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The Fudge Family In Paris
by [?]

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



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 CASTLEREAGH, 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 SIDMOUTH, 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 his zeal and sagacity, and, indeed, to him, Lord SIDMOUTH, and the Greenland-bound ships, the eyes of all lovers of discoveries are now most anxiously directed.

I regret much that I have been obliged to omit Mr. BOB FUDGE’S Third Letter, concluding the adventures of his Day with the Dinner, Opera, 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 I 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.

I can only add, that if any lady or gentleman, curious in such matters, will take the trouble of calling at my lodgings, 245 Piccadilly, I shall have the honor of assuring them, in propria persona, that I am–his, or her,

Very obedient and very humble Servant,

April 17, 1818.






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!