They inflict on potatoes?—oh! maître d'hôtel— I assure you, dear DOLLY, he knows them as well As if nothing else all his life he had eat,

Though a bit of them BOBBY has never touch'd yet; But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks, As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and books.

As to Pa, what d'ye think?-mind, it's all entre nous, But you know, love, I never keep secrets from you— Why, he's writing a book-what! a tale? a romance? No, ye Gods, would it were!—but his Travels in France;

At the special desire (he let out t'other day)

Of his great friend and patron, my
Lord C-STL-R-GH,
Who said, "My dear FUDGE" I forget th'

exact words,

And, it's strange, no one ever remembers my Lord's;
But 'twas something to say that, as all must allow
A good orthodox work is much wanting just now,
To expound to the world the new-thingummie —
science,

Found out by the-what's-its-name-Holy Alliance,
And prove to mankind that their rights are but folly,
Their freedom a joke (which it is, you know, DOLLY),

"There's none," said his Lordship, "if I may be

judge,

Half so fit for this great undertaking as FUDGE!"

The matter's soon settled-Pa flies to the Row (The first stage your tourists now usually go), Settles all for his quarto-advertisements, praises— Starts post from the door, with his tablets-French phrases

"SCOTT's Visit," of course-in short, ev'ry thing he has

An author can want, except words and ideas:— And, lo! the first thing, in the spring of the year, IS PHIL. FUDGE at the front of a Quarto, my dear!

But, bless me, my paper's near out, so I'd better Draw fast to a close:-this exceeding long letter You owe to a déjeûner à la fourchette,

Which BOBBY would have, and is hard at it yet.— What's next? oh, the tutor, the last of the party, Young CONNOR-they say he's so like BONAPARTE, His nose and his chin-which Papa rather dreads, As the Bourbons, you know, are suppressing all heads

That resemble old NAP's, and who knows but their

honours

May think, in their fright, of suppressing poor
CONNOR'S ?

Au reste (as we say), the young lad's well enough,
Only talks much of Athens, Rome, virtue, and stuff;
A third cousin of ours, by the way—poor as Job
(Though of royal descent by the side of Mamma),
And for charity made private tutor to BOB ;-
Entre nous, too, a Papist-how lib'ral of Pa!

This is all, dear,-forgive me for breaking off thus, But BOB's déjeûner's done, and Papa's in a fuss.

P. S.

B. F.

How provoking of Pa! he will not let me stop
Just to run in and rummage some milliner's shop;
And my début in Paris, I blush to think on it,
Must now, DOLL, be made in a hideous low bonnet.
But Paris, dear Paris!-oh, there will be joy,

And romance, and high bonnets, and Madame Le
Roi!*

* A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris.

LETTER II.

FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ. TO THE LORD VISCOUNT C-ST-R-GH.

Paris.

Ar length, my Lord, I have the bliss

To date to you a line from this

"Demoraliz'd" metropolis;

Where, by plebeians low and scurvy,
The throne was turn'd 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 ! *

* This excellent imitation of the noble Lord's style shows how deeply Mr. Fudge must have studied his great original. Irish oratory, indeed, abounds with such startling peculiarities. Thus the eloquent Counsellor B- in describing some hypocritical pretender to charity, said, 'He put his hand in his breeches-pocket, like a crocodile, and," &c. &c.

Where the

poor Palace changes masters Quicker than a snake its skin,

And Louis is roll'd 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 C

-GH,

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, every where !