Dear Dick, While Old Donaldson'S[1] Mending My Stays,-- Which I Knew Would Go Smash With Me One Of These Days, And, At Yesterday'S Dinner, When, Full To The Throttle, We Lads Had Begun Our Dessert With A Bottle Of Neat Old Constantia, On My Leaning Back Just To Order Another, By Jove, I Went Crack!-- Or, As Honest Tom Said, In His Nautical Phrase, "Damn My Eyes, Bob, In Doubling The Cape You've Missed Stays."[2] So, Of Course, As No Gentleman'S Seen Out Without Them, They're Now At The Schneider'S[3]--And, While He's About Them, Here Goes For A Letter, Post-Haste, Neck And Crop. Let Us See--In My Last I Was--Where Did I Stop? Oh! I Know--At The Boulevards, As Motley A Road As Man Ever Would Wish A Day'S Lounging Upon; With Its Caf'S And Gardens, Hotels And Pagodas, Its Founts And Old Counts Sipping Beer In The Sun: With Its Houses Of All Architectures You Please, From The Grecian And Gothic, Dick, Down By Degrees To The Pure Hottentot Or The Brighton Chinese; Where In Temples Antique You May Breakfast Or Dinner It, Lunch At A Mosque And See Punch From A Minaret. Then, Dick, The Mixture Of Bonnets And Bowers. Of Foliage And Frippery, Fiacres And Flowers, Green-Grocers, Green Gardens--One Hardly Knows Whether 'Tis Country Or Town, They're So Messed Up Together! And There, If One Loves The Romantic, One Sees Jew Clothes-Men, Like Shepherds, Reclined Under Trees; Or Quidnuncs, On Sunday, Just Fresh From The Barber'S, Enjoying Their News And Groseille[4] In Those Arbors; While Gayly Their Wigs, Like The Tendrils, Are Curling, And Founts Of Red Currant-Juice[5] Round Them Are Purling. Here, Dick, Arm In Arm As We Chattering Stray, And Receive A Few Civil "Goddems" By The Way,-- For, 'Tis Odd, These Mounseers,--Tho' We've Wasted Our Wealth And Our Strength, Till We've Thrown Ourselves Into A Phthisic;-- To Cram Down Their Throats An Old King For Their Health. As We Whip Little Children To Make Them Take Physic;-- Yet, Spite Of Our Good-Natured Money And Slaughter, They Hate Us, As Beelzebub Hates Holy-Water! But Who The Deuce Cares, Dick, As Long As They Nourish Us Neatly As Now, And Good Cookery Flourishes-- Long As, By Bayonets Protected, We Natties May Have Our Full Fling At Their Salmis And P'T'S? And, Truly, I Always Declared 'Twould Be Pity To Burn To The Ground Such A Choice-Feeding City. Had Dad But His Way, he'd Have Long Ago Blown The Whole Batch To Old Nick--And The People, I Own, If For No Other Cause Than Their Curst Monkey Looks, Well Deserve A Blow-Up--But Then, Damn It, Their Cooks! As To Marshals, And Statesmen, And All Their Whole Lineage, For Aught That I Care, You May Knock Them To Spinage; But Think, Dick, Their Cooks--What A Loss To Mankind! What A Void In The World Would Their Art Leave Behind! Their Chronometer Spits--Their Intense Salamanders-- Their Ovens--Their Pots, That Can Soften Old Ganders, All Vanisht For Ever,--Their Miracles O'Er, And The Marmite Perp'Tuelle Bubbling No More! Forbid It, Forbid It, Ye Holy Allies! Take Whatever Ye Fancy--Take Statues, Take Money-- But Leave Them, Oh Leave Them, Their Perigueux Pies, Their Glorious Goose-Livers And High Pickled Tunny! Tho' Many, I Own, Are The Evils They've Brought Us, Tho' Royalty'S Here On Her Very Last Legs, Yet Who Can Help Loving The Land That Has Taught Us Six Hundred And Eighty-Five Ways To Dress Eggs? You See, Dick, In Spite Of Them Cries Of "God-Dam," "Coquin Anglais," Et Cetera--How Generous I Am! And Now (To Return, Once Again, To My "Day," Which Will Take Us All Night To Get Thro' In This Way.) From The Boulevards We Saunter Thro' Many A Street, Crack Jokes On The Natives--Mine, All Very Neat-- Leave The Signs Of The Times To Political Fops, And Find Twice As Much Fun In The Signs Of The Shops;-- Here, A Louis Dix-Huit--There, A Martinmas Goose, (Much In Vogue Since Your Eagles Are Gone Out Of Use)-- Henri Quatres In Shoals, And Of Gods A Great Many, But Saints Are The Most On Hard Duty Of Any:-- St. Tony, Who Used All Temptations To Spurn, Here Hangs O'Er A Beer-Shop, And Tempts In His Turn; While There St. Venecia[6] Sits Hemming And Frilling Her Holy Mouchoir O'Er The Door Of Some Milliner;-- Saint Austin'S The "Outward And Visible Sign "Of An Inward" Cheap Dinner, And Pint Of Small Wine; While St. Denys Hangs Out O'Er Some Hatter Of Ton, And Possessing, Good Bishop, No Head Of His Own,[7] Takes An Interest In Dandies, Who've Got--Next To None! Then We Stare Into Shops--Read The Evening'S Affiches-- Or, If Some, Who're Lotharios In Feeding, Should Wish Just To Flirt With A Luncheon, (A Devilish Bad Trick, As It Takes Off The Bloom Of One'S Appetite, Dick.) To The Passage Des--What D'Ye Call'T--Des Panoramas[8] We Quicken Our Pace, And There Heartily Cram As Seducing Young P'T'S, As Ever Could Cozen One Out Of One'S Appetite, Down By The Dozen. We Vary, Of Course--Petits P'T'S Do One Day, The Next We've Our Lunch With The Gauffrier Hollandais,[9] That Popular Artist, Who Brings Out, Like Scott, His Delightful Productions So Quick, Hot And Hot; Not The Worse For The Exquisite Comment That Follows,-- Divine Maresquino, Which--Lord, How One Swallows! Once More, Then, We Saunter Forth After Our Snack, Or Subscribe A Few Francs For The Price Of A Fiacre, And Drive Far Away To The Old Montagnes Russes, Where We Find A Few Twirls In The Car Of Much Use To Regenerate The Hunger And Thirst Of Us Sinners, Who've Lapst Into Snacks--The Perdition Of Dinners. And Here, Dick--In Answer To One Of Your Queries, About Which We Gourmands Have Had Much Discussion-- I've Tried All These Mountains, Swiss, French, And Ruggieri'S, And Think, For Digestion,[10] There'S None Like The Russian; So Equal The Motion--So Gentle, Tho' Fleet-- It In Short Such A Light And Salubrious Scamper Is, That Take Whom You Please--Take Old Louis Dix-Huit, And Stuff Him--Ay, Up To The Neck--With Stewed Lampreys,[11] So Wholesome These Mounts, Such A Solvent I've Found Them, That, Let Me But Rattle The Monarch Well Down Them, The Fiend, Indigestion, Would Fly Far Away, And The Regicide Lampreys[12] Be Foiled Of Their Prey! Such, Dick, Are The Classical Sports That Content Us, Till Five O'Clock Brings On That Hour So Momentous, That Epoch--But Whoa! My Lad--Here Comes The Schneider, And, Curse Him, Has Made The Stays Three Inches Wider-- Too Wide By An Inch And A Half--What A Guy! But, No Matter--'Twill All Be Set Right By-And-By. As We've Massinot'S[13] Eloquent Carte To Eat Still Up. An Inch And A Half'S But A Trifle To Fill Up. So--Not To Lose Time, Dick--Here Goes For The Task; Au Revoir, My Old Boy--Of The Gods I But Ask That My Life, Like "The Leap Of The German," May Be, "Du Lit ' La Table, D'La Table Du Lit!" R. F.