THE

FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS.

LETTER I.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY

OF CLONKILTY, IN IRELAND.

Amiens.

DEAR DOLL, while the tails of our horses are plait

ing,

The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door, Into very bad French is, as usual, translating

His English resolve not to give a sou more, I sit down to write you a line-only think! A letter from France, with French pens and French ink,

How delightful! though, would you believe it, my

dear?

I 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;
And but for the post-boy, his boots and his queue,
I might just as well be at Clonkilty with you!
In vain, at DESSEIN'S, did I take from my trunk
That divine fellow, STERNE, and fall reading "The
Monk;"

In vain did I think of his charming Dead Ass,
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 by, 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 DIXHUIT Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet*, (Modell'd out so exactly, and-God bless the mark! 'Tis a foot, Dolly, worthy so Grand a Monarque),

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

He exclaim'd, "Oh, mon Roi !" and, with tear-drop

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 King;
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!—rais'd 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 flow'r-nymphs we've met, Who disturb one's romance with pecuniary views, Flinging flow'rs 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.

* Ci-git la jambe de, &c. &c.

Our party consists (in a neat Calais job) Of Papa and myself, Mr. CONNOR and BOB.

You remember how sheepish Boв look'd at Kil

randy,

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 scholars,

With heads, so immovably 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, am-
bitious,

And goes now to Paris to study French dishes, think, how quick! he already

Whose names

knows pat,

A la braise, petits pâtés, and—what d'ye call that