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,
Which vaunts its own, and scorns all rights beside;
That low and desperate envy which, to blast
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,
Yet basely spurns him, when thy point is gain'd,
Back to his masters, ready gagg'd and chain'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

Who

Who, proud to kiss each separate rod of power,
Bless, while he reigns, the minion of the hour;
Worship each would-be God, that o'er them moves,
And take the thundering of his brass for Jove's!
If this be wisdom, then farewell, my books,
Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye classic brooks,
Which fed my soul with currents, pure and fair,
Of living truth, that now must stagnate there!—
Instead of themes that touch the lyre with light,
Instead of Greece, and her immortal fight
For liberty, which once awaked my strings,
Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings,
The High L'gitates, the Holy Band,
Who, bolder even than he of Sparta's land,
Against whole millions, panting to be free,
Would guard the pass of right-line tyranny!
Instead of him, the Athenian bard, whose blade
Had stood the onset which his pen pourtray'd,

Welcome

And, 'stead of Aristides-woe the day

Such names should mingle !—welcome C――gh! Here break we off; at this unhallow'd name,

My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell, Thoughts that

When will the world shake off such yokes! oh when
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
To the vile pagod things, that o'er her brow,
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
Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given-
Those bright, those sole legitimates of Heaven!

When will this be;-or, oh! is it in truth,
But one of those sweet day-break dreams of youth,
In which the Soul, as round her morning springs,
'Twixt sleep and waking, sees such dazzling things!
And must the hope, as vain as it is bright,
Be all given up?-and are they only right,
Who say this world of thinking souls was made
To be by kings partition'd, truck'd, and weigh'd
In scales that, ever since the world begun,
Have counted millions but as dust to one?
Are they the only wise, who laugh to scorn
The rights, the freedom to which man was born?

Membra et Herculeos toros

Urit lues Nessea.-

Ille, ille victor vincitur.-Senec. Hercul. OE.

Thoughts that could patience hold-'t were wiser far To leave still hid and burning where they are!

LETTER V.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY

WHAT a time since I wrote!-I'm a sad naughty girl-
Though, like a tec-totum, I'm all in a twirl,
Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum
Between all its twirls gives a letter to note 'em.
But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses,
My gowns, so divine!-there's no language expresses,
Except just the two words « superbe,» « magnifique,"
The trimmings of that which I had home last week!
It is call'd I forget-à la-something, which sounded
Like alicampane-but, in truth, I'm confounded
And bother'd my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's
(Bob's) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi's:
What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal,
Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,
One's hair and one's cutlets both en papillote,
And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote,
I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase,
Between beef à la Psyché and curls a la braise.—
But, in short dear, I'm trick'd out quite à la française,
With my bonnet-so beautiful!-high up and poking,
Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

Where shall I begin with the endless delights
Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights-
This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting,
But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?

Imprimis, the Opera-mercy, my ears!

Brother Bobby's remark t'other night was a true one;

« This must be the music,» said he, « of the spears, For I'm curst if each note of it does n't run through one!»

Pa says (and you know, love, his book 's to make out
'Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about)
That this passion for roaring has come in of late,
Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State.
What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm!

What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it!

If, when of age, every man in the realm

Had a voice like old Lais, and chose to make use of it!

No-never was known in this riotous sphere
Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.
So bad too you'd swear that the God of both arts,
Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic

For setting a loud fit of Asthma in parts,

And composing a fine rumbling base to a cholic!

But, the dancing-ah parlez moi, Dolly, de ça-
There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.
Such beauty-such grace-oh ye sylphs of romance!
Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if she has
One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance
Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias!
Fanny Bias in Flora-dear creature!-you 'd swear,
When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,
That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,
And she only par complaisance touches the ground.
And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels

Her black flowing hair, and by dæmons is driven,
Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,

That hold her and hug her, and keep her from
Heaven?

Then, the music-so softly its cadences die,
So divinely-oh, Dolly! between you and I,
It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh
To make love to me then-you've a soul, and can judge
What a crisis 't would be for your friend Biddy Fudge!

The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in)
They call it the play-house I think-of Saint Martin; 2
Quite charming-and very religious-what folly
To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly,
When here one beholds so correctly and rightly,
The Testament turn'd into melo-drames nightly;
And doubtless, so fond they're of scriptural facts,
They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.
Here Daniel, in pantomime, 3 bids bold defiance
To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff'd lions,
While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,
In very thin clothing, and but little of it;—

The oldest, most celebrated, and most noisy of the singers at the French Opera.

The Theatre de la Porte St Martin, which was built when the Opera-House in the Palais Royal was burned down, in 1781.-A few days after this dreadful fire, which lasted more than a week, and in which several persons perished, the Parisian élégantes displayed flame-coloured dresses, couleur feu de l'Opéra !-Dulaure, Curiosités de Paris.

A piece very popular last year, called « Daniel, on la Fosse aux Lions. The following scene will give an idea of the daring sublimity of these scriptural pantomimes. . Scène 20.-La fournaise devient un berceau de nuages azurés, au fond duquel est un groupe de nuages plus lumineux, et au milieu 'Jehovah' au centre d'un cercle de rayons brillans, qui annonce la présence de l'Eternel..

Here Bégrand, who shines in this scriptural path

As the lovely Susanna, without even a relic Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath

In a manner that, Bob says, is quite is Eve-angelic!

But, in short, dear, 't would take me a month to recite
All the exquisite places we 're at, day and night;
And, besides, ere I finish, I think you'll be glad
Just to hear one delightful adventure I've had.

2

Last night, at the Beaujon, a place where-I doubt
If I well can describe-there are cars, that set out
From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air,
And rattle you down, Doll-you hardly know where.
These vehicles, mind me, in which you go through
This delightfully dangerous journey, hold two.
Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether

You'll venture down with him-you smile-'t is a match;

In an instant you're seated, and down both together
Go, thundering, as if you went post to old Scratch! 3
Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remark'd
On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embark'd,
The impatience of some for the perilous flight,
The forced giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright,
That there came up-imagine, dear Doll, if you can-
A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werter-faced 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!
Up he came, Doll, to me, and uncovering his head,
(Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said,
« Ah! my dear—if Ma'mselle vil be so very good-
Just for von little course»-though I scarce understood
What he wish'd me to do, I said, thank him I would.
Off we set-and, though 'faith, dear, I hardly knew
whether

For 'twas like heaven and earth, Dolly, coming toge-
My head or my heels were the uppermost then,

ther,

Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again. And oh! as I gazed on the features and air

Of the man, who for me all this peril defied, I could fancy almost he and I were a pair

Of unhappy young lovers, who thus side by side, Were taking instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara!

This achieved, through the gardens 4 we saunter'd

about

Saw the fire-works, exclaim'd « magnifique !» at each cracker,

And when 't was all o'er, the dear man saw us out With the air, I will say, of a prince, to our fiacre.

1 Madame Bégrand, a finely-formed woman, who acts in Susanna and the Elders, L'Amour et la Folie, etc. etc.

The Promenades Aériennes, or French Mountains.-See a description of this singular and fantastic place of amusement, in a pamphlet, truly worthy of it, by F. F. Cotterel, Médecin, Docteur de la Faculté de Paris, etc. etc.

According to Dr Cotterel, the cars go at the rate of forty-eight miles an hour.

Now, hear me this stranger-it may be mere folly—
But who do you think we all think it is, Dolly?
Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia,
Who's here now incog.'-he, who made such a fuss,

you

Remember, in London, with Blucher and Platoff,
When Sal was near kissing old Blucher's cravat off!
Pa says he's come here to look after his money
(Not taking things now as he used under Boney),
Which suits with our friend, for Bob saw him, he swore,
Looking sharp to the silver received at the door.
Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen
(Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen)
Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is,
Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris.
Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief
Should-unless 't would to utter despairing its folly
push-

Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief

By rattling, as Bob says, «like shot through a hollybush.»

FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ. TO his brother TIM
FUDGE, ESQ. BARRISTER AT LAW.

YOURS of the 12th received just now-
Thanks for the hint, my trusty brother!

'T is truly pleasing to see how

We Fudges stand by one another.
But never fear-I know my chap,
And he knows me, too-verbum sap.
My Lord and I are kindred spirits,
Like in our ways as two young ferrets;
Both fashion'd, as that supple race is,
To twist into all sort of places;-
Creatures lengthy, lean, and hungering,
Fond of blood and burrow-mongering.

Reynolds and I-(you know Tom Reynolds-
Drinks his claret, keeps his chaise-
Lucky the dog that first unkennels
Traitors and Luddites now-a-days;
Or who can help to bag a few,

When S-D--TH wants a death or two);
Reynolds and I, and some few more,
All men like us of information,
Friends, whom his Lordship keeps in store,
As under-saviours of the nation-1
Have form'd a Club this season, where
His Lordship sometimes takes the chair,
And gives us many a bright oration
In praise of our sublime vocation;
Tracing it up to great King Midas,
Who though in fable typified as
A royal Ass, by grace divine
And right of ears, most asinine,
Was yet no more, in fact historical,

Than an exceeding well-bred tyrant;
And these, his ears, but allegorical,

Meaning Informers, kept at high rent-2
Gemmen, who touch'd the Treasury glisteners,
Like us, for being trusty listeners;
And picking up each tale and fragment,
For royal Midas's green bag meant.

<< And wherefore,» said this best of Peers,
Should not the R-G-T too have ears,3
To reach as far, as long, and wide as
Those of his model, good King Midas ?»
This speech was thought extremely good,
And (rare for him) was understood.--
Instant we drank «The R-G-r's Ears,>>
With three times three illustrious cheers,

That made the room resound like thunder« The R-G-r's Ears, and may he ne'er From foolish shame, like Midas, wear

Old paltry wigs to keep them under!» 4
This touch at our old friends, the Whigs,
Made us as merry all as grigs.

In short (I'll thank you not to mention
These things again) we get on gaily;
And, thanks to pension and Suspension,
Our little Club increases daily.
Castles, and Oliver, and such,
Who do n't as yet full salary touch,

Nor keep their chaise and pair, nor buy

Houses and lands, like Tom and I,

Lord C.'s tribute to the character of his friend, Mr Reynolds, will long be remembered with equal credit to both.

2 This interpretation of the fable of Midas's ears seems the most probable of any, and is thus stated in Hoffman: Hac allegoria significatum, Midam, utpote tyrannum, subauscultatores dimittere solitum, per quos, quæcunque per omnem regionem vel fierent, vel dicerentur, cognosceret, nimirum illis utens aurium vice." 3 Brossette, in a note on this line of Boileau,

Midas, le roi Midas a des oreilles d'âne,

tells us, that M. Perrault le Médecin voulut faire à notre auteur un crime d'état de ce vers, comme d'une maligne allusion au Roi.» I trust, however, that no one will suspect the line in the text of any such indecorous allusion.

4 It was not under wigs, but tiaras, that King Midas endeavoured to conceal these appendages:

Tempora purpureis tentat velare tiaris.
OVID.

The Noble Giver of the toast, however, had evidently, with his usual clearness, confounded King Midas, Mr Liston, and the P—ce R—g-t together.

Of course do n't rank with us, salvators,
But merely serve the Club as waiters.
Like Knights, too, we've our collar days
(For us, I own, an awkward phrase),
When, in our new costume adorn'd,—
The R-G-r's buff-and blue coats turn'd-
We have the honour to give dinners

To the chief Rats in upper stations; 2
Your W―――YS, VNS-half-fledged sinners,
Who shame us by their imitations;

Who turn, 't is true-but what of that?
Give me the useful peaching Rat;

Not things as mute as Punch, when bought,
Whose wooden heads are all they 've brought;
Who, false enough to shirk their friends,
But too faint-hearted to betray,
Are, after all their twists and bends,
But souls in Limbo, damn'd half
No, no,-we nobler vermin are
useful as we're rare;
genus
'Midst all the things miraculous

A

way.

1 Mr Fudge and his friends should go by this name-as the man who, some years since, saved the late Right Hon. George Rose from drowning, was ever after called Salvator Rosa.

This intimacy between the Rats and Informers is just as it should be- vere dulce sodalitium..

3 His Lordship, during one of the busiest periods of his Ministerial career, took lessons three times a-week from a celebrated musicmaster, in glee-singing.

4 This Right Hon. Gentleman ought to give up his present alliance with Lord C., if upon no other principle than that which is inculcated in the following arrangement between two Ladies of Fashion.

Says Clarinda, though tears it may cost, It is time we should part, my dear Sue;

For your character's totally lost,

And I have not sufficient for two!

And G-s,' who well that signal knows, Watches the Volli Subitos.

In short, as I've already hinted.
We take, of late, prodigiously;
But as our Club is somewhat stinted
For Gentlemen, like Tom and me,
We'll take it kind if you 'll provide
A few Squireens3 from t' other side;-
Some of those loyal, cunning elves

(We often tell the tale with laughter) Who used to hide the pikes themselves, Then hang the fools who found them after.

I doubt not you could find us, too,
Some Orange Parsons that would do;
Among the rest, we 've heard of one,
The Reverend-something-Hamilton,
Who stuffd a figure of himself

(Delicious thought!) and had it shot at,
To bring some Papists to the shelf,
That could n't otherwise be got at-
If he'll but join the Association,
We'll vote him in by acclamation.

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.
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 generous are, when they call him in, That he might now retire upon

The rheumatisms of three old women. Then, whatsoe'er your ailments are, He can so learnedly explain ye 'mYour cold, of course, is a catarrh, Your head-ache is a hemi-cranium :His skill, too, in young ladies' lungs, The grace with which, most mild of He begs them to put out their tongues, Then bids them-put them in again! In short there's nothing now like Jack ;Take all your doctors, great and small,

men,

The rapidity of this Noble Lord's transformation, at the same instant, into a Lord of the Bedchamber and an opponent of the Catholic Claims, was truly miraculous.

Turn instantly-a frequent direction in music-books.

3 The Irish diminutive of Squire,