LETTER I.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ----, OF CLONKILTY, IN IRELAND.

Amiens.

Dear DOLL, while the tails of our horses are plaiting, 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! tho', 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 cornfields 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, tho' _one_ little Neddy we saw in our drive Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive!

By the by, tho' 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,[1] (Modelled out so exactly, and--God bless the mark! 'Tis a foot, DOLLY, worthy so _Grand a Monarque_). He exclaimed, "_Oh, mon Roi_!" and, with tear-dropping eye, Stood to gaze on the spot--while some Jacobin, nigh, Muttered 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 turned 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 occurred 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 poor STERNE.

Our party consists (in a neat Calais job) Of Papa and myself, Mr. CONNOR and BOB. You remember how sheepish BOB lookt at Kilrandy, But, Lord! he's quite altered--they've made him a Dandy; A thing, you know, whiskered, great-coated, and laced, Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist; Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scholars, With beads 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, ambitious, And goes now to Paris to study French dishes. Whose names--think, how quick! he already knows pat, _À la braise, petits pâtés_, and--what d' ye call that 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, Tho' a bit of them BOBBY has never touched 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, we 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 CASTLEREAGH, Who said, "My dear FUDGE"--I forget the 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, everything _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 honors 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 (Tho' of royal descent by the side of Mamma), And for charity made private tutor to BOB; _Entre nous_, too, a Papist--how liberal of Pa!

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

B. F.

P. S.

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![2]

[1] To commemorate the landing of Louis le Désiré 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.

[2] A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris.