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

The 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
The 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 powers 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,
Improves so with a wig and band on,
That all thy pride 's to way-lay Truth,
And leave her not a leg to stand on.-

Thy patent, 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 even 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.

I blush to see this letter's length,

But 't was my wish to prove to thee How full of hope, and wealth, and strength, Are all our precious family. And, should affairs go on as pleasant As, thank the fates, they do at presentShould we but still enjoy the sway Of S-DM-H and of C--—GH, I hope, ere long, to see the day

When England's wisest statesmen, judges, Lawyers, peers, will all be-FUDGES!

Good bye-my paper 's out so nearly, I've only room for

Yours sincerely.

LETTER VII.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO —— BEFORE We sketch the Present, let us cast A few short rapid glances to the Past.

When he, who had defied all Europe's strength,
Beneath his own weak rashness sunk at length;
When loosed, as if by magic, from a chain
That seem'd like Fate's, the world was free again,

And Europe saw, rejoicing in the sight,
The cause of Kings, for once, the cause of Right;
Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to those
Who sigh'd for justice-liberty-repose,
And hoped the fall of one great vulture's nest
Would ring its warning round, and scare the rest.
And all was bright with promise;-Kings began
To own a sympathy with suffering Man,
And man was grateful-Patriots of the South
Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth,
And heard, like accents thaw'd in Northern air,
Unwonted words of freedom burst forth there!

Who did not hope in that triumphant time,
When monarchs, after years of spoil and crime,
Met round the shrine of Peace, and Heav'n look'd on,
Who did not hope the lust of spoil was gone ;-
That that rapacious spirit, which had play'd
The game of Pilnitz o'er so oft, was laid,
And Europe's Rulers, conscious of the past,
Would blush, and deviate into right at last?
But no-the hearts that nursed a hope so fair
Had yet to learn what men on thrones can dare;
Had yet to know, of all earth's ravening things,
The only quite untameable are K**gs!
Scarce had they met when, to its nature true,
The instinct of their race broke out anew;
Promises, treaties, charters, all were vain,
And « Rapine!-rapine !» was the cry again.
How quick they carved their victims, and how well,
Let Saxony, let injured Genoa tell,—

Let all the human stock that, day by day,
Was at the royal slave-mart truck'd away,—
The million souls that, in the face of Heaven,
Were split to fractions,' barter'd, sold, or given
To swell some despot power, too huge before,
And weigh down Europe with one Mammoth more!
How safe the faith of Kgs let F***ce decide;-
Her charter broken, ere its ink had dried-
Her Press enthrall'd-her Reason mock'd again
With all the monkery it had spurn'd in vain-
Her crown disgraced by one, who dared to own
He thank'd not F***ce but E*****d for his throne--
Her triumphs cast into the shade by those
Who had grown old among her bitterest foes.
And now return'd, beneath her conquerors' shields,
Unblushing slaves! to claim her heroes' fields,
To tread down every trophy of her fame,
And curse that glory which to them was shame!--
Let these let all the damning deeds, that then
Were dared through Europe, cry aloud to men,
With voice like that of crashing ice that rings
Round Alpine huts, the perfidy of K**gs;

And tell the world, when hawks shall harmless bear
The shrinking dove, when wolves shall learn to spare
The helpless victim for whose blood they lusted,
Then, and then only, monarchs may be trusted!

It could not last-these horrors could not last-
F***ce would herself have risen, in might, to cast

Whilst the Congress was re-constructing Europe-not according to rights, natural affiances, language, habits, or laws, but Ly tables of finance, which divided and subdivided her population into souls, demi-souls, and even fractions, according to a scale of the direct du ties or taxes which could be levied by the acquiring state, etc.Sketch of the Military and Political Power of Rssia.-The words on the protocol are ámes, demi-úmes, etc.

So, of course, as no gentleman's seen out without them, They're now at the Schneider's1-and, while he's about them,

Here goes for a letter, post-haste, neck and crop-
Let us see-in my last I was-where did I stop?
Oh, I know 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 sun :
With its houses of all architectures you please,
From the Grecian and Gothic, DICK, down by degrees
To the pure Hottentot, or the Brighton Chinese;
Where in temples antique you may breakfast or dinner it,
Lunch at a mosque, and see Punch from a minaret.
Then, DICK, the mixture of bonnets and bowers,
Of foliage and frippery, fiacres and flowers,
Green-grocers, green gardens-one hardly knows whether
'T is country or town, they 're so mess'd up together!
And there, if one loves the romantic, one sees
Jew clothes-men, like shepherds, reclined under 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-juice3 round them are purling.

Here, Dick, arm in arm, as we chattering stray,
And receive a few civil God-dems by the way,-
For 't is odd, these mounseers,-though we've wasted our
wealth

And our strength, till we 've thrown ourselves into a phthisic,

To cram down their throats an old K * F for their health,
As we whip little children to make them take physic;—
Yet, spite of our good-natured money and slaughter,
They hate us, as Beelzebub hates holy water!

But who the deuce cares, Dick, as long as they nourish us
Neatly as now, and good cookery flourishes-
Long as, by bayonets protected, we Natties
May have our full fling at their salmis and patés?
And, truly, I always declared 't would be pity
To burn to the ground such a choice-feeding city:
Had Dad but his way, he'd have long ago blown
The whole batch to Old Nick-and the people, I own,
If for no other cause than their curst monkey looks,
Well deserve a blow-up-but then, damn it, their cooks!
As to Marshals, and Statesmen, and all their whole lineage,
For aught that I care, you may knock them to spinage;
But think, DICK, their cooks-what a loss to mankind!
What a void in the world would their art leave behind!
Their chronometer spits-their intense salamanders-
Their ovens their pots, that can soften old ganders,
All vanish'd for ever-their miracles o'er,

And the Marmite Perpétuelle4 bubbling no more!

Forbid it, forbid it, ye Holy Allies,

Take whatever ye fancy-take statues, take moneyThe dandy term for a tailor.

Lemonade and eau-de-groseille are measured out at every corner of every street, from fantastic vessels, jingling with bells, to thirsty tradesmen or wearied messengers.-See Lady Morgan's lively description of the streets of Paris, in her very amusing work upon France, book 6.

These gay, portable fountains, from which the groseille-water is administered, are among the most characteristic ornaments of the

streets of Paris.

4. Cette merveilleuse Marmite Perpétuelle, sur le feu depuis près d'un siècle; qui a donné le jour à plus de 300,000 chapons.-Alman. des Gourmands, Quatrième Année, p. 152.

But leave them, oh leave them their Périgueux pies,
Their glorious goose-livers, and high-pickled tunny?
Though many, I own, are the evils they've brought us,
Though Rally's here on her very last legs,
Yet, who can help loving the land that has taught us
Six hundred and eighty-five ways to dress eggs??

You sec, DICK, in spite of their cries of God-dem,
Coquin Anglais, et cætera-how generous I am!
And now (to return, once again, to my « Day,"
Which will take us all night to get through in this way)
From the Boulevards we saunter through many a street,
Crack jokes on the natives-mine, all very neat-
Leave the Signs of the Times to political fops,
And find twice as much fun in the Signs of the Shops ;--
Here, a L***s D'x-h'‍t—there, a Martinmas goose
(Much in vogue since your eagles are gone out of use) —
Henri Quatres in shoals, and of Gods a great many,
But Saints are the most on hard duty of any:-
St Tony, who used all temptations to spurn,
Here hangs o'er a beer-shop, and tempts in his turn;
While there St Venecia3 sits hemming and frilling her
Holy mouchoir o'er the door of some milliner;-
St Austin's the outward and visible sign

Of an inward cheap dinner and pint of small wine;

While St Denis hangs out o'er some hatter of ton,
And possessing, good bishop, no head of his own,4
Takes an interest in Dandies, who've got-next to none.
Then we stare into shops-read the evening's affiches—
Or, if some, who're Lotharios in feeling, should wish
Just to flirt with a luncheon (a devilish bad trick,
As it takes off the bloom of one's appetite, Dick),
To the Passage des-what dy'e call 't-des Panoramas,5
We quicken our pace, and there heartily cram as
Seducing young pâtés, as ever could cozen
One out of one's appetite, down by the dozen.
We vary, of course-petits pâtés do one day,

The next we've our lunch with the Gauffrier Hollandais,"
That popular artist, who brings out, like Sc-TT,
His delightful productions so quick, hot and hot;
Not the worse for the exquisite comment that follows,
Divine maresquino, which-Lord, how one swallows!

Once more, then, we saunter forth after our snack, or
Subscribe a few francs for the price of a fiacre,
Where we find a few twirls in the car of much use
And drive far away to the old Montagnes Russes,
To regenerate the hunger and thirst of us sinners,
Who've lapsed into snacks-the perdition of dinners.
And here, Dick-in answer to one of
your queries,
About which we Gourmands, have had much discus-
sion-

I've tried all these mountains, Swiss, French, and Ruggieri's,

Le thon mariné, one of the most favourite and indigestible horsd'œuvres. This fish is taken chiefly in the Golfe de Lyon. La tête et le dessous du ventre sont les parties les plus recherchées des gourmets. Cours Gastronomique, p. 252. The exact number mentioned by M. de la Reynière On connoit en France 635 manières différentes d'accommoder les œufssans compter celles que nos savans imaginent chaque jour.»

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

4 St Denis 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 coûte.. 5 Off the Boulevards Italiens.

In the Palais Royal; successor, I believe, to the Flamand, so long celebrated for the moelleux of his Gauffres.

For instance, there's V-S-TT-T's head (Tam carum1 it may well be said) If by some curious chance it came

To settle on BILL SOAMES's shoulders, The effect would turn out much the same On all respectable cash-holders: Except that while in its new socket,

The head was planning schemes to win A zigzag way into one's pocket,

The hands would plunge directly in.

Good Viscount S-DM-H, too, instead
Of his own grave respected head,
Might wear (for aught I see that bars)

Old Lady WILHELMINA FRUMP'S-
So, while the hand sign'd Circulars,

The head might lisp out What is trumps?"-
The R-G-T's brains could we transfer
To some robust man-milliner,

The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbon,
Would I doubt not, quite as glib on;
go,
And, vice versa, take the pains

To give the P-CE the shopman's brains,
One only change from thence would flow-
Ribbons would not be wasted so!

'T was thus I ponder'd on, my Lord; And, even at night, when laid in bed, I found myself, before I snored,

Thus chopping, swopping head for head. At length I thought, fantastic elf! How such a change would suit myself. "Twixt sleep and waking, one by one, With various pericraniums saddled, At last I tried your Lordship's on,

And then I grew completely addledForgot all other heads, od rot 'em! And slept, and dreamt that I was-BOTTOM.

The only change, if I recollect right, is the substitution of lilies for bees. This war upon the bees is, of course, universal; « exitium misere apibus, like the angry nymphs in Virgil:-but may not new swarms arise out of the victims of Legitimacy yet?

I am afraid that Mr Fudge alludes here to a very awkward accident which is well known to have happened to poor L-s le D-s-é, some years since, at one of the R-g-t's Fétes. He was sitting next our gracious Queen at the time.

With bales of muslins, chintzes, spices,

I see the Easterns weigh their kings;

But, for the R-G-T, my advice is,

We should throw in much heavier things:

For instance▬▬'s quarto volumes,

Which, though not spices, serve to wrap them; Dominie ST--DD-T's daily columns,

Prodigious!-in, of course, we'd clap them-
Letters, that C-RTW--T's pen indites,
In which, with logical confusion,
The Major like a Minor writes,

And never comes to a conclusion:-
Lord S-M-RS' pamphlet-or his head—
(Ah, that were worth its weight in lead!)
Along with which we in may whip, sly,
The Speeches of SIR JOHN C-x H—pp—SLY;
That Baronet of many words,

Who loves so, in the House of Lords,
To whisper Bishops-and so nigh
Unto their wigs in whispering goes,
That

you may always know him by
A patch of powder on his nose!-
If this won't do, we in must cram
The Reasons of Lord B-CK-GH-M;
(A book his Lordship means to write,
Entitled Reasons for my Ratting :-)
Or, should these prove too small and light,
His --'s a host-we 'll bundle that in!
And, still should all these masses fail
To stir the R-G-T's ponderous scale,
Why then, my Lord, in Heaven's name,
Pitch in, without reserve or stint,
The whole of R-GL-Y's beauteous Dame-
If that won't raise him, devil's in 't!

The third day of the Feast the King causeth himself to be weighed with great care.-F. BERNIER'S Voyage to Surat, etc. * I remember, says Bernier, that all the Omrahs expressed great joy that the King weighed two pounds more now than the year preceding. Another author tells us that Fatness, as well as a very large head, is considered, throughout India, as one of th most precious gifts of Heaven. An enormous skull is absolutely revered, and the happy owner is looked up to as a superior being. To a Prince a joulter head is invaluable.-Oriental Field Sports.