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All orthodox believers beat 'em,
And twitch their beards, where'er they meet 'em.
As to the rest, they're free to do
Whate'er their fancy prompts them to,
Provided they make nothing of it
Towards rank or honour, power or profit;
Which things, we naturally expect,
Belong to us, the Established sect,
Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked !)
Th' aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket.
The same mild views of Toleration
Inspire, I find, this buttoned nation,
Whose Papists (full as given to rogue,
And only Sunnites with a brogue)
Fare just as well, with all their fuss,
As rascal Sunnites do with us.
The tender Gazel I enclose
Is for my love, my Syrian Rose-
Take it when night begins to fall,
And throw it o'er her mother's wall.
Rememberest thou the hour we passed,
That hour, the happiest and the last ! -
Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn
To summer bees, at break of morn,
Not half so sweet, through dale and dell,
To camels' ears the tinkling bell,
As is the soothing memory
Of that one precious hour to me!
How can we live, so far apart?
Oh! why not rather, heart to heart,
United live and die-
Like those sweet birds that fly together,
With feather always touching feather,
Linked by a hook and eye! *
FROM MESSRS. L-CK-GTÖN AND CO. TO
PER post, sir, we send your MS.-looked it through-
Very sorry—but can't undertake-'twouldn't do.
This will appear strange to an English reader, but it is literally translated from Abdallah's Persian, and the curious bird to which he alludes is the Juftak, of which I find the following account in Richardson :-"A sort of bird, that is said to have but
one wing ; on the opposite side to which the male has a hook and the female a ring, so that, when they fly, they are fastened together." | From motives of delicacy, and indeed, of fellow-feeling, I suppress the name of the author, whose rejected manuscript was inclosed in this letter.
Clever work, sir !-would get up prodigiously well-
Its only defect is-it never would sell !
And though Statesmen may glory in being unbought,
In an Author, we think, sir, that's rather a fault.
Hard times, sir,-most books are too dear to be read-
Though the gold of Good Sense and Wit's small change are fled,
Yet the paper we publishers pass, in their stead,
Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it)
Not even such names as Fitzgerald's can sink it !
However, sir—if you're for trying again,
And at somewhat that's vendible-we are your men.
Since the Chevalier Carr took to marrying lately,
The trade is in want of a Traveller greatly--
No job, sir, more easy—your Country once planned,
A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land
Puts your quarto of Travels, sir, clean out of hand.
An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell-
And a lick at the Papists is sure to sell well.
Or-supposing you've nothing original in you-
Write Parodies, sir, and such fame it will win you
You'll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of Albinia ! *
(Mind—not to her dinners—a second-hand Muse
Mustn't think of aspiring to mess with the Blues.)
Or-in case nothing else in this world you can dom
The deuce is in't, sir, if you cannot review!
Should you feel any touch of poetical glow,
We've a scheme to suggest—Mr. Scott, you must know,
(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the Row),
Having quitted the borders, to seek new renown,
Is coming, by long quarto stages, to town;
And beginning with Rokeby (the job's sure to pay)
Means to do aïl the gentlemen's seats on the way.
Now, the scheme is (though none of our hackneys can beat him)
To start a fresh poet through Highgate to meet him;
Who, by means of quick proofs-no revises-long coaches-
May do a few villas, before Scott approaches-
Indeed, if our Pegasus be not cursed shabby,
He'll reach, without foundering, at least Woburn Abbey.
Such, sir, is our plan- if you're up to the freak,
'Tis a match! and we'll put you in training next week-
At present, no more-in reply to this letter, a
Line will oblige very much
Come to our fête, * and bring with thee
Thy newest, best embroidery!
Come to our fête, and show again
That pea-green coat, thou pink of men !
Which charmed all eyes, that last surveyed it;
When Brummel's self inquired “who made it?”.
When cits came wondering, from the East,
And thought thee Poet Pye at least!
Oh! come-(if haply 'tis thy week
For looking pale) — with paly cheek;
Though more we love thy roseate days,
When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze
Full o'er thy face, and, amply spread,
Tips e'en thy whisker-tops with red-
Like the last tints of dying day
That o'er some darkling grove delay!
Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander!
(That lace, like Harry Alexander,
Too precious to be washed !)--thy rings,
Thy seals—in short, thy prettiest things!
Put all thy wardrobe's glories on,
And yield, in frogs and fringe, to none
But the great Regent's self alone!
Who-by particular desire-
For that night only, means to hire
A dress from Romeo C-tes, Esquire-
Something between ('twere sin to hack it)
The Romeo robe and Hobby jacket !
Hail, first of actors ! + best of Regents !
Born for each other's fond allegiance !
Both gay Lotharios—both good dressers-
Of Serious Farce both learned Professors -
Both circled round, for use or show,
With cock's-combs, wheresoe'er they go!
Thou know'st the time, thou man of lore!
It takes to chalk a ball-room floor-
Thou know'st the time too, well-a-day!
* This letter inclosed a card for the grand fête on the 5th of February.
+ "Quem tu, Melpomene, semei
Nascentem placido lumine videris," &c.-Horace.
The Man upon whom thou hast deigned to look funny,
Thou great Tragic Muse! at the hour of his birth-
Let them say what they will, that's the Man for my money,
Give others thy tears, but let me have thy mirth!
The assertion that follows, however, is not verified in the instance before us:
-non equus impiger Curru ducet Achaico."
It takes to dance that chalk away.
The ball-room opens-far and nigh
Comets and suns beneath us lie;
O'er snowy moons and stars we walk,
And the floor seems a sky of chalk !
But soon shall fade the bright deceit,
When many a maid, with busy feet
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 Scott 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'lt see, that night,
What falsehood rankles in their hearts,
Who say the Prince neglects the arts—
Neglects the arts !--no St-g! no;
Thy Cupid's answer “'tis not so:
And every floor, that night, shall tell
How quick thou daubest, and how well !
Shine as thou mayst in French vermilion,
Thou'rt best-beneath a French cotillion;
And still com’st off, whate'er thy faults,
With fl;ing colours in a waltz !
Nor need'st thou mourn the transient date
To thy best works assigned by fate-
While some chefsd'ouvre 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 fête's fac-simile;
The same long masquerade of rooms,
Tricked in such different, quaint costumes,
(These, Porter, are thy glorious works !)
You'd swear Egyptians, Moors, and Turks,
Bearing good taste some deadly malice
Had clubbed to raise a pic-nic palace;
And each, to make the oglio pleasant,
* Hearts are not flint, yet flints are rent,
Hearts are not steel, yet steel is bent. After all, however,' Mr. Scott may well say to the Colonel (and, indeed, to much better wags than the Colonel), ραον μωμεισθαι ή μιμεισθαι.
Had sent a state-room as a present !
The same fauteuils and girandoles-
The same gold asses,* 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 killed 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 Yarmouth's wish,
Promoted into Silver Fish,
And Gudgeons (so Vansittart told
The Regent) are as good as Gold!
So, prythee, come-our fête will be
But half a fête, if wanting thee!
LETTER IV. AMONG the papers enclosed_in Dr. D-g-n-n's Letter, was found an Heroic Epistle in Latin verse, from Pope Joan to her Lover, of which, as it is rather a curious document, I shall.venture to give some account. This female Pontiff was a native of England, (or, according 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 was 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 tenderly of the time when they were together at Athens-when, as she says,
-“by Ilissus' stream
We whispering walked along, and learned 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 ;
That I, the humble Joan, whose house-wife art
Seemed 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!” Stili less (she continues to say) could they have foreseen that such a catastrophe as had happened in Council would befall them --that she