, that now must stagnate there!-
Instead of themes that touch the lyre with light,
Instead of Greece, and her immortal fight
For liberty, which once awaked my strings,
Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings,
The High L'gitates, the Holy Band,
Who, bolder even than he of Sparta's land,
Against whole millions, panting to be free,
Would guard the pass of right-line tyranny!
Instead of him, the Athenian bard, whose blade
Had stood the onset which his pen pourtray'd,
Welcome

And, 'stead of Aristides-woe the day

Such names should mingle !-welcome C――gh! Here break we off; at this unhallow'd name,

That vengeance loves, there's yet more sweet than this,- Like priests of old, when words ill-omen'd came. That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart,

Made thee the fallen and tarnish'd thing thou art;
That, as the Centaur1 gave the infected vest,
In which he died, to rack his conqueror's breast,
We sent thee C-GH-as heaps of dead
Have slain their slayers by the pest they spread,
So hath our land breathed out-thy fame to dim,
Thy strength to waste, and rot thee, soul and limb-
Her worst infections all condensed in him!

When will the world shake off such yokes! oh when
Will that redeeming day shine out on men,
That shall behold them rise, erect and free
As Heaven and Nature meant mankind should be!
When Reason shall no longer blindly bow
To the vile pagod things, that o'er her brow,
Like him of Jaghernaut, drive trampling now;
Nor conquest dare to desolate God's earth;
Nor drunken Victory, with a Nero's mirth,
Strike her lewd harp amidst a people's groans;-
But, built on love, the world's exalted thrones
Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given-
Those bright, those sole legitimates of Heaven!

When will this be;-or, oh! is it in truth,
But one of those sweet day-break dreams of youth,
In which the Soul, as round her morning springs,
Twixt sleep and waking, sees such dazzling things!
And must the hope, as vain as it is bright,
Be all given up?-and are they only right,
Who say this world of thinking souls was made
To be by kings partition'd, truck'd, and weigh'd
In scales that, ever since the world begun,
Have counted millions but as dust to one?
Are they the only wise, who laugh to scorn
The rights, the freedom to which man was born?

Membra et Herculeos toros

Urit laes Nessea.—

Ille, ille victor vincitur.-Senec, Hercul. OEL.

My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell, Thoughts that

Thoughts that could patience hold-'t were wiser far To leave still hid and burning where they are!

LETTER V.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY

WHAT a time since I wrote!—I'm a sad naughty girl—
Though, 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 trimmings of that which I had home last week!
It is call'd-I forget-à la-something, which sounded
Like alicampane-but, in truth, I'm confounded
And bother'd 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 à la Psyché and curls a la braise.—
But, in short dear, I'm trick'd out quite à la française,
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 does n't run through
one!"

Pa says (and you know, love, his book 's to make out
Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about)
That this passion 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, 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 God 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 base to a cholic!

But, the dancing-ah parlez moi, Dolly, de
ça-
There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.
Such beauty-such grace-oh ye sylphs of romance!
Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if she has
One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance
Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias!
Fanny 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 dæmons 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-ob, Dolly! between you and I,
It's as well for my peace that there 's nobody nigh
To make love to me then-you've a soul, and can judge
What a crisis 't would 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 Saint Martin; 2
Quite charming-and very religious-what folly
To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly,
When here one beholds so correctly and rightly,
The Testament turn'd into melo-drames nightly;
And doubtless, so fond they're of scriptural facts,
They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.
Here Daniel, in pantomime, 3 bids bold defiance
To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff'd lions,
While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,
In very thin clothing, and but little of it;-

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

The Theatre de la Porte St Martin, which was built when the Opera-House in the Palais Royal was burned down, in 1781.-A few days after this dreadful fire, which lasted more than a week, and in which several persons perished, the Parisian élégantes displayed flame-coloured dresses, couleur feu de l'Opéra !» -Dulaure, Curiosités de Paris.

A piece very popular last year, called Daniel, on la Fosse aux Lions. The following scene will give an idea of the daring sublimity of these scriptural pantomimes. • Scène 20.-La fournaise de vient un berceau de nuages azurés, au fond duquel est un groupe de nuages plus lumineux, et au milieu 'Jehovah' au centre d'un cercle de rayons brillans, qui annonce la présence de l'Eternel..

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Here Bégrand, who shines 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 is Eve-angele

But, in short, dear, 't would take me a month to recie
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, 2 a place where-I doubt
If I well can describe-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 through
This delightfully dangerous journey, hold two.
Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether

You'll venture down with him-you smile—'t is a match;

In an instant you're seated, and down both together
Go, thundering, as if you went post to old Scratch!3
Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remark'd
On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embark'd,
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 Werter-faced man,
With mustachios that gave (what we read of so oft)
The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft,
As Hyænas 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 little course»-though I scarce understood
What he wish'd me to do, I said, thank him I would.
Off we set-and, though 'faith, dear, I hardly knew
whether

For 'twas like heaven and earth, Dolly, coming toge
My head or my heels were the uppermost then,

ther,

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, through the gardens 4 we saunter'd

about

Saw the fire-works, exclaim'd « magnifique !» at each cracker,

And when 't was all o'er, the dear man saw us out With the air, I will say, of a prince, to our r fiacre.

1 Madame Bégrand, a finely-formed woman, who acts in « Susanna and the Elders, « L'Amour et la Folie, etc. etc.

The Promenades Aériennes, or French Mountains.-See a description of this singular and fantastic place of amusement, in a pamphlet, truly worthy of it, by F. F. Cotterel, Médecin, Docteur de la Faculté de Paris, etc, etc.

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

4 In the Café attached to these gardens there are to be (as Dr Cotterel informs as) « douze négres, très-alertes, qui contrasteront, par l'ébène de leur peau avec la teint de lis et de roses de n s belles. Les glaces et les sorbets servis par une main bien noire, fera davantage ressortir l'albâtre des bras arrondis de celles-ci. - P. 12.

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.'-he, who made such a fuss,

you

Remember, in London, with Blucher and Platoff,
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 it would to utter despairing its folly
push-

Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief

By rattling, as Bob says, « like shot through a hollybush.»

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 va

pours,

Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss Biddy Fudge.

Nota Pene.-Papa's almost certain 't is he-
For he knows the L'gitate cut, and could see,
In the way he went poising, and managed to tower
So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power.

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!

"T is truly pleasing to see how

We Fudges stand by one another.
But never fear--I know my chap,
And he knows me, too-verbum sap.
My Lord and I are kindred spirits,
Like in our ways as two young ferrets;
Both fashion'd, as that supple race is,
To twist into all sort of places;-
Creatures lengthy, lean, and hungering,
Fond of blood and burrow-mongering.

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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 S-D--TH wants a death or two);
Reynolds and I, and some few more,

All men like us of information,
Friends, whom his Lordship keeps in store,
As under-saviours of the nation-
Have form'd a Club this season, where
His Lordship 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 though in fable typified as
A royal Ass, 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-2
Gemmen, who touch'd 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 R-G-T too have ears,3
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 R-G-r's Ears,»
With three times three illustrious cheers,

That made the room resound like thunder«The R-G-T's Ears, and may he ne'er From foolish shame, like Midas, wear

Old paltry wigs to keep them under!» 4
This touch at our old friends, the Whigs,
Made us as merry all as grigs.

In short (I'll thank you not to mention
These things again) we get on gaily;
And, thanks to pension and Suspension,
Our little Club increases daily.
Castles, and Oliver, and such,
Who don't as yet full salary touch,

Nor keep their chaise and pair, nor buy

Houses and lands, like Tom and I,

Lord C.'s tribute to the character of his friend, Mr Reynolds, will long be remembered with equal credit to both.

* This interpretation of the fable of Midas's ears seems the most probable of any, and is thus stated in Hoffman: « Hac allegoria significatum, Midam, utpote tyrannum, subauscultatores dimittere solitum, per quos, quæcunque per omnem regionem vel fierent, vel dicerentur, cognosceret, nimirum illis utens aurium vice.» 3 Brossette, in a note on this line of Boileau,

Midas, le roi Midas a des oreilles d'âne,

tells us, that M. Perrault le Médecin voulut faire à notre auteur un crime d'état de ce vers, comme d'une maligne allusion an Roi.” I trust, however, that no one will suspect the line in the text of any such indecorous allusion.

4 It was not under wigs, but tiaras, that King Midas endeavoured to conceal these appendages:

Tempora purpureis tentat velare tiaris.

OVID.

The Noble Giver of the toast, however, had evidently, with his usual clearness, confounded King Midas, Mr Liston, and the P-ce R—B-t together.

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