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 do-
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 all 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 weekAt present, no more-in reply to this letter, a

Line will oblige very much

TEMPLE OF THE MUSES.

Yours, et cetera.

This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence, which is said to have passed lately between Albinia, Countess of Buckinghainshire, and a certain ingenious parodist.

LETTER VIII.

FROM COLONEL THOMAS TO

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!

ESQ.

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, semel

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:

"Mum

Jon 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 flying colours in a waltz!

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

While some chefsd'oeuvre 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 FEMINE
Fert valluml

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 HouseEnter 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.