But a side-board, you dog, where one's eye roves

about,

Like a Turk's in the Haram, and thence singles out
One's paté of larks, just to tune up the throat,
One's small limbs of chickens, done en papillote,
One's erudite cutlets, drest all ways but plain,
Or one's kidneys — imagine, DICK

champagne !

done with

Then, some glasses of Beaune, to dilute-or, may

hap,

Chambertin*, which you know's the pet tipple of

NAP,

And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler, Much scruples to taste, but I'm not so partic'lar.— Your coffee comes next, by prescription: and then, DICK, 's

The coffee's ne'er-failing and glorious appendix,

And to Jove's immortal throng
Pour the tide in cups of gold-
I'll not envy heaven's Princes,

While, with snowy hands, for me,

KATE the china tea-cup rinses,
And pours out her best Bohea!

* The favourite wine of Napoleon.

(If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend

on't,

I'd swallow ev'n W-TK-NS', for sake of the end

on't,)

A neat glass of parfait-amour, which one sips
Just as if bottled velvet* tipp'd over one's lips.
This repast being ended, and paid for-(how odd! -
Till a man's us'd to paying, there's something so

queer in't!) —

The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad, And the world enough air'd for us, Nobs, to appear in't,

We lounge up the Boulevards, where-oh, DICK, the phyzzes,

The turn-outs, we meet. what a nation of quizzes!
Here toddles along some old figure of fun,

With a coat you might date Anno Domini 1.;
A lac'd hat, worsted stockings, and-noble old soul!
A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole;
Just such as our PR- -CE, who nor reason nor fun
dreads,

Inflicts, without ev'n a court-martial, on hundreds.+

Velours en bouteille.

It was said by Wicquefort, more than a hundred years

Here trips a grisette, with a fond, roguish eye,
(Rather eatable things these grisettes by the by);
And there an old demoiselle, almost as fond,

In a silk that has stood since the time of the Fronde.
There goes a French Dandy-ah, DICK! unlike

some ones

We've seen about WHITE's-the Mounseers are but

rum ones;

Such hats!-fit for monkies-I'd back Mrs. DRAPER To cut neater weather-boards out of brown paper: And coats-how I wish, if it wouldn't distress 'em, They'd club for old BR-MM-L, from Calais, to dress 'em!

The collar sticks out from the neck such a space,

That you'd swear 'twas the plan of this headlopping nation,

To leave there behind them a snug little place

For the head to drop into, on decapitation. In short, what with mountebanks, counts, and friseurs,

Some mummers by trade, and the rest amateurs

ago, "Le Roi d'Angleterre fait seul plus de chevaliers que tous les autres Rois de la Chrétienté ensemble."- What would he say now?

What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk breeches,

Old dustmen with swinging great opera-hats, And shoeblacks reclining by statues in niches, There never was seen such a race of Jack Sprats!

From the Boulevards-but hearken!-yes-as I'm a sinner,

The clock is just striking the half-hour to dinner: So no more at present-short time for adorning My Day must be finish'd some other fine morning. Now, hey for old BEAUVILLIERS'* larder, my boy! And, once there, if the Goddess of Beauty and Joy Were to write "Come and kiss me, dear BOB!" I'd not budge

Not a step, DICK, as sure as my name is

* A celebrated restaurateur.

R. FUDGE.

LETTER IV.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO

"RETURN!". -no, never, while the withering hand Of bigot power is on that hapless land;

While, for the faith my fathers held to God,
Ev'n in the fields where free those fathers trod,
I am proscrib'd, and-like the spot left bare
In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair
Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been there—*
On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace
The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!
No!-let them stay, who in their country's pangs
See nought but food for factions and harangues;
Who yearly kneel before their masters' doors,
And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores:

* "They used to leave a yard square of the wall of the house unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, either the fore-mentioned verse of the Psalmist (If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,' &c.) or the words-The memory of the desolation.""-Leo of Modena.