Consulted MURPHY'S TACITUS

About those famous spies at Rome, Whom certain Whigs-to make a fussDescribe as much resembling us,1

Informing gentlemen, at home.

Aug. 31.

But, bless the fools, they can't be serious, To say Lord S-DM-Ta 's like TIBERIUS! What! he, the Peer, that injures no man, Like that severe blood-thirsty Roman!"T is true, the Tyrant lent an ear to

All sorts of spies-so doth the Peer, too. 'T is true, my Lord's Elect tell fibs, And deal in perjury-ditto Tie's. 'T is true the Tyrant screen'd and hid His rogues from justice3-ditto SID. "T is true, the Peer is grave and glib At moral speeches-ditto TIB.4 "T is true, the feats the tyrant did Were in his dotage-ditto SID.

So far, I own, the parallel

'T wixt TIB. and SID. goes vastly well;
But there are points in TIB. that strike
My humble mind as much more like
Yourself, my dearest Lord, or him
Of the India Board-that soul of whim!
Like him, TIBERIUS loved his joke,5

On matters too where few can bear one;

E. g. a man, cut up, or broke

Upon the wheel-a devilish fair one!
Your common fractures, wounds, and fits,
Are nothing to such wholesale wits;
But, let the sufferer
gasp for life,

The joke is then worth any money;
And, if he writhe beneath a knife,-

Oh dear, that's something quite too funny.

In this respect, my Lord, you see
The Roman wag and ours agree:
Now, as to your resemblance-mum-
This parallel we need not follow ;6
Though 't is, in Ireland, said by some

Your Lordship beats TIBERIUS hollow;
Whips, chains, but these are things too serious
For me to mention or discuss;
Whene'er your Lordship acts TIBERIUS,
PHIL. FUDGE's part is Tacitus!

The name of the first worthy who set up the trade of informer at Rome (to whom our Olivers and Castleses ought to erect a statue) was Romanus Bispo; qui formam vitæ iniit, quam postea celebrem miseriæ temporum et auda siæ hominum fecerunt.-TACIT. Annal. 1, 74. *They certainly possessed the same art of instigating their victims, which the Report of the Secret Committee attributes to Lord Sidmouth's agents:- socius (says Tacitus of one of them) libidinum et necessitatum quo pluribus indiclis illigaret."

3. Neque tamen id Sereno noxæ fait, quem odium publicum tutiorem faciebat. Nam ut quis distri tíor a cusator velut sacrosanctus erat," Annal. lib. 4, 36.-Or, as it is translated by Mr Fudge's friend, Murphy: This daring accuser had the curses of the people, and the protection of the Emperor. Informers, in proportion as they rose in guilt, became sacred characters,

Murphy even confers upon one of his speeches the epithet = constitutional. Mr Fudge might have added to his parallel, that Tiberius was a good private character :~« egregium vita famaque quoad privatus.

Ludibria seriis permiscere solitus,

There is one point of resemblance between Tiberius and Lord C. which Mr Fudge might have mentioned—« suspensa semper et obscura

verba..

Was thinking, had Lord S-DM-TH got
Up any decent kind of plot
Against the winter-time-if not,
Alas, alas, our ruin 's fated:
All done up, and spiflicated!
Ministers and all their vassals,
Down from C-TL-GH to CASTLES,-
Unless we can kick up a riot,
Ne'er can hope for peace or quiet!

Sept. 2.

What's to be done?-Spa-fields was clever;
But even that brought gibes and mockings
Upon our heads-so, mem. must never
Keep ammunition in old stockings;
For fear some wag should in his curst head
Take it to say our force was worsted.
Mem. too-when SID. an army raises,

It must not be incog. like Bayes's:
Nor must the General be a hobbling
Professor of the art of Cobbling;
Lest men, who perpetrate such puns,
Should say, with Jacobitic grin,
He felt, from soleing Wellingtons,'
A Wellington's great soul within!
Nor must an old Apothecary

Go take the Tower, for lack of pence,
With (what these wags would call, so merry)
Physical force and phial-ence!
No-no-our Plot, my Lord, must be
Next time contrived more skilfully.
John Bull, I grieve to say, is growing
So troublesomely sharp and knowing,
So wise-in short, so Jacobin-
'Tis monstrous hard to take him in.

In China, and was sorely nettled;
But think, my Lord, we should not pass it o'er
Till all this matter's fairly settled;
And here's the mode occurs to me:
As none of our nobility

(Though for their own most gracious King
They would kiss hands, or-any thing)
Can be persuaded to go through
This farce-like trick of the Ko-tou;
And as these Mandarins won't bend,
Without some mumming exhibition,
Suppose, my Lord, you were to send

GRIMALDI to them on a mission:
As Legate, Joe could play his part,
And if, in diplomatic art,
The

volto sciolto's meritorious,
Let Joɛ but grin, he has it, glorious!

A title for hin's easily made;

And, by the by, one Christmas time,
If I remember right, he play'd

Lord MORLEY in some pantomime;-3
Short boots, so called.

The open countenance, recommended by Lord Chesterfield.

3 Mr Fudge is a little mistaken here. It was not Grimaldi, but some very inferior performer, who played this part of Lord Morley in the pantomime,-so much to the horror of the distinguished Earl of that name. The expostulatory letters of the Noble Earl to Mr H-rr-is, upon this vulgar profanation of his spic-and-sy an-new title, will, I trust, some time or other, be given to the world.

As Earl of M-RL-Y, then, gazette him,
If 't other Earl of M-RL-Y'll let him.
(And why should not the world be blest
With two such stars, for East and West?)
Then, when before the Yellow Screen

He's brought-and, sure, the very essence Of etiquette would be that scene

Of JOE in the Celestial Presence!— He thus should say: Duke Ho and Soo, I'll play what tricks you please for you, If you 'll, in turn, but do for me

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY.

WELL, it is n't the King, after all, my dear creature! But don't you go laugh, now-there 's nothing to quiz in 't

For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature,
He might be a King, Doll, though, hang him, he is n't.
At first I felt hurt, for I wish'd it, I own,

If for no other cause than to vex Miss MALONE,

That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten,
And was kill'd by a fall from a cherry-tree then!
What a frisky old girl! but-to come to my lover,
Who, though not a king, is a hero I'll swear,-
You shall hear all that's happen'd just briefly run over,
Since that happy night, when we whisk'd through the
air!

Let me sec-'t was on Saturday-yes, Dolly, yes-
From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss;
When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage,
Whose journey, Bob says, is so like love and marriage,
Beginning gay, desperate, dashing down-hilly;

And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!,
Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night through,
And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you,
With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet,
Set out with Papa, to see L**** D******
Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys,
Who get up a small concert of shrill Vive le ****—
And how vastly genteeler, my dear, even this is,
Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses!

The gardens seem'd full-so, of course, we walk'd o'er 'em,

Mong orange-trees, clipp'd into town-bred decorum,
And Daphnes, and vases, and many a statue
There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you!
The ponds, too, we view'd-stood awhile on the brink
To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes-
« Live bullion,» says merciless Bob, which I think,
Would, if coin'd, with a little mint sauce, be delicious'

Bnt what, Dolly, what is the gay orange-grove,
Or gold fishes, to her that 's in search of her love?
In vain did I wildly explore every chair
Where a thing like a man was-no lover sat there!
In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast

At the whiskers, mustachios, and wigs that went past,
To obtain, if I could, but a glance at that curl,
But a glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl,
As the lock that, Pa says, is to Mussulmen given,
For the angel to hold by that lugs them to heaven!-

here,

Showing off with such airs and a real Cashmere,
While mine 's but a paltry old rabbit-skin, dear!)
But says Pa, after deeply considering the thing,

. I am just as well pleased it should not be the King; As I think for my BIDDY, so gentille and jolie,

fetch,

Whose charms may their price in an honest way That a Brandenburg-(what is a Brandenburg, DOLLY?)— Would be, after all, no such very great catch. If the R-G-T, indeed—» added he, looking sly(You remember that comical squint of his eye) But I stopp'd him-« La, Pa, how can you say so, When the R-G-T loves none but old women, you know!

Which is fact, my dear Dolly-we, girls of eighteen,
And so slim-Lord, he 'd think us not fit to be seen;
And would like us much better as old-ay, as old
As that Countess of Desmond, of whom I've been told

See Mr Ellis's account of the Embassy.

See Lady Morgan's France for the anecdote, told her by Madame de Genlis, of the young gentleman whose love was cured by finding that his mistress wore a shawl « peau de lapin..

And mustachios in plenty, but nothing like his!

Disappointed, I found myself sighing out well-a-day,

Thought of the words of T-M M-RE's Irish melody, Something about the green spot of delight,,3 (Which you know, Captain Macintosh sung to us one day):

We dined at a tavern-La, what do I say?
If Bob was to know!-a Restaurateur's, dear;

The cars, on the return, are dragged up slowly by a chain. For this scrap of knowledge « Pa was, I suspect, indebted to a note upon Volney's Ruins: a book which usually forms part of a Jacobin's library, and with which Mr Fudge must have been well ac quainted at the time when he wrote his Down with Kings, etc.The note in Volney is as follows: It is by this tu ́t of hair (on the crown of the head), worn by the majority of Mussulmans, that the Angel of the Tomb is to take the elect and carry them to Paradise." The young lady, whose memory is not very correct, must allude,

I think, to the following lines:

Oh that fairy form is ne'er forgot,

Which First Love traced;

Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot

On Memory's waste!

dine

every day,

Condescended, for once, to make one of the party; Of course, though but three, we had dinner for nine, And, in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty. Indeed, Doll, I know not how 't is, but in grief, I have always found eating a wondrous relief;

And Bob, who 's in love, said he felt the same quite— My sighs, said he ceased with the first glass I

drank you;

The lamb made me tranquil, the puffs made me light, And now that's all o'er-why, I 'm-pretty well, thank you!

To my great annoyance, we sat rather late;
For Bobby and Pa had a furious debate
About singing and cookery,-Bobby, of course,
Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force;
And Pa saying, God only knows which is worst,
The French singers or cooks, but I wish us well over
it-

What with old Lais and Very, I'm curst

Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce-and my frills, You 've no notion how rich-(though Pa has by the bills)

And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near,
Colonel Calicot eyeing the cambric, my dear.
Then the flowers in my bonnet-but, la, it's in vain-
So, good bye, my sweet Doll-I shall soon write again.

Nota bene-our love to all neighbours aboutYour papa in particular-how is his gout?

B. F.

P. S.-I've just open'd my letter to say, In your next you must tell me (now do, Dolly, pray, For I hate to ask Bob, he 's so ready to quiz) What sort of a thing, dear, a Brandenburgh is.

LETTER XI.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO ———

YES-'t was a cause, as noble and as great
As ever hero died to vindicate-

toni's!!

We enter'd-and scarcely had Bob, with an air,

For a grappe à la jardinière call'd to the waiters, When, oh! Doll, I saw him-my hero was there

(For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters),

A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him,2
And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him!
Oh Dolly, these heroes-what creatures they are!
In the boudoir the same as in fields full of slaughter;
As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car

As when safe at Tortoni's, o'er iced currant-water!
He join'd us-imagine, dear creature my ecstasy-
Join'd by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see!
Bob wish'd to treat him with punch à la glace,
But the sweet fellow swore that my beauté, my grace,
And my je-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirl'd)
Were, to him, « on de top of all ponch in de world.-
How pretty!-though oft (as, of course, it must be)
Both his French and his English are Greek, Doll, to me.
But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did;
And, happier still, when 't was fix'd, ere we parted,
That, if the next day should be pastoral weather,
We all would set off in French buggies, together,
To see Montmorency-that place which, you know,
Is so famous for cherries and Jean Jacques Rousseau.
His card then he gave us-the name, rather creased-
But it was Calicot-something-a colonel, at least!
After which-sure there never was hero so civil-he
Saw us safe home to our door in Rue Rivoli,
Where his last words, as, at parting, he threw
A soft look o'er his shoulders, were- how do

you do! 3

But, lord,-there 's Papa for the post-I'm so vex'd— Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next.

A fashionable café glacier on the Italian Boulevards.

A nation's right to speak a nation's voice,
And own no power but of the nation's choice!

Hung trembling on N'p'l''n's single brow;
Such the sublime arbitrement, that pour'd,
In patriot eyes, a light around his sword,
A glory then, which never, since the day
of his young victories, had illumed its way!

Oh 't was not then the time for tame debates,
Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates;
When he who fled before your chieftain's eye,
As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly!
Denounced against the land that spurn'd his chain,
Myriads of swords to bind it fast again-
Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track
Through your best blood his path of vengeance back;
When Europe's kings, that never yet combined
But (like those upper stars, that, when conjoin'd,
Shed war and pestilence) to scourge mankind,
Gather'd around, with hosts from every shore,
Hating N'p'l''n much, but freedom more,
And, in that coming strife, appall'd to see
The world yet left one chance for liberty!-
No, 't was not then the time to weave a net
Of bondage round your chief; to curb and fret
Your veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight,
When every hope was in his speed and might-
To waste the hour of action in dispute,

And coolly plan how Freedom's boughs should shoot
When your invader's axe was at the root!
No, sacred Liberty! that God, who throws
Thy light around, like his own sunshine, knows
How well I love thee, and how deeply hate
AU
tyrants, upstart and legitimate-

Yet in that hour, were F***ce my native land,

I would have follow'd, with quick heart and hand,

See Ælian, lib. v, cap. 29; who tells us that these geese, from a

Not an unusual mistake with foreigners.

stones in their bills, to prevent any unlucky cackle from betraying them to the eagles-διαπετονται σιωπώντες.

N'P'L'ON, NERO-ay, no matter whom-

To snatch my country from that damning doom, That deadliest curse that on the conquer'd waitsA conqueror's satrap, throned within her gates!

True, he was false-despotic-all you please-
Had trampled down man's holiest liberties-
Had, by a genius form'd for nobler things
Than lie within the grasp of vulgar kings,
But raised the hopes of men-as eaglets fly
With tortoises aloft into the sky-

To dash them down again more shatteringly!
All this I own-but still'

LETTER XII.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY

Ar last, DOLLY,-thanks to a potent emetic
Which BOBBY and Pa, with grimace sympathetic,
Have swallow'd this morning, to balance the bliss
Of an eel matelote and a bisque d'écrevisses-
I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down
To describe you our heavenly trip out of town.
How agog you must be for this letter, my dear!
Lady JANE, in the novel, less languished to hear
If that elegant cornet she met at Lord NEVILLE'S
Was actually dying with love or-blue devils.
But love, DOLLY, love is the theme I pursue;
With blue devils, thank heaven, I've nothing to do-
Except, indeed, dear Colonel CALICOT Spies
Any imps of that colour in certain blue eyes,
Which he stares at till I, DOLL, at his do the same;
Then he simpers-I blush-and would often exclaim,
If I knew but the French for it, Lord, Sir, for shame!

"

Well, the morning was lovely-the trees in full dress For the happy occasion—the sunshine express— Had we order'd it, dear, of the best poet going,

It scarce could be furnish'd more golden and glowing. Though late when we started, the scent of the air

For the colonel, it seems, is a stickler of BONEY'SServed with him, of course-nay, I'm sure they were

cronies

So martial his features! dear DOLL, you can trace
Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face
As you do on that pillar of glory and brass'
Which the poor Duc de B**RI must hate so to pass!
It appears, too, he made-as most foreigners do-
About English affairs an odd blunder or two.
For example-misled by the names, I dare say--
He confounded JACK CASTLES with Lord C--—GH ;
And-such a mistake as no mortal hit ever on-
Fancied the present Lord C-MD-N the clever one!

But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade; 'T was for war and the ladies my Colonel was made. And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'd Through that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talked; And how perfectly well he appear'd, DOLL, to know All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU!"T was there, said he-not that his words I can state'T was a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate;But there, said he (pointing where, small and remote, The dear Hermitage rose), there his JULIE he wrote,Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure; Then sanded it over with silver and azure, And-oh, what will genius and fancy not do?Tied the leaves up together with nompareille blue!,2 What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions

From sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here! Alas, that a man of such exquisite3 notions Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!

■'T was here, too, perhaps, Colonel CALICOT said— As down the small garden he pensively led(Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle)4 "T was here he received from the fair D'EPINAY, (Who call'd him so sweetly her Bear,5 every day), That dear flannel petticoat, pull'd off to form A waistcoat to keep the enthusiast warm!,6

there,

On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet,
Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabbinet!
And the birds seemed to warble as blest, on the boughs,
As if each a plumed CALICOT had for her spouse,
And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows,
And-in short, need I tell you, wherever one goes
With the creature one loves, 't is all couleur de rose;
And ab, I shall ne'er, lived I ever so long, see
A day such as that at divine Montmorency!

As, full of romance, through that valley we wander'd,
The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is!)
Led us to talk about other commodities,
Cambric, and silk, and I ne'er shall forget,
For the sun was then hastening in pomp to its set,

The column in the Place Vendome.

2 Employant pour cela le plus beau papier doré, séchant l'écriture avec de la poudre d'azur et d'argent, et cousant mes cahiers avec de la nompareille bleue.-Les Confessions, Part 2, liv. 9.

This word exquisites is evidently a favourite of Miss Fudge's; and I understand she was not a little angry when her brother Bob

plet:

I'd fain praise your poem-but tell me, how is it, When I cry out Exquisite, Echo cries quiz it!»

Somebody (Fontenelle, I believe) has said, that if he had his hand full of truths, he would open but one finger at a time; and I find it necessary to use the same sort of reserve with respect to Mr Phelim Connor's very plain-spoken letters. The remainder of this Epistle is so full of unsafe matter-of-fact, that it must, for the present at least, be withheld from the public.

4 The flower which Rousseau brought into such fashion among the Parisians, by exclaiming one day, « Ah, voila de la pervenche!» 5 Mon ours, voilà votre asyle-et vous, mon ours, ne viendrezvous pas aussi?»—etc. etc.

6«Un jour, qu'il gelait très-fort, en ouvrant un paquet qu'elle m'envoy it, je trouvai un petit jupon de flanelle d'Angleterre, qu'elle me marquait avoir porté, et dont elle voulait que je me fisse faire un gilet. Ce soin, plus qu'amical, me parut si tendre, come si elle se fut dépouillé pour me vétir, que, dans mon émotion, je baisai vingt fois, en pleurant, le billet et le jupon..

And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down, When he ask'd me, with eagerness,-who made my gown?

The question confused me-for, DOLL, you must know,
And I ought to have told my best friend long ago,
That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ
That enchanting couturière, Madame LE ROI,

But am forced, dear, to have VICTORINE, who-deuce

take her!

It seems is, at present, the King's mantua-maker-
I mean of his party—and, though much the smartest,
LE ROI is condemn'd as a rank B'n'pa't'st."

Think, DOLL, how confounded I look'd-so well knowing
The Colonel's opinions-my cheeks were quite glowing;
I stammer'd out something-nay, even half named
The legitimate sempstress, when, loud, he exclaim'd,
Yes, yes, by the stitching 't is plain to be seen
It was made by that B'rb'n''t b――h, VICTORINE!
What a word for a hero! but heroes will err,
And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things just as they were.
Besides, though the word on good manners intrench,
I assure you 't is not half so shocking in French.

But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon pass'd away,
And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day,
The thoughts that arise when such dear fellows woo us,—
The nothings that then, love, are every thing to us-
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,
And what BoB calls the Twopenny-Post of the Eyes-
Ah DOLL! though I know you've a heart, 't is in vain
To a heart so unpractised these things to explain;
They can only be felt in their fullness divine
By her who has wander'd, at evening's decline,
Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!

But here I must finish-for BOB, my dear DOLLY,
Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,
Is seized with a fancy for church-yard reflections;
And full of all yesterday's rich recollections,
Is just setting off for Montmartre for there is,
Said he, looking solemn, the tomb of the VERYS!3
Long, long have I wish'd, as a votary true,

O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans;
And to-day-as my stomach is not in good cue

For the flesh of the VERYS-I'll visit their bones!»
He insists upon my going with hin-how teazing!
This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lie
Unseal'd in my drawer, that, if any thing pleasing
Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you—Good bye.
B. F.
Four o'clock.

Oh DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I 'm ruin'd for ever-
I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never!
To think of the wretch-what a victim was I!
T is too much to endure-I shall die, I shall die-
My brain 's in a fever-my pulses beat quick—
I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly sick—

Miss Biddy's notions of French pronunciation may be per. ceived in the rhymes which she always selects for Le Roi.

Le Roi, who was the Couturiere of the Empress Maria Louisa, is at present, of course, out of fashion, and is succeeded in her station by the Royalist mantua-maker, VICTORINE,

It is the brother of the present excellent Restaurateur who lies entombed so magnificently in the Cimetière Montmartre. The inscription on the column at the head of the tomb concludes with the following words- Toate sa vie fut consacrée aux arts utiles.»

Oh what do you think? after all my romancing,
My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing,
This Colonel-1 scarce can commit it to paper-
This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!
'T is true as I live-I had coax'd brother BoB so
(You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so)
For some little gift on my birth-day-September
The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember—
That BoB to a shop kindly order'd the coach

Ah, little I thought who the shopman would prove) To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche,

Which, in happier hours, I have sigh'd for, my love— The most beautiful things-two Napoleons the priceAnd one's name in the corner embroider'd so nice!) Well, with heart full of pleasure, I enter'd the shop, But-ye Gods, what a phantom!-I thought I should drop

There he stood, my dear DOLLY-no room for a doubtThere, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him

stand,

With a piece of French cambric before him roll'd out,
And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand!
Oh-Papa, all along, knew the secret, 't is clear-
T was a shopman he meant by a Brandenburgh,▾

dear!

The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King,

And, when that too delightful illusion was past,
As a hero had worshipp'd-vile treacherous thing—
My head swam around-the wretch smiled, I believe,
To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!
But his smiling, alas! could no longer deceive—

I fell back on BOB-my whole heart seem'd to wither-
Aud, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!
I only remember that BOB, as I caught him,
With cruel facetiousness said- Curse the Kiddy!
A staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him,
But now I find out he's a Counter one, BIDDY!

Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known
To that saucy, satirical thing Miss MALONE!
What a story 't will be at Shandangan for ever!
What laughs and what quizzing she 'll have with the
men!

It will spread through the country-and never, oh never
Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again!
Farewell-I shall do something desperate, I fear-
And, ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear,
One tear of compassion my Dott will not grudge
To her poor-broken-hearted-young friend,

Nota Bene.-I'm sure you will hear, with delight,
That we 're going, all three, to see BRUNET to night.
A laugh will revive me-and kind Mr Cox
(Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box!

NOTES.

Oh this learning, what a thing it is! SHAKSPEARE.

Note 1, page 139, col. 2.

So FERDINAND embroiders gaily.

Ir would be an edifying thing to write a history of the private amusements of sovereigns, tracing them