[2] A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris.
LETTER II.
FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE LORD VISCOUNT CASTLEREAGH.
Paris.
At length, my Lord, I have the bliss
To date to you a line from this
"Demoralized" metropolis;
Where, by plebeians low and scurvy,
The throne was turned quite topsy-turvy,
And Kingship, tumbled from its seat,
"Stood prostrate" at the people's feet;
Where (still to use your Lordship's tropes)
The _level_ of obedience _slopes_
Upward and downward, as the _stream_
Of _hydra_ faction _kicks the beam_![1]
Where the poor Palace changes masters
Quicker than a snake its skin,
And LOUIS is rolled out on castors,
While BONEY'S borne on shoulders in:--
But where, in every change, no doubt,
One special good your Lordship traces,--
That 'tis the _Kings_ alone turn out,
The _Ministers_ still keep their places.
How oft, dear Viscount CASTLEREAGH,
I've thought of thee upon the way,
As in my _job_ (what place could be
More apt to wake a thought of thee?)--
Or, oftener far, when gravely sitting
Upon my dicky, (as is fitting
For him who writes a Tour, that he
May more of men and manners see.)
I've thought of thee and of thy glories,
Thou guest of Kings and King of Tories!
Reflecting how thy fame has grown
And spread, beyond man's usual share,
At home, abroad, till thou art known,
Like Major SEMPLE, everywhere!
And marvelling with what powers of breath
Your Lordship, having speeched to death
Some hundreds of your fellow-men,
Next speeched to Sovereign's ears,--and when
All Sovereigns else were dozed, at last
Speeched down the Sovereign of Belfast.
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