That sparkle in the Lustre's ray,

O'er the white path shall bound and play

Like Nymphs along the Milky Way!

At every step a star is fled,

And suns grow dim beneath their tread!
So passeth life-(thus SC-TT would write,
And spinsters read him with delight)—
Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on,
Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone!
But, hang this long digressive flight!
I meant to say, thou 'It see, that night,
What falsehood rankles in their hearts,
Who say the P-E neglects the arts-
Neglects the arts!-no ST--G! no;
Thy Cupids answer «'t is not so ;»
And every floor, that night, shall tell
How quick thou daubest, and how well!
Shine as thou may'st in French vermilion,
Thou 'rt best beneath a French cotillion;
And still comest off, whate'er thy faults,
With flying colours in a Waltz!

Nor need'st thou mourn the transient date
To thy best works assign'd by Fate-
While some chefs-d'œuvre live to weary one,
Thine boast a short life and a merry one;
Their hour of glory past and gone
With Molly, put the kettle on!»

But, bless my soul! I've scarce a leaf
Of paper left-so, must be brief.

This festive Fête, in fact, will be
The former Fete's fac-simile;2
The same long Masquerade of Rooms,
Trick'd in such different, quaint costumes,
(These, P-RT-8, are thy glorious works!)
You'd swear Egyptians, Moors, and Turks,
Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice,
Had clubb'd to raise a Pic-Nic Palace;
And each, to make the oglio pleasant,
Had sent a State-Room as a present;-
The same fauteuils and girandoles--
The same gold Asses, 3 pretty souls!
That, in this rich and classic dome,
Appear so perfectly at home!

The same bright river 'mongst the dishes,
But not-ah! not the same dear fishes-
Late hours and claret kill'd the old ones!
So, 'stead of silver and of gold ones
(It being rather hard to raise

Fish of that specie now-a-days),

Some sprats have been, by Y-RM-TH's wish, Promoted into Silver Fish,

And Gudgeons (so V-NS-TT-T told

Hearts are not flint, yet flints are rent,
Hearts are not steel, yet steel is bent.

After all, however, Mr Sc-tt may well say to the Colonel (and, indeed, to much better wags than the Colonel), pzov posperoÛzi ἡ μιμείσθαι.

* « C―rl-t―n He will exhibit a complete fac-simile, in respect to interior ornament, to what it did at the last Fète. The same splendid draperies,» etc.—Morning Post.

The salt-cellars on the P-E's own table were in the form of an Ass with panniers.

APPENDIX.

LETTER IV, Page 130.

AMONG the papers inclosed in Dr DG-x-6) Letter, there is an Heroic Epistle in Latin verse, from POPE JOAN to her Lover, of which, as it is rather a cur ous document, I shall venture to give some account This female Pontiff was a native of England (or, acording to others, of Germany), who, at an early age, disguised herself in male attire, and followed her lover. a young ecclesiastic, to Athens, where she studied with such effect, that upon her arrival at Rome she ws thought worthy of being raised to the Pontificate This Epistle is addressed to her Lover (whom she had elevated to the dignity of Cardinal), soon after the fatal accouchement, by which her Fallibility was betrayed. She begins by reminding him very tenderly of the time when they were in Athens-when

«By Ilissus' stream

We whispering walk'd along, and learn'd to speak
The tenderest feelings in the purest Greek ;
Ah! then how little did we think or hope,
Dearest of men! that I should e'er be POPE!1
That I-the humble Joan-whose house-wife art
Seem'd just enough to keep thy house and heart
(And those, alas! at sixes and at sevens),
Should soon keep all the keys of all the Heavens!»

Still less (she continues to say) could they have foreseen, that such a catastrophe as had happened in Council would befal them-that she

«Should thus surprise the Conclave's grave decorum And let a little Pope pop out before 'emPope Innocent! alas, the only one

That name should ever have been fix'd upon!

She then very pathetically laments the downfal of her greatness, and enumerates the various treasures to which she is doom'd to bid farewell for ever.

<< But oh! more dear, more precious ten times over— Farewell, my Lord, my Cardinal, my Lover!

I made thee Cardinal-thou madest me-ah!
Thou madest the Papa2 of the World-Mamma!»

I have not time now to translate any more of this Epistle; but I presume the argument which the Right Hon. Doctor and his friends mean to deduce from it, is (in their usual convincing strain) that Romanists must be unworthy of Emancipation now, because they had a Petticoat Pope in the Ninth Century-Nothing can The more logically clear, and I find that Horace had exactly the same views upon the subject:

Romanus (eheu posteri, negabitis!) Emancipatus FORMINE

Fert vallum!

Spanheim attributes the unanimity with which Joan was elected, to that innate and irresistible charm by which her sex, though latent, operated upon the instinct of the Cardinals- Non vi aliqua, sed concorditer, omnium in se converso desiderio, quæ sunt blandientis sexus artes, latentes in hac quanquam !»

*This is an anachronism, for it was not till the eleventh century that the Bishop of Rome took the title of Papa, or Universal Father.

Go to your prisons-though the air of Spring
No mountain coolness to your cheeks shall bring;
Though summer flowers shall pass unseen away,
And all your portion of the glorious day
May be some solitary beam that falls,
At morn or eve, upon your dreary walls—
Some beam that enters, trembling as if awed,
To tell how gay the young world laughs abroad!
Yet go-for thoughts, as blessed as the air
Of spring or summer flowers, await you there;
Thoughts, such as He, who feasts his courtly crew
In rich conservatories, never knew!
Pure self-esteem-the smiles that light within-
The Zeal, whose circling charities begin

With the few loved-ones Heaven has placed it near,
Nor cease, till all mankind are in its sphere!—
The Pride, that suffers without vaunt or plea,
And the fresh Spirit, that can warble free,
Through prison-bars, its hymn to Liberty!

The scene next changes to a Tailor's Work-shop, and a fancifully-arranged group of these Artists is discovered upon the Shop-board-Their task evidently of a royal nature, from the profusion of gold-lace, frogs, etc. that lie about-They all rise and come forward, while one of them sings the following Stanzas, to the tune of Derry Down..

"

My brave brother Tailors, come, straighten your knees,
For a moment, like gentlemen, stand up at ease,
While I sing of our P――E (and a fig for his railers),
The Shop-board's delight! the Marcenas of Tailors!
Derry down, down, down derry down.
Some monarchs take roundabout ways into note,
But His short cut to fame is-the cut of his coat;
Philip's Son thought the world was too small for his
Soul,
While our R-G-T's finds room in a laced button-hole!
Derry down, etc.

go loose

Not a King of them all's such a friend to the Goose. So, God keep him increasing in size and renown, Still the fattest and best-fitted P-E about town! Derry down, etc.

During the Derry down of this last verse, a messenger from the S-c-t-y of S--e's Office rushes on, and the singer (who, luckily for the effect of the scene, is the very Tailor suspected of the mysterious fragments) is interrupted in the midst of his laudatory exertions, and hurried away, to the no small surprise and consternation of his comrades. The Plot now hastens rapidly in its development-the management of the Tailor's examination is highly skilful, and the alarm which he is made to betray is natural without being ludicrous. The explanation, too, which he finally gives, is not more simple than satisfactory. It appears that the said fragments formed part of a self-exculpatory note, which he had intended to send to Colonel MM-N upon subjects purely professional, and the corresponding bits (which still lie luckily in his pocket) being produced, and skilfully laid beside the others, the following billet-doux is the satisfactory result of their juxta-position:

Honour'd Colonel-my WIFE, who's the QUEEN of all slatterns,

NEGLECTED to put up THE BOOK of new Patterns.
She sent the WRONG MEASURES too-shamefully wrong-
They're the same used for poor Mr LAMBERT, when young;
But, bless you! they would n't go half round the R-G-T,
So, hope you'll excuse yours till death, most obedient.

This fully explains the whole mystery—the R—G—T resumes his wonted smiles, and the drama terminates, as usual, to the satisfaction of all parties.

PREFACE.

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 C▬▬▬GH, 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 S-DM-TH, 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 S-DM-TH, and the Greenland-bound ships, the eyes of all lovers of discoveries are now most anxiously directed.

I regret that I have been obliged to omit Mr Boa FUDGE's Third Letter, concluding the adventures of his Day, with the Dinner, Opera, etc. etc.-but, in consequence of some remarks ◆pon 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 in- | justice 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-Bagsuch 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; without even the honesty of avowing, with his own favourite author (he will excuse the pun)

Εγω δ' Ὁ ΜΩΡΟΣ αρας Εδησαμην μετωπῳ.

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

Very obedient and very humble servant,
THOMAS BROWN, THE YOUNGER.

April, 17, 1818.

THE

FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS.

LETTER I.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY——, OF CLONSKILTY, IN IRELAND.

Amiens.

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! though, 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 corn-fields 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 Clonskilty 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, though one little Neddy we saw in our drive
Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive!
By the bye, though, at Calais, Papa had a touch
Of romance on the pier, which affected me much.

At the sight of that spot, where our darling
Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet'
(Modell'd out so exactly, and-God bless the mark!-
'T is a foot, Dolly, worthy so Grand a M****que),
He exclaim'd « Oh mon R**!» and, with tear-dropping cyc,
Stood to gaze on the spot-while some Jacobin, nigli,
Mutter'd out with a shrug (what an insolent thing!)
Ma foi, he be right-'t is de Englishman's Kg;
And dat gros pied de cochon-begar, me vil say,
Dat de foot look mosh better, if turn'd toder way.
There's the pillar, too-Lord! I had nearly forgot-
What a charming idea!—raised close to the spot;
The mode being now (as you've heard, I suppose)
To build tombs over legs, and raise pillars to toes.

This is all that's occurr'd sentimental as yet;
Except, indeed, some little flower-nymphs we've met,
Who disturb one's romance with pecuniary views,
Flinging flowers in your path, and then bawling for sous!
And some picturesque beggars, whose multitudes seem
To recal the good days of the ancien régime,
All as ragged and brisk, you'll be happy to learn,
And as thin, as they were in the time of dear STERNE.

Our party consists, in a neat Calais job,
Of Papa and myself, Mr CONNOR and BOB.
You remember how sheepish Boв look'd at Kilrandy,
But Lord he's quite alter'd-they 've made him a Dandy;
A thing, you know, whisker'd, great-coated, and laced,
Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist:
Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scholars,
With heads so immoveably stuck in shirt-collars,
That seats like our music-stools soon must be found them,
To twirl, when the creatures may wish to look round
them!

In short, dear, a Dandy describes what I mean,
And BoB's far the best of the genus I've seen:

An improving young man, fond of learning, ambitious,
And goes now to Paris to study French dishes,
Whose names-think,how quick!-he already knows pat,
A la braise petits pâtes, and—what d'ye call that
They inflict on potatoes? oh! maitre d'hôtel-
I assure you, dear DOLLY, he knows them as well
As if nothing but these all his life he had ate,
Though a bit of them BOBBY has never touch'd yet;
But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks,
As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and books.

And prove to mankind that their rights are but folly, Their freedom a joke (which it is, you know, DOLLY); There's none, said his Lordship, if I may be judge, Half so fit for this great undertaking as FUDGE!.

The matter's soon settled-Pa flies to the Row (The first stage your tourists now usually go), Settles all for his quarto-advertisements, praisesStarts post from the door, with his tablets-French phrases

SCOTT's Visit, of course-in short, every thing he has An author can want, except words and ideas:And, lo! the first thing in the spring of the year, IS PHIL. FUDGE at the front of a Quarto, my dear! But, bless me, my paper 's near out, so I'd better Draw fast to a close :-this exceeding long letter You owe to a déjeûner à la Fourchette,

nours

May think, in their fright, of suppressing poor CONNOR's?
Au reste (as we say), the young lad 's well enough,
Only talks much of Athens, Rome, virtue, and stuff;
A third cousin of ours, by the way-poor as Job
(Though of royal descent by the side of Mamma),
And for charity made private tutor to BoB-

Entre nous, too, a Papist-how liberal of Pa!
This is all, dear,-forgive me for breaking off thus;
But BoB's déjeûner's done, and Papa's in a fuss.

Where the poor palace changes masters
Quicker than a snake its skin,
And *****
is rolled out on castors

While ****"'s borne on shoulders in:
But where, in every change, no doubt,
One special good your Lordship traces,—
That 't is the Kings alone turn out,

The Ministers still keep their places.

How oft, dear Viscount C――――GH,
I've thought of thee upon the way,
As in my job (what place could be
More apt to wake a thought of thee?)
Or, oftener far, when gravely sitting
Upon my dickey (as is fitting

For him who writes a Tour, that he
May more of men and manners see),
I've thought of thee and of thy glories,
Thou guest of Kings, and King of Tories!
Reflecting how thy fame has grown

And spread, beyond man's usual share,
At home, abroad, till thou art known,

Like Major SEMPLE, every where!
And marvelling with what powers of breath
Your Lordship, having speech'd to death
Some hundreds of your fellow-men,
Next speech'd to Sovereigns' ears,—and when
All sovereigns else were dozed, at last
Speech'd down the Sovereignt of Belfast.
Oh! 'mid the praises and the trophies
Thou gain'st from Morosophs and Sophis,
'Mid all the tributes to thy fame,

There's one thou shouldst be chiefly pleased at-
That Ireland gives her suuff thy name,

And C-Gu's the thing now sneezed at!

But hold, my pen!-a truce to praising-
Though even your Lordship will allow
The theme's temptations are amazing;

But time and ink run short, and now
(As thou wouldst say, my guide and teacher
In these gay metaphoric fringes),

I must embark into the feature

On which this letter chiefly hinges ;-1
My Book, the Book that is to prove-
And will, so help ye Sprites above,
That sit on clouds, as grave as judges,
Watching the labours of the FUDGES!-
Will prove that all the world, at present,
Is in a state extremely pleasant:
That Europe-thanks to royal swords

And bayonets, and the Duke commanding-
Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord's,
Passeth all human understanding:

That Fce prefers her go-cart

To such a coward scamp as

Though round, with each a leading-string,
There standeth many a R'y'l crony,

The title of the chief magistrate of Belfast, before whom bis Lordship (with the studiam immane loquendi - attributed by Ovid to that chattering and rapacious class of birds, the pies) delivered sundry long and self-gratulatory orations, on his return from the Continent. It was at one of these Irish dinners that his gallant brother Lord S. proposed the health of The best cavalry officer in Euro, e-the Regent !»

Verbatim from one of the noble Viscount's speeches. And now, Sir, 1 must embark into the feature on which this question chiefly hinges..