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 flying colours in a waltz !

Nor need'st thou mourn the transient date
To thy best works assigned by fate-

While some chefsd'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 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), ῥαον μωμεισθαι ή μιμεισθαι.

L

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!

J. T.

APPENDIX.

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

The salt-cellars on the Prince's own table were in the form of an ass with panniers.

"Should thus surprise the Conclave's grave decorum,

And let a little Pope pop out before 'em

Pope Innocent! alas, the only one

That name could e'er be justly fixed upon.'

She then very pathetically laments the downfall of her greatness, and enumerates the various treasures to which she is doomed 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 mad'st me- ah!

Thou mad'st the Papa of the world Mamma!"

I have not time at present 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 be more logically clear, and I find that Horace had exactly the same views upon the subject.

Romanus (eheu posteri negabitis !)
Emancipatus FŒMINÆ
Fert vallum l

LETTER VII.

THE Manuscript, found enclosed in the Bookseller's Letter, turns out to be a Melo-Drama, in two Acts, entitled "The Book," of which the Theatres, of course, had had the refusal, before it was presented to Messrs. L-ck-ngt-n and Co. This rejected Drama, however, possesses considerable merit, and I shall take the liberty of laying a sketch of it before my Readers.

The first Act opens in a very awful manner-Time, three o'clock in the morning-Scene, the Bourbon Chamber* in Carlton House— Enter the Prince Regent solus-After a few broken sentences, he thus exclaims:

Away-Away

Thou haunt'st my fancy so, thou devilish Book,
I meet thee-trace thee, wheresoe'er I look.
I see thy damnèd ink in Eldon's brows-
I see thy foolscap on my Hertford's Spouse-
Vansittart's head recalls thy leathern case,

And all thy black-leaves stare from R-d-r's face!
While turning here (laying his hand on his heart),
I find, ah wretched elf,

Thy List of dire Errata in myself.

(Walks the stage in considerable agitation.)

Oh Roman Punch! oh potent Curaçoa!

The same Chamber, doubtless, that was prepared for the reception of the Bourbons at the first Grand Fête, and which was ornamented (all "for the Deliverance of Europe ") with fleurs-de-lys.

Oh Mareschino! Mareschino oh!

Delicious drams! why have you not the art
To kill this gnawing Book-worm in my heart?

He is here interrupted in his Soliloquy by perceiving on the ground some scribbled fragments of paper, which he instantly collects, and "by the light of two magnificent candelabras" discovers the following unconnected words, "Wife neglected"-" the Book" "Wrong Measures"—"the Queen”—“Mr. Lambert” — “the Regent."

Ha! treason in my house! -Curst words, that wither
My princely soul, (shaking the papers violently)
what Demon brought you hither?

"My Wife;" "the Book" too!-stay-a nearer look-
(holding the fragments closer to the Candelabras)
Alas! too plain, B, double O, K, Book—

Death and destruction!

He here rings all the bells, and a whole legion of valets enter. A scene of cursing and swearing (very much in the German style) ensues, in the course of which messengers are despatched in different directions, for the Lord Chancellor, the Duke of Cumberland, &c. &c. The intermediate time is filled up by another Soliloquy, at the conclusion of which the aforesaid Personages rush or alarmed; the Duke with his stays only half-laced, and the Chancellor with his wig thrown hastily over an old red night-cap, “to maintain the becoming splendour of his office." The Regent produces the appalling fragments, upon which the Chancellor breaks out into exclamations of loyalty and tenderness, and relates the following portentous dream:

'Tis scarcely two hours since

I had a fearful dream of thee, my Prince!—
Methought I heard thee, midst a courtly crowd,
Say from thy throne of gold, in mandate loud,

66

Worship my whiskers!"-(weeps) not a knee was there

But bent and worshipped the Illustrious Pair,

Which curled in conscious majesty ! ( pulls out his handkerchief)-while cries

Of "Whiskers, whiskers!" shook the echoing skies.

Just in that glorious hour, methought, there came,

With looks of injured pride, a Princely Dame,

And a young maiden, clinging by her side,

As if she feared some tyrant would divide

Two hearts that nature and affection tied!

The Matron came-within her right hand glowed

A radiant torch; while from her left a load

Of Papers hung-(wipes his eyes) collected in her veil..
The venal evidence, the slanderous tale,

The wounding hint, the current lies that pass

From Post to Courier, formed the motley mass;

(Weeps.)

Which, with disdain, before the Throne she throws,
And lights the Pile beneath thy princely nose.
Heavens, how it blazed!—I'd ask no livelier fire
(With animation) To roast a Papist by, my gracious Sire!—
But, ah! the Evidence-(weeps again) I mourned to see-
Cast, as it burned, a deadly light on thee:

And Tales and Hints their random sparkle flung,
And hissed and crackled, like an old maid's tongue;
While Post and Courier, faithful to their fame,

Made up
in stink for what they lacked in flame.
When, lo, ye Gods! the fire ascending brisker,
Now singes one, now lights the other whisker.
Ah! where was then the Sylphid, that unfurls
Her fairy standard in defence of curls?

Throne, Whiskers, Wig, soon vanished into smoke,
The watchman cried "Past One," and-I awoke.

Here his Lordship weeps more profusely than ever, and the Regent (who has been very much agitated during the recital of the Dream) by a movement as characteristic as that of Charles XII. when he was shot, claps his bands to his whiskers to feel if all be really safe. A Privy Council is held-all the Servants, &c. are examined, and it appears that a Tailor, who had come to measure the Regent for a Dress (which takes three whole pages of the best superfine clinquant in describing) was the only person who had been in the Bourbon Chamber during the day. It is, accordingly,. determined to seize the Tailor, and the Council breaks up with a unanimous resolution to be vigorous.

The commencement of the Second Act turns chiefly upon the Trial and Imprisonment of two Brothers*-but as this forms the under plot of the Drama, I shall content myself with extracting from it the following speech, which is addressed to the two Brothers, as they “exeunt severally” to Prison :—

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

* Mr. Leigh Hunt and his brother.