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,

A la braise, petits pétés, and-what d'ye call that They inflict on potatoes?-oh! maître d'hotelI assure you, dear Dolly, he knows them as well As if nothing but these 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 As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and books.

cooks,

"As to Pa, what d'ye think?-mind, its 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 friend and his patron, my lord C-stlr-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 Alli

ance,

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 bet

ter

Draw fast to a close :-this exceeding long letter
You owe to a déjeuner 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 Bona-
parte,

His nose and his chin-which Pa 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;

VOL. 111.-No. 111.

92

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.”

We have next a letter from Phil. Fudge, Esq. the father of Miss Biddy and Master Bob, to lord viscount Castlereagh, but as this is not so forceful, nor so characteristic, as some others from the same pen, we shall pass it by.

The third letter is from Mr. Bob Fudge to Richard Esq. and as Bob seems to be "a lad of spirit," and a sçavoir vivre we will transcribe, for the benefit of those who are ambitious to excel in dandyism and gourmandise, his original and edi-fying epistle in extenso.

"From Mr. Bob Fudge to Richard, Esq.

"Oh Dick! you may talk of your writing and reading,

Your logic and Greek, but there's nothing like feeding;

And this is the place for it, Dicky, you dog,
Of all places on earth-the head quarters of
Talk of England—her fam'd Magna Charta, I
Prog!

swear, is

"After dreaming some hours of the land of Cocaigne,*

That Elysium of all that is friand and nice, Where for hail they have bon-bons, and claret for rain,

And the skaters in winter show off on creamice;

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 com-
plaint !t

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 feed

er,

I strut to the old Café Hardy, which yet
Beats the fields at a déjener 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 paté 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 kidneys-imagine, Dick-done with champagne!

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.

Your 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 e'en W-tk-ns', for sake of the end on't ;)

"The fairy-land of cookery and gourmandise; 'Pais, où le ciel offre les viandes toutes cuites, et où, comme on parle, les alouettes tombent toutes roties. Du Latin, coquere. e.'-Duchat.

"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 patès are made at Strasbourg and Toulouse, is thus described in the Cours Grastronomique:- On déplume l'estomac des oics; 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 hepatique, qui fait gonfler leur foie.' p. 206.

"The favourite wine of Napoleon.

Here toddles along some old figure of fun,
With a coat you might date Anno Domini 1;
A lac'd hat, worsted stockings, and-noble old
soul!

A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole; Just such as our Pre, who nor reason nor fun dreads,

Inflicts, without e'en a court-martial, on hundreds.t

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-how I wish, if it wouldn't distress 'em,

They'd club for old B-m-1, from Calais, to dress 'em!

The collar sticks out from the neck such a space, That you'd swear 'twas the plan of this headlopping 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 ama

teurs

What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk breeches,

Old dustinen 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 to 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 badge-
Not a step, Dick, as sure as my name is

* Velours en bouteille.

R. FUDGE."

"It was said by Wicquefort, more than a hundred years ago, Le Roi d'Angleterre fais seul plus de chevaliers que tous les autres Rois de la Chretienté ensemble.'-What would he say now?

"A celebrated Restaurateur.

Here Begrand, who shines in this scriptural path

As the lovely Susanna, without e'en a relic Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath In a manner that, Bob says, is quite Eve-angelic!"

Various pithy adventures of course befall Miss Biddy,-such as going to the beaujon,-where a rapid descent of very considerable extent is made in a car, on an inclined plane, which moves at the rate of forty-eight miles an hour, by its own gravity, and which is afterwards drawn up by a windlass. She partakes of this charming amusement with a stranger, who speaks to her in French, and whom she describes as

"A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werter-fac'd

man,

With mustachios that gave (what we read of so oft)

The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft,

As Hyænas in love may be fancied to look, or A something between Abelard and old Blucher!"

This stranger the Fudges take to be no less than the king of Prussia, then in Paris, incog., as the count Ruppin. But he gives them his card, on which is written Calicot, and as well as they can read, colonel. They go with him to Montmorency, and Miss Biddy listens to a deal of sentiment about Jean Jaques Rousseau, and Julie, and all that, and is struck to a degree. She finds out, however, too soon, to her inexpressible mortification, that her gallant col. Calicot, is only a linen-draper! On this she is in absolute despair,but recovers, and goes to the play the same evening. This is all we learn of this interesting damsel.

The sixth letter is from Phil. Fudge, Esq. to his brother Tim. in which, after some account of his own affairs, full of political sarcasm, he enters into some particulars relating to the Fudge family.

"And now, my brother, guide, and friend, This somewhat tedious scrawl must end. I've gone into this long detail,

Because I saw your nerves were shaken
With anxious fears lest I should fail

In this new, loyal, course I've taken.
But, bless your heart! you need not doubt-
We, Fudges, know what we're about.
Look round, and say if you can see
A much more thriving family.
There's Jack, the doctor-night and day
Hundreds of patients so besiege him,
You'd swear that all the rich and gay
Fell sick on purpose to oblige him.

*Madame Bégrand, a finely formed woman, who acts in Susanna and the Elders.' 'L'A mour et la Folie,' &c. &c.

And while they think, the precious ninnies, He's counting o'er their pulse so steady The rogue but counts how many guineas He's fobb'd, for that day's work, already. I'll ne'er forget the old maid's alarm,

When, feeling thus Miss Sukey Flirt, he Said, as he dropp'd her shrivell'd arm, 'Damn'd bad this morning-only thirty!"

"Your dowagers too, every one,

So gen'rous are, when they call him in, That he might now retire upon Then, whatsoe'er your ailments are,

The rheumatisms of three old women.

He can so learnedly explain ye 'emYour cold, of course, is a catarrh,

Your head-ach is a hemi-cranium :His skill, too, in young ladies' lungs, The grace with which, most mild of men, He begs them to put out their tongues,

In short, there's nothing now like JackThen bids them-put them in again! Take all your doctors great and small, Of present times and ages back,

Dear doctor Fudge is worth them all.

"So much for physic-then, in law too, Counsellor Tim! to thee we bow; Not one of us gives more eclat to

Th' immortal name of Fudge than thou.
Not to expatiate on the art
With which you play'd the patriot's part,
Till something good and snug should offer ;-
Like one, who, by the way he acts
Th' enlightening part of candle-snuffer,

The manager's keen eye attracts,
And is promoted thence by him
To strut in robes, like thee, my Tim!-
Who shall describe thy pow'rs of face,
Thy well-fee'd zeal in every case,
Or wrong or right-but ten times warmer
(As suits thy calling) in the former-
Thy glorious, lawyer like delight
In puzzling all that's clear and right,
Which though conspicuous in thy youth,
That all thy pride's to way-lay Truth,
Improves so with a wig and band on,

And leave her not a leg to stand on.-
Thy patient, prime, morality,

Thy cases, cited from the Bible-
Thy candour, when it falls to thee

To help in trouncing for a libel;-
God knows, I, from my soul, profess
To hate all bigots and benighters!
God knows, I love, to e'en excess,
The sacred freedom of the Press,

My only aim's to-crush the writers.'
These are the virtues, Tim, that draw
The briefs into thy bag so fast;
And these, oh Tim-if Law be Law-
Will raise thee to the bench at last

The seventh letter, which is from Phelim Connor, is so much in the strain of the former from which we have given an extract, that we shall excuse ourselves from quoting from it. It is a mere political diatribe, and, however correct its sentiments may be, it contains nothing very new, or very striking.

Mr. Bob Fudge, having cracked his stays, as he anticipated, avails himself of the respite while they are repairing, to pursue the recital of his occupations for a day. He re-commences—

-"at the Boulevards, as motley a road as Man ever would wish a day's lounging upon; With its cafés and gardens, hotels and pagodas, Its founts, and old counts sipping beer in the

trees;

Or Quidnunes, on Sunday, just fresh from the barber's,

Enjoying their news and groseille in those arbours,

While gaily their wigs, like the tendrils, are curling,

And founts of red currant juicet round them are purling."

After some cockney reflections, and a high panegyric upon the talents of the French for cooking, averring that they have no less than six hundred and eightyfive ways to dress eggs, he continues,

"From the Boulevards we saumter through many a street,

Crack jokes on the natives-mine, all very

neat

ton,

And possessing, good bishop, no head of his own,t Takes an int rest in dandies, who've got-next to none!"

But we must leave" Master Bobby," to make way for his "dad." The ninth letter is from Phil. Fudge, Esq. to lord Castlereagh, and as it is the cream of the correspondence, we shall give a very considerable portion of it.

"My lord, th' instructions, brought to-day,
I shall in all my best obey.'

Your lordship talks and writes so sensibly!
And-whatsoe er some wags may say-
Oh! not at all incomprehensibly.

"I feel th' inquiries in your letter

About my health and French most flattering; Thank ye, my French, though somewhat better, Is, on the whole, but weak and smattering:-Nothing, of course, that can compare With his who made the congress stare, (A certain lord we need not name)

Who, e'en in French, would have his trope, And talk of batir un systême

Sur l'équilibre de l'Europe!'
Sweet metaphor!-and then th' Epistle,
Which bid the Saxon king go whistle,
That tender letter to Mon Prince,'t
Which show'd alike thy French and sense;-
Oh no, my lord-there's none can do
Or say un-English things like you;
And, if the schemes that fill thy breast

Could but a vent congenial seek,
And use the tongue that suits them best,

What charming Turkish would'st thou speak!

*"Veronica, the Saint of the Holy Handkerchief, also under the name of Venisse or Venecia, the tutelary saint of milliners.

"St. Denys walked three miles after his head was cut off. The mot of a woman of wit upon this legend is well known:- Je le crois bien; en pareil cas, il n'y a que le premier pas qui coute.'

"The celebrated letter to prince Hardenburgh (written, however, I believe, originally in English,) in which bis lordship, professing to see no moral or political objection' to the dismemberment of Saxony, denounced the unfortunate king as not only the most devoted, but the most favoured of Bonaparte's vassals.'