ist drivellings, which more than one royalist of the nineteenth century heartily laughs at; but he is only vulgar, and not witty, when he compares the foot of any monarch to that of an animal which our poetry can only designate by a circumlocution. The coarse is seldom allied to the humorous. I prefer the epistle in which Mr. Fudge, invoking classical allegory to the aid of his royalist zeal, discovers that Midas was a very respectable tyrant, and that his fabulous large ears were his spies, listening to all things, understanding all things, and collecting reports for his Majesty's green bag. Why, therefore, should not the Prince Regent be endowed with ears like those of the worthy Midas?

"His model, good king Midas," &c.

Success, therefore, to the ears of the Prince Regent! Mr. Fudge is also a friend to the liberty of the press; but, like certain continental ministers, is only willing to encourage such as use without abusing it.

This worthy spy has a son and daughter who accompany his journey, and have also their private correspondence. Miss Biddy relates, with innocent simplicity, her various impressions to her friend Miss Doll. She constitutes a kind of sentimental Agnes, whom every thing astonishes and enchants, although it appears to her that adventures are somewhat tardy in occuring. Her first visit at Paris is to Madame Le Roy, a celebrated mantua-maker in 1817. Adorned with a bonnet

and gown in the Parisian fashion, she considers herself invested with a talisman for conquering all descriptions of hearts. At our opera she discovers that our lyrical singers are mere squallers, and conspirators against the laws of harmony; which is a tolerable decisive judgment for a little simpleton in her own country. This nursling of a poet, who has so well described the seductions of Mokanna's gardens, could not remain insensible to the enchantments of our Parisian Bayaderes; Bigotini, Fanny Bias, &c. are proclaimed divine. She does not less admire the chaste Susanna of the Port Saint Martin; but it is at Beaujon that she herself is destined to triumph, in the supposition, that she has taken her seat in the same car as the king of Prussia, who was then at Paris under the name of Count de Ruppin. This gallant cavalier, however, turns out to be no more than a mere Colonel; but he is amiable; he wears mustachios; he talks of Austerlitz; he is a Buonapartist; in short, he is a hero. Miss Biddy enjoys some agreeable excursions with her hero to Tortoni, to Pere La Chaise, and finally to Montmorenci, where he becomes enthusiastic on the subject of Jean Jacques. Biddy imagines herself to be the Venus of this Mars in epaulettes. Alas! what vanity is there in mortal wishes! His courage, his wealth, his rank, and his wit, all vanish in a moment, when chance brings him to the eye of poor Biddy, standing behind the ignoble rampart of a counter, with a linen-draper's yard in his hand. In short, he is a man-milliner.

Mr. Fudge's son is more happy in his devotions; he feels no passions but for the delights of gastronomy; he assiduously frequents Very and Beauvilliers, and escapes cheaply with a few indigestions. In other respects he belongs to the dandy genus, and is described by his sister in the following terms :--

"A being with little mustachios, and stays, of diminutive height, resembling an hour-glass, with his head immoveably buried between two points of his cravat collar," &c. Mr. Fudge, jun. has a tutor; the latter is a poor cousin, the philosopher of the family, one Phelim Connor, who seriously indites liberal diatribes against the Bourbons and the Holy Alliance, while he lauds the sublime flight of the imperial eagle. There is no avoiding a smile at so much credulity; as if, forsooth, the thunder-bearing bird, again conveyed on the wings of victory, had permitted itself to be heralded by a republican red-cap. Some of Phelim Conner's tirades possess a lofty eloquence; they exhibit the impulse of real indignation. But I quit this somewhat disaffected subject, although I am writing in London, where our illustrious ambassador has just been quarrelling with the newspapers, because he disapproved a public invitation which they contained to assassinate his most christian majesty.

I must also relinquish the subject of Mr. Thomas Moore for the present, for I have not referred to all his works.

P. S. A new production of the author of Lalla

Rookh, namely, the Loves of the Angels, has just reached me.

Since this poem deserves a comparison with Lord Byron's Heaven and Earth, I have subjoined what I propose saying of it in my essay on the genius and character of the noble author.

The two poets have stamped the peculiar impress of their talent on their several works.

Moore has lost nothing of his exquisite sensibility, his felicity of description, and his elegance. His style is always a little too brilliantly polished; he sins through an entirely oriental luxuriousness of fancy. His muse is crowned with pearls and diamonds. She is rendered dazzling with rich ornaments; and when becoming more chaste and tender she charms us by more simple graces and less far-fetched ornaments, some relics of the coquette are still detected in the art with which she arranges her veil, and the simplest flowers which go to decorate her vesture. The creations of T. Moore are too much spiritualized; his females would be more interesting if they were less angelic. The fable of the poem consists in the narrative which three exiles from heaven mutually supply of their bonnes fortunes, with three daughters of earth.* The whole three have sacrificed every thing to love; but the angels of Lord Byron embrace perdition through a sentiment of honour. They generously prefer renounc

* The poet himself speaks in the name of the third.

ing the pardon which is offered to them to the abandonment of the mortal females* whom they have seduced. But this love of the sons of God, and the daughters of men, is only an episode in the more severe composition of Lord Byron. The poet has delineated the picture of a world, corrupted and condemned to the terrible regeneration of a deluge. He describes man, invested with all his irregular passions, confronting the Creator, armed with inexorable vengeance. The same vengeance is about to overtake the superior intelligencies, who have forgotten their high vocations in the lap of terrestrial pleasures, and the devoted fair ones, who prefer to a jealous God the lovers whom they have selected, and whom they have made their only divinities.

Weakness abandons itself up to cowardly repinings. Impious pride, instead of offering homage to the Almighty, perishes with a curse upon its lips. The just man, strong in his faith, and the consolations of holy hope, resigns himself to his fate, and blesses heaven. A mother, -ah! the delirium of her maternal grief will doubtless plead for pardon - a mother, having vainly implored the safety of her son, suffers a reproach instead of a prayer to escape her lips at the near prospect

Some rabbins have affirmed that the loves of the angels with the daughters of men is a false tradition, arising from a misrepresented passage of Genesis. The giants recorded to have been born of this commerce between heaven and earth, could not, in that case, have existed. However this may be, poets are fully entitled to avail themselves of the idea, whether allegorical or not.