THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS.

Le Leggi della Maschera richiedono che una persona mascherata non sia salutata per nome da uno che la conosce malgrado il suo travestimento.

CASTIGLIONE.

PREFACE.

In what manner the following epistles came into my hands, it is not necessary for the public to know. It will be seen by Mr. FUDGE's second letter, that he is one of those gentlemen whose secret services in Ireland, under the mild ministry of my Lord C- -GH, have been so amply and gratefully remunerated. Like his friend and associate, THOMAS REYNOLDS, Esq. he had retired upon the reward of his honest industry; but has lately been induced to appear again in active life, and superintend the training of that Delatorian Cohort, which Lord S-DM-TH, in his wisdom and benevolence, has organized.

Whether Mr. FUDGE, himself, has yet made any discoveries, does not appear from the following| pages;-but much may be expected from a person of nis zeal and sagacity, and, indeed, to him, Lord S-DM-TH, and the Greenland-bound ships, the eyes of all lovers of discoveries are now most anxiously directed.

I regret that I have been obliged to omit Mr. BoB FUDGE's third letter, concluding the adventures of his Day, with the Dinner, Opera, etc. etc.-but, in consequence of some remarks upon Marinette's thin drapery, which, it was thought, might give offence to certain well-meaning persons, the manuscript was sent back to Paris for his revision, and had not returned when the last sheet was put to press.

It will not, I hope, be thought presumptuous, if II take this opportunity of complaining of a very serious injustice I have suffered from the public. Dr. KING wrote a treatise to prove that BENTLEY "was not the author of his own book," and a similar absurdity has been asserted of me, in almost all the best informed literary circles. With the name of the real author staring them in the face, they have yet persisted in attributing my works to other people; and the fame of the Twopenny Post Bag-such as it is-having hovered doubtfully over various persons, has at last settled upon the head of a certain little gentleman, who wears it, I understand, as complacently as if it actually belonged to him; without even the honesty of avowing, with his own favourite author, (he will excuse the pun)

Εγω δ' Ο ΜΩΡΟΥ ώρας

Βοησάμην μετωπω.

I can only add, that if any lady or gentleman, curious in such matters, will take the trouble of calling

I

at my lodgings, 245, Piccadilly, I shall have the ho
nour of assuring them, in propria persona, that I am-
his, or her,
Very obedient and very humble servant,
THOMAS BROWN, THE YOUNGER
April 17, 1818.

THE

FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS.

LETTER I.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY
OF CLONSKILTY, IN IRELAND.

Amiens.

DEAR Doll, while the tails of our horses are plaiting
Into very bad French is, as usual, translating
The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door,

His English resolve not to give a sou more,
A letter from France, with French pens and French
I sit down to write you a line-only think!—
How delightful! though, would you believe it, my
ink,
dear?

have seen nothing yet very wonderful here;
No adventure, no sentiment, far as we've come,
But the corn-fields and trees quite as dull as at home;
might just as well be at Clonskilty with you!
And, but for the post-boy, his boots and his queue,
In vain, at DESSEIN's, did I take from my trunk
That divine fellow, STERNE, and fall reading “The

In vain did I think of his charming dead Ass,
Monk!"
And remember the crust and the wallet-alas!
No monks can be had now for love or for money
(All owing, Pa says, to that infidel BONEY ;)
And, though one little Neddy we saw in our drive
Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive!
By the bye, though, at Calais, Papa had a touch
Of romance on the pier, which affected me much.
At the sight of that spot, where our darling *****
Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet1
(Modell'd out so exactly, and-God bless the mark!-
'Tis a foot, Dolly, worthy so Grand a M****que,)

1 To commemorate the landing of ***** ** ***** from
England, the impression of his foot is marked on the pier at
the spot.
Calais, and a pillar with an inscription raised opposite te

He exclaim'd "Oh mon R**!" and, with tear-drop- | And prove to mankind that their rights are but folly,

ping eye,

Stood to gaze on the spot-while some Jacobin, nigh,
Mutter'd out with a shrug (what an insolent thing!)
"Ma foi, he be right—'tis de Englishman's K**g;
And dat gros pied de cochon-begar, me vil say,
Dat de foot look mosh better, if turn'd toder way."
There's the pillar, too-Lord! I had nearly forgot―
What a charming idea!-raised close to the spot;
The mode being now (as you've heard, I suppose)
To build tombs over legs,' and raise pillars to toes.
This is all that's occurr'd sentimental as yet;
Except, indeed, some little flower-nymphs we've met,
Who disturb one's romance with pecuniary views,
Flinging flowers in your path, and then bawling for

sous!

And some picturesque beggars, whose multitudes seem
To recall the good days of the ancien regime,
All as ragged and brisk, you'll be happy to learn,
And as thin as they were in the time of dear STERNE.
Our party consists, in a neat Calais job,
Of papa and myself, Mr. CONNOR and BOB.
You remember how sheepish BoB look'd at Kilrandy,
But, Lord! he's quite alter'd-they've made him a
Dandy

A thing, you know, whisker'd, great-coated, and laced,
Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist:
Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scho-

lars,

With heads so immoveably stuck in shirt-collars, That seats like our music-stools soon must be found them,

To twirl, when the creatures may wish to look round
them!

In short, dear, "a Dandy" describes what I mean,
And BoB's far the best of the genus I've seen:
An improving young man, fond of learning, ambitious,
And goes now to Paris to study French dishes,
Whose names-think, how quick!—he already knows
pat,

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
Settles all for his quarto-advertisements, praises—
(The first stage your tourists now usually go,)
Starts post from the door, with his tablets-French
phrases-

"SCOTT's Visit," of course-in short, every 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 dejeuner a 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 BoN****TE,
His nose and his chin,-which Papa rather dreads,
As the B*****N's, you know, are suppressing all heads
That resemble old NAP's, and who knows but their

honours

How provoking of Pa! he will not let me stop
Just to run in and rummage some milliner's shop;
And my debut 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 la braise, petits patets, and-what d'ye call that
They inflict on potatoes? oh! maitre d'hotel-
I assure you, dear DOLLY, he knows them as well
As if nothing but these all his life he had ate,
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 and authors of books.
As to Pa, what d'ye think?-mind it's all entre nous, FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ. TO THE LORD VISCOUNT
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 friend and his patron, my Lord C-TL-R-GH,
Who said, "My dear FUDGE" I forget th' exact
words,

C

LETTER II.

-H.

Ar 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 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

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-Upward and downward, as the stream
Of hydra faction kicks the beam!2

science,

Found out by the--what's-its-name-Holy A*****ce,

1 Ci-git la jambe de, etc. etc.

1 A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris.

Paris.

2 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 Bin describing some hypocritical pretender to charity, said-"He put his hand in his breeches pocket, like a crocodile, and,"

1 The title of the chief magistrate of Belfast, before whom his Lordship (with the "studium immane loquendi" attributed by Ovid to that chattering and rapacious class of birds, the pies) delivered sundry long and self-gratulatory orations, on his return from the Continent. It was at one of these Irish dinners that his gallant brother Lord S. proposed the health of "The best cavalry officer in Europethe Regent!"

2 Verbatim from one of the noble Visconne's speeches"And now, Sir, I must embark into the feature on which this question chiefly hinges."

O DICK! you may talk of your writing and reading,
Your logic and Greek, but there is 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 Carte3 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;

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 ****'s-and B*n*y

tried too;

But, though somewhat imperial in paunch, 'twouldn't
do:

He improved, indeed, much in this point when he wed,
But he ne'er grew right r*y*lly fat in the head.

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 !!
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!—
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;
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 kidney-imagine, Dick-done with cham-
pagne !

Then some glasses of Beaune, to dilute-or, mayhap,
Chambertin, which you know's the pet tipple of Nap,
And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler,
Much scruples to taste, but I'm not so partic'lar.-
You 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

pear in 't,

Dick, Dick, what a place is this Paris !--but stay-As 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,' | With a coat you might date Anno Domini One; That Elysium of all that is friand and nice,

We lounge up the Boulevards, where--oh Dick, the phizzes,

1 There is a fuiness and breadth in this portrait of Royalty, which reminds us of what Pliny says, in speaking of Trajan's great qualities:-"nonne longe lateque Principem

ostentant?"

2 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."

3 The bill of Fare.-Véry, a well-known Restaurateur. 4 Mr. Bob alludes particularly, I presume, to the famous Jury Dégustateur, which used to assemble at the Hotel of M. Grimod de la Reyniere, and of which this modern Archestratus has given an account in his Almanach des Gourmands, cinquième année, p. 78.

5 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 turn-outs, we meet-what a nation of quizzes !
Here toddles along some old figure of fun,

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.*

1 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, 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," etc. p. 206.

2 The favourite wine of Napoleon.
3 Velours en bouteille.

4 It was said by Wicquefort, more than a hundred years
ago,
"Le Roi d'Angleterre fait seul plus de chevaliers que

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 ones;

Such hats!-fit for monkeys-I'd back Mrs. Draper
To cut neater weather-boards out of brown paper:
And coats- I wish, if it wouldn't distress 'em,
They'd club for old B-M-L, from Calais, to dress 'em!
The collar sticks out from the neck such a space,
That you'd swear 'twas the plan of this head-lop-
ping 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, and 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-

Not a step, Dick, as sure as my name is

LETTER IV.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO

R. FUDGE.

Still hope and suffer, all who can!--but I,
Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly.
Turn where he will, the wretched wanderer views.
But whither?-every where the scourge pursues—
In the bright broken hopes of all his race,
Every where gallant hearts, and spirits true,
Countless reflexions of the oppressor's face!
While E******, every where the general foe
Are served up victims to the vile and few;
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:
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,
That low and desperate envy, which, to blast
Which vaunts its own, and scorns all rights beside;
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,
Back to his masters, ready gagg'd and chain'd!
Yet basely spurns him, when thy point is gain'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

That vengeance loves, there's yet more sweet than

this,

"RETURN!"—no, never, while the withering hand That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart,

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 trod
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 there3-
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 3*

*

Made thee the fallen and tarnish'd thing thou art;
That, as the Centaur' 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 breath'd 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, whes
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

tous les autres Rois de la Chrétienté ensemble."-What To the vile pagod things, that o'er her brow,
would he say now?

1 A celebrated Restaurateur.

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

3 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.

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