Chapter XI: Part IV (5)

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain: For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen By witching skill An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen As yell's the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse; When the best wark-lume i' the house, By cantrip--wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit.

When thows dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction; An' sighted trav'lers are allur'd To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell! The youngest brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shar'd, The raptur'd hour. Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, In shady bow'r:

Then you, ye auld, snec-drawing dog! Ye came to Paradise incog., An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa'!) An' gied the infant warld a shog, Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uz Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, Au' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs an' botches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw, And lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked scawl, Was warst ava?

But ai your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', Some luckless hour will send him linkin' To your black pit; But, faith! he 'll turn a corner jinkin', An' cheat you yet.

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! O wad ye tak a thought an' men'! Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken-- Still hae a stake-- I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake!!

THE DEVIL'S WALK ON EARTH.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.

From his brimstone bed at break of day
A walking the Devil is gone,
To look at his snug little farm of the World,
And see how his stock went on.

Over the hill and over the dale,
And he went over the plain;
And backward and forward he swish'd his tail
As a gentleman swishes a cane.

How then was the Devil drest?
Oh, he was in his Sunday's best
His coat was red and hia breeches were blue,
And there was a hole where his tail came through.

A lady drove by in her pride, In whose face an expression he spied For which he could have kiss'd her, Such a flourishing, fine, clever woman was she, With an eye as wicked as wicked can be, I should take her for my Aunt, thought he, If my dam had had a sister.

He met a lord of high degree,
No matter what was his name;
Whose face with his own when he came to compare
The expression, the look, and the air,
And the character, too, as it seem'd to a hair--
Such a twin-likeness there was in the pair
That it made the Devil start and stare.
For he thought there was surely a looking-glass there,
But he could not see the frame.

He saw a Lawyer killing a viper,
On a dung-hill beside his stable;
Ha! quoth he, thou put'st me in mind
Of the story of Cain and Abel.

An Apothecary on a white horse
Rode by on his vocation;
And the Devil thought of his old friend
Death in the Revelation.

He pass'd a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility, And he own'd with a grin That his favorite sin, Is pride that apes humility

He saw a pig rapidly
Down a river float;
The pig swam well, but every stroke
Was cutting his own throat;

And Satan gave thereat his tail
A twirl of admiration;
For he thought of his daughter War,
And her suckling babe Taxation.

Well enough, in sooth, he liked that truth. And nothing the worse for the jest; But this was only a first thought And in this he did not rest: Another came presently into his head, And here it proved, as has often been said That second thoughts are best

For as Piggy plied with wind and tide, His way with such celerity, And at every stroke the water dyed With his own red blood, the Devil cried, Behold a swinish nation's pride In cotton-spun prosperity.

He walk'd into London leisurely,
The streets were dirty and dim:
But there he saw Brothers the Prophet,
And Brothers the Prophet saw him,

He entered a thriving bookseller's shop;
Quoth he, we are both of one college,
For I myself sate like a Cormorant once
Upon the Tree of Knowledge.
As he passed through Cold-Bath Fields he look'd
At a solitary cell;
And he was well-pleased, for it gave him a hint
For improving the prisons of Hell.

He saw a turnkey tie a thief's hands
With a cordial tug and jerk;
Nimbly, quoth he, a man's fingers move
When his heart is in his work.

He saw the same turnkey unfettering a man With little expedition; And he chuckled to think of his dear slave-trade, And the long debates and delays that were made, Concerning its abolition. He met one of his favorite daughters By an Evangelical Meeting: And forgetting himself for joy at her sight, He would have accosted her outright, And given her a fatherly greeting.

But she tipt him the wink, drew back, and cried,
Avaunt! my name's Religion!
And then she turn'd to the preacher
And leer'd like a love-sick pigeon.

A fine man and a famous Professor was he,
As the great Alexander now may be,
Whose fame not yet o'erpast is:
Or that new Scotch performer
Who is fiercer and warmer,
The great Sir Arch-Bombastes.

With throbs and throes, and ah's and oh's.
Far famed his flock for frightning;
And thundering with his voice, the while
His eyes zigzag like lightning.

This Scotch phenomenon, I trow, Beats Alexander hollow; Even when most tame He breathes more flame Then ten Fire-Kings could swallow

Another daughter he presently met;
With music of fife and drum,
And a consecrated flag,
And shout of tag and rag,
And march of rank and file,
Which had fill'd the crowded aisle
Of the venerable pile,
From church he saw her come.

He call'd her aside, and began to chide,
For what dost thou here? said he,
My city of Rome is thy proper home,
And there's work enough there for thee

Thou hast confessions to listen,
And bells to christen,
And altars and dolls to dress;
And fools to coax,
And sinners to hoax,
And beads and bones to bless;
And great pardons to sell For those who pay well,
And small ones for those who pay less.

Nay, Father, I boast, that this is my post,
She answered; and thou wilt allow,
That the great Harlot,
Who is clothed in scarlet,
Can very well spare me now.

Upon her business I am come here,
That we may extend our powers:
Whatever lets down this church that we hate,
Is something in favor of ours.

You will not think, great Cosmocrat!
That I spend my time in fooling;
Many irons, my sire, have we in the fire,
And I must leave none of them cooling;
For you must know state-councils here,
Are held which I bear rule in.
When my liberal notions,
Produce mischievous motions,
There's many a man of good intent,
In either house of Parliament,
Whom I shall find a tool in;
And I have hopeful pupils too
Who all this while are schooling,

Fine progress they make in our liberal opinions,
My Utilitarians,

My all sorts of--inians
And all sorts of--arians;
My all sorts of--ists,
And my Prigs and my Whigs
Who have all sorts of twists
Train'd in the very way, I know,
Father, you would have them go;
High and low,
Wise and foolish, great and small,
March-of-Intellect-Boys all.

Well pleased wilt thou be at no very far day
When the caldron of mischief boils,
And I bring them forth in battle array
And bid them suspend their broils,
That they may unite and fall on the prey,
For which we are spreading our toils.
How the nice boys all will give mouth at the call,
Hark away! hark away to the spoils!
My Macs and my Quacks and my lawless-Jacks,
My Shiels and O'Connells, my pious Mac-Donnells,
My joke-smith Sydney, and all of his kidney,
My Humes and my Broughams,
My merry old Jerry,
My Lord Kings, and my Doctor Doyles!

At this good news, so great
The Devil's pleasure grew,
That with a joyful swish he rent
The hole where his tail came through.

His countenance fell for a moment
When he felt the stitches go;
Ah! thought he, there's a job now
That I've made for my tailor below.

Great news! bloody news! cried a newsman;
The Devil said, Stop, let me see!
Great news? bloody news? thought the Devil,
The bloodier the better for me.

So he bought the newspaper, and no news
At all for his money he had.
Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick!
But it's some satisfaction, my lad
To know thou art paid beforehand for the trick,
For the sixpence I gave thee is bad.

And then it came into his head
By oracular inspiration,
That what he had seen and what he had said
In the course of this visitation,
Would be published in the Morning Post
For all this reading nation.

Therewith in second sight he saw
The place and the manner and time,
In which this mortal story
Would be put in immortal rhyme.

That it would happen when two poets
Should on a time be met,
In the town of Nether Stowey,
In the shire of Somerset.

There while the one was shaving
Would he the song begin;
And the other when he heard it at breakfast,
In ready accord join in.

So each would help the other,
Two heads being better than one;
And the phrase and conceit
Would in unison meet,
And so with glee the verse flow free,
In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhyme,
Till the whole were merrily done.

And because it was set to the razor,
Not to the lute or harp,
Therefore it was that the fancy
Should be bright, and the wit be sharp.

But, then, said Satan to himself
As for that said beginner,
Against my infernal Majesty,
There is no greater sinner.

He hath put me in ugly ballads
With libelous pictures for sale;
He hath scoff'd at my hoofs and my horns,
And has made very free with my tail.

But this Mister Poet shall find
I am not a safe subject for whim;
For I'll set up a School of my own,
And my Poets shall set upon him.

He went to a coffee-house to dine,
And there he had soy in his dish;
Having ordered some soles for his dinner,
Because he was fond of flat fish.

They are much to my palate, thought he,
And now guess the reason who can,
Why no bait should be better than place,
When I fish for a Parliament-man.

But the soles in the bill were ten shillings;
Tell your master, quoth he, what I say;
If he charges at this rate for all things,
He must be in a pretty good way.

But mark ye, said he to the waiter,
I'm a dealer myself in this line,
And his business, between you and me,
Nothing like so extensive as mine.

Now soles are exceedingly cheap,
Which he will not attempt to deny,
When I see him at my fish-market,
I warrant him, by-and-by.

As he went along the Strand
Between three in the morning and four
He observed a queer-looking person
Who staggered from Perry's door.

And he thought that all the world over
In vain for a man you might seek,
Who could drink more like a Trojan
Or talk more like a Greek.

The Devil then he prophesied
It would one day be matter of talk,
That with wine when smitten,
And with wit moreover being happily bitten,
The erudite bibber was he who had written
The story of this walk.

A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil;
A pretty mistake I opine!
I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth,
He will never put good ones in mine.

And whoever shall say that to Porson
These best of all verses belong,
He is an untruth-telling whore-son,
And so shall be call'd in the song.

And if seeking an illicit connection with fame,
Any one else should put in a claim,
In this comical competition;
That excellent poem will prove
A man-trap for such foolish ambition,
Where the silly rogue shall be caught by the leg,
And exposed in a second edition.

Now the morning air was cold for him
Who was used to a warm abode;
And yet he did not immediately wish,
To set out on his homeward road,

For he had some morning calls to make
Before he went back to Hell;
So thought he I'll step into a gaming-house,
And that will do as well;
But just before he could get to the door
A wonderful chance befell.

For all on a sudden, in a dark place,
He came upon General ----'s burning face;
And it struck him with such consternation,
That home in a hurry his way did he take,
Because he thought, by a slight mistake
'Twas the general conflagration.

CHURCH AND STATE.
THOMAS MOORE.

When Royalty was young and bold,
Ere, touch'd by Time, he had become--
If't is not civil to say OLD--
At least, a ci-devant jeune homme.

One evening, on some wild pursuit,
Driving along, he chanced to see
Religion, passing by on foot,
And took him in his vis-a-vis.

This said Religion was a friar,
The humblest and the best of men,
Who ne'er had notion or desire
Of riding in a coach till then.

"I say"--quoth Royalty, who rather
Enjoy'd a masquerading joke--
"I say, suppose, my good old father,
You lend me, for a while, your cloak."

The friar consented--little knew
What tricks the youth had in his head;
Besides, was rather tempted, too,
By a laced coat he got in stead,

Away ran Royalty, slap-dash,
Scampering like mad about the town;
Broke windows--shiver'd lamps to smash,
And knock'd whole scores of watchmen down.

While naught could they whose heads were broke
Learn of the "why" or the "wherefore,"
Except that 't was Religion's cloak
The gentleman, who crack'd them, wore.

Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turn'd
By the laced coat, grew frisky too--
Look'd big--his former habits spurn'd--
And storm'd about as great men do--

Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses--
Said "Damn you," often, or as bad--
Laid claim to other people's purses--
In short, grew either knave or mad.

As work like this was unbefitting,
And flesh and blood no longer bore it,
The Court of Common Sense then sitting,
Summon'd the culprits both before it;

Where, after hours in wrangling spent
(As courts must wrangle to decide well),
Religion to St. Luke's was sent,
And Royalty pack'd off to Bridewell:

With, this proviso--Should they be
Restored in due time to their senses,
They both must give security
In future, against such offenses--

Religion ne'er to LEND HIS CLOAK,
Seeing what dreadful work it leads to;
And Royalty to crack his joke--
But NOT to crack poor people's heads, too.

LYING.
THOMAS MOORE.

I do confess, in many a sigh, My lips have breath'd you many a lie, And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them for a lie or two? Nay--look not thus, with brow reproving: Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving! If half we tell the girls were true, If half we swear to think and do, Were aught but lying's bright illusion, The world would be in strange confusion! If ladies' eyes were, every one, As lovers swear, a radiant sun, Astronomy should leave the skies, To learn her lore in ladies' eyes! Oh no!--believe me, lovely girl, When nature turns your teeth to pearl, Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, Your yellow locks to golden wire, Then, only then, can heaven decree, That you should live for only me, Or I for you, as night and morn, We've swearing kiss'd, and kissing sworn.

And now, my gentle hints to clear, For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear! Whenever you may chance to meet A loving youth, whose love is sweet, Long as you're false and he believes you, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures; And while he lies, his heart is yours; But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth!

THE MILLENNIUM. SUGGESTBD BY THE LATE WORK OF THE KEVEKEND MR. IRVING "ON PROPHECY." THOMAS MOORE.

Millennium at hand!--I'm delighted to hear it--
As matters both public and private now go,
With multitudes round us, all starving or near it,
A good rich millennium will come A PROPOS.

Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold,
Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags,
A bran-new Jerusalem, built all of gold,
Sound bullion throughout, from the roof to the flags--

A city where wine and cheap corn shall abound--
A celestial Cocaigne, on whose butterfly shelves
We may swear the best things of this world will be found,
As your saints seldom fail to take care of themselves!

Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures elysian,
Divine Squintifobus, who, placed within reach
Of two opposite worlds by a twist of your vision
Can cast, at the same time, a sly look at eaoh;--

Thanks, thanks for the hopes thou hast given us, that we
May, even in our times a jubilee share,
Which so long has been promised by prophets like thee,
And so often has fail'd, we began to despair.

There was Whiston, who learnedly took Prince Eugene
For the man who must bring the Millennium about;
There's Faber, whose pious predictions have been
All belied, ere his book's first edition was out;--

There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M.P.,
Who discoursed on the subject with signal eclat,
And, each day of his life, sat expecting to see
A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh!

There was also--but why should I burden my lay
With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving
When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way
To the last new Millennium of Orator Irv-ng,

Go on, mighty man--doom them all to the shelf--
And, when next thou with prophecy tronblest thy sconce,
Oh, forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself
Art the Beast (chapter 4) that sees nine ways at once!

THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA. A FABLE FOR PRINCES ROYAL THOMAS MOORE

In Thibet once there reign'd, we're told, A little Lama, one year old-- Raised to the throne, that realm to bless, Just when his little Holiness Had cut--as near as can be reckoned-- Some say his FIRST tooth, some his SECOND, Chronologers and verses vary, Which proves historians should be wary We only know the important truth-- His Majesty HAD cut a tooth.

And much his subjects were enchanted,
As well all Lamas' subjects may be,
And would have given their heads, if wanted,
To make tee-totums for the baby
As he was there by Eight Divine
(What lawyers call Jure Divino
Meaning a right to yours and mine,
And everybody's goods and rhino)--
Of course his faithful subjects' purses
Were ready with their aids and succors--
Nothing was seen but pension'd nurses,
And the land groan'd with bibs and tuckers.

Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet Then sitting in the Thibet Senate, Ye gods, what room for long debates Upon the Nursery Estimates! What cutting down of swaddling-clothes And pin-a-fores, in nightly battles! What calls for papers to expose The waste of sugar-plums and rattles? But no--if Thibet NAD M.P.s, They were far better bred than these, Nor gave the slightest opposition, During the Monarch's whole dentition.

But short this calm; for, just when he Had reach'd the alarming age of three, When royal natures--and, no doubt Those of ALL noble beasts--break out, The Lama, who till then was quiet, Show'd symptoms of a taste for riot; And, ripe for mischief, early, late, Without regard for Church or State, Made free with whosoe'er came nigh-- Tweak'd the Lord Chancellor by the nose, Turn'd all the Judges' wigs awry, And trod on the old General's toes-- Pelted the Bishops with hot buns, Rode cock-horse on the city maces, And shot, from little devilish guns, Hard peas into his subjects' faces. In short, such wicked pranks he play'd, And grew so mischievous (God bless him!) That his chief Nurse--though with the aid Of an Archbishop--was afraid, When in these moods, to comb or dress him; And even the persons most inclined For Kings, through thick and thin, to stickle, Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind Which they did NOT) an odious pickle.

At length, some patriot lords--a breed Of animals they have in Thibet, Extremely rare, and fit, indeed, For folks like Pidcock to exhibit-- Some patriot lords, seeing the length To which things went, combined their strength, And penn'd a manly, plain and free Remonstrance to the Nursery; In which, protesting that they yielded, To none, that ever went before 'em-- In loyalty to him who wielded The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em--That, as for treason, 't was a thing That made them almost sick to think of-- That they and theirs stood by the King, Throughout his measles and his chin-cough,

When others, thinking him consumptive, Had ratted to the heir Presumptive!-- But still--though much admiring kings (And chiefly those in leading-strings)-- They saw, with shame and grief of soul, There was no longer now the wise And constitutional control Of BIRCH before their ruler's eyes; But that, of late, such pranks and tricks, And freaks occurr'd the whole day long, As all, but men with bishoprics, Allow'd, even in a King, were wrong-- Wherefore it was they humbly pray'd That Honorable Nursery, That such reforms be henceforth made, As all good men desired to see;-- In other words (lest they might seem Too tedious) as the gentlest scheme For putting all such pranks to rest, And in its bud the mischief nipping-- They ventured humbly to suggest His Majesty should have a whipping!

When this was read--no Congreve rocket Discharged into the Gallic trenches, E'er equall'd the tremendous shock it Produc'd upon the Nursery Benches. The Bishops, who, of course had votes, By right of age and petticoats, Were first and foremost in the fuss-- "What, whip a Lama!--suffer birch To touch his sacred---infamous! Deistical!--assailing thus The fundamentals of the Church! No--no--such patriot plans as these (So help them Heaven--and their sees!) They held to be rank blasphemies."

The alarm thus given, by these and other Grave ladies of the Nursery side, Spread through the land, till, such a pother Such party squabbles, far and wide, Never in history's page had been Recorded, as were then between The Whippers and Non-whippers seen. Till, things arriving at a state Which gave some fears of revolution, The patriot lords' advice, though late, Was put at last in execution. The Parliament of Thibet met-- The little Lama call'd before it, Did, then and there, his whipping get,And (as the Nursery Gazette Assures us) like a hero bore it.

And though 'mong Thibet Tories, some Lament that Royal MartyrDom (Please to observe, the letter D In this last word's pronounced like B), Yet to the example of that Prince So much is Thibet's land a debtor, 'Tis said her little Lamas since Have all behaved themselves MUCH better.

ETERNAL LONDON.
THOMAS MOORE.

And is there then no earthly place
Where we can rest, in dream Elysian,
Without some cursed, round English face,
Popping up near, to break the vision!

'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines,
Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet;
Nor highest Alps nor Appenines
Are sacred from Threadneedle-street.

If up the Simplon's path we wind, Fancying we leave this world behind, Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear As--"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear-- The Funds--(phew, curse this ugly hill!) Are lowering fast--(what! higher still?)-- And--(zooks, we're mounting up to Heaven!)-- Will soon be down to sixty-seven,"

Go where we may--rest where we will, Eternal London haunts us still, The trash of Almack's or Fleet-Ditch-- And scarce a pin's head difference WHICH-- Mixes, though even to Greece we run, With every rill from Helicon! And if this rage for traveling lasts, If Cockneys of all sets and castes, Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, WILL leave their puddings and coal fires, To gape at things in foreign lands No soul among them understands-- If Blues desert their coteries, To show off 'mong the Wahabees--- If neither sex nor age controls, Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids Young ladies, with pink parasols, To glide among the Pyramids-- Why, then, farewell all hope to find A spot that's free from London-kind! Who knows, if to the West we roam, But we may find some Blue "at home" Among the BLACKS of Carolina-- Or, flying to the eastward, see Some Mrs. HOPKINS, taking tea And toast upon the Wall of China.

OF FACTOTUM NED.
THOMAS MOORE.

Here lies Factotum Ned at last: Long as he breath'd the vital air, Nothing throughout all Europe pass'd In which he hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was IN, whoe'er was OUT--
Whatever statesmen did or said--
If not exactly brought about,
Was all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With NAP if Russia went to war,
'Twas owing, under Providence,
To certain hints Ned gave the Czar--
(Vide his pamphlet--price six pence).

If France was beat at Waterloo--
As all, but Frenchmen, think she was--
To Ned, as Wellington well knew,
Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news--no envoy's bag
E'er pass'd so many secrets through it--
Scarcely a telegraph could wag
Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots, With foreign names one's ear to buzz in-- From Russia chefs and ofs in lots, From Poland owskis by the dozen.

When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd--who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confess'd 'twas he.

For though, by some unlucky miss,
He had not downright SEEN the King,
He sent such hints through Viscount THIS,
To Marquis THAT, as clench'd the thing.

The same it was in science, arts,
The drama, books, MS. and printed--
Kean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts,
And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read,
And, here and there, infused some soul in 't--
Nay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned,
Had--odd enough--a dangerous hole in't.

'Twas thus, all doing and all knowing,
Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer,
Whatever was the best pie going,
In THAT Ned--trust him--had his finger.

LETTERS FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE AT PARIS TO MISS DOROTHY--IN IRELAND THOMAS MOORE.

What a time since I wrote!--I'm a sad naughty girl-- Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl, Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum Between all its twirls gives a LETTER to note 'em. But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses, My gowns, so divine!--there's no language expresses, Except just the TWO words "superbe," "magmfique," The trimmings of that which I had home last week! It is call'd--I forget--a la--something which sounded Like alicampane--but, in truth, I'm confounded And bother'd, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's (Bob's) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi's: What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal, Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel, One's hair, and one's cutlets both en papillote, And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote, I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase, Between beef a la Psyche and curls a la braise.-- But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite a la Francaise, With my bonnet--so beautiful!--high up and poking, Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

Where SHALL I begin with the endless delights Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights-- This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting, But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?

Imprimis, the Opera--mercy, my ears! Brother Bobby's remark t'other night was a true one "This MUST be the music," said he, "of the SPEARS, For I'm curst if each note of it doesn't run through one!" Pa says (and you know, love, his book's to make out), 'T was the Jacobins brought every mischief about; That this passion for roaring has come in of late, Since the rabble all tried for a VOICE in the State. What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm! What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it! If, when of age, every man in the realm Had a voice like old Lais, and chose to make use of it! No--never was known in this riotous sphere Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear; So bad, too, you'd swear that the god of both arts, Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts, And composing a fine rumbling base to a cholic!

But, the dancing--ah parlez moi, Dolly, des ca-- There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa. Such beauty--such grace--oh ye sylphs of romance! Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if SHE has One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias! Fanny Bias in Flora--dear creature!--you'd swear, When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round, That her steps are of light, that her home is the air, And she only par complaisance touches the ground. And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels Her black flowing hair, and by demons is driven, Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils, That hold her, and hug her, and keep her from heaven? Then, the music--so softly its cadences die, So divinely--oh, Dolly! between you and I, It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh To make love to me then--YOU'VE a soul, and can judge What a crisis 't would be for your friend Biddy Fudge!

The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in), They call it the Play-house--I think--of Saint Martin: Quite charming--and VERY religious--what folly To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly, When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly, The Testament turn'd into melo-drames nightly And, doubtless, so fond they're of scriptural facts, They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts. Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defiance To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff'd lions, While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet, In very thin clothing, and BUT little of it;-- Here Begrand, who shines in this scriptural path, As the lovely Susanna, without even a relic Of drapery round her, comes out of the Bath In a manner, that, Bob says, is quite EVE-ANGELIC!

But, in short, dear, 't would take me a month to recite All the exquisite places we're at, day and night; And, besides, ere I finish, I think you'll be glad Just to hear one delightful adventure I've had.

Last night, at the Beaujon, a place where--I doubt If I well can describe--there are cars that set out From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air, And rattle you down, Doll--you hardly know where. These vehicles, mind me, in which you go through This delightfully dangerous journey, hold TWO. Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether You'll venture down with him--you smile--'tis a match; In an instant you're seated, and down both together Go thundering, as if you went post to old Scratch; Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remark'd On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embark'd, The impatience of some for the perilous flight, The forc'd giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright, That there came up--imagine, dear Doll, if you can-- A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werter-fac'd man, With mustaches that gave (what we read of so oft), The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft As Hyienas in love may be fancied to look, or A something between Abelard and old Bincher! Up he came, Doll, to me, and uncovering his head (Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said, "Ah! my dear--if Ma'maelle vil be so very good-- Just for von little course"--though I scarce understood What he wish'd me to do, I said, thank him, I would.

Off we set--and, though 'faith, dear, I hardly knew whether My head or my heels were the uppermost then, For 't was like heaven and earth, Dolly, coming together-- Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again. And oh! as I gazed on the features and air Of the man, who for me all this peril defied, I could fancy almost he and I were a pair Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side, Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara!

This achiev'd, through the gardens we saunter'd about, Saw the fire-works, exclaim'd "magnifique!" at each cracker And, when 't was all o'er, the dear man saw us out With the air, I WILL say, of a prince, to our fiacre. Now, hear me--this stranger--it may be mere folly-- But WHO do you think we all think it is, Dolly? Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia, Who's here now incog.--he, who made such a fuss, you Remember, in London, with Blucher and Platoff, When Sal was near kissing old Blucher's cravat off! Pa says he's come here to look after his money (Not taking things now as he used under Boney), Which suits with our friend, for Bob saw him, he swore, Looking sharp to the silver received at the door. Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen (Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen) Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is, Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris. Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief Should--unless 't would to utter despairing its folly push-- Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief By rattling, as Bob says, "like shot through a holly-bush."

I must now bid adieu--only think, Dolly, think If this SHOULD be the King--I have scarce slept a wink With imagining how it will sound in the papers, And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge, When they read that Count Buppin, to drive away vapors, Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss Biddy Fudge.

Nota Bene.--Papa's almost certain 'tis he-- For he knows the L*git**ate cut, and could see, In the way he went poising, and managed to tower So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power.

SECOND LETTER.

Well, it ISN'T the King, after all, my dear creature! But DON'T you go laugh, now--there's nothing to quiz in 't-- For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature, He MIGHT be a King, Doll, though, hang him, he isn't. At first I felt hurt, for I wish'd it, I own, If for no other cause than to vex MISS MALONE-- (The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here, Showing off with SUCH airs and a real Cashmere, While mine's but a paltry old rabbit-skin, dear!) But says Pa, after deeply considering the thing, "I am just as well pleased it should NOT be the King; As I think for my BIDDY, so gentilie jolie, Whose charms may their price in an HONEST way fetch, That a Brandenburg--(what IS a Brandenburg, DOLLY?)-- Would be, after all, no such very great catch, If the R--G--T, indeed--" added he, looking sly-- (You remember that comical squint of his eye) But I stopp'd him--"La, Pa, how CAN you say so, When the R--G--T loves none but old women, you know!" Which is fact, my dear Dolly--we, girls of eighteen, And so slim--Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen; And would like us much better as old--ay, as old As that Countess of Desmond, of whom I've been told That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten, And was kill'd by a fall from a cherry-tree then! What a frisky old girl! but--to come to my lover, Who, though not a king, is a HERO I'll swear-- You shall hear all that's happen'd just briefly run over, Since that happy night, when we whisk'd through the air!

Let me see--'t was on Saturday--yes, Dolly, yes-- From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss; When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage, Whose journey, Bob says, is so like love and marriage, "Beginning gay, desperate, clashing down-hilly; And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!" Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night through, And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you, With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet, Set out with Papa, to see Louis Dix-huit Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys, Who get up a small concert of shrill Vive le Rois-- And how vastly genteeler, my clear, even this is, Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses! The gardens seem'd full--so, of course, we walk'd o'er 'em, 'Mong orange-trees, clipp'd into town-bred decorum, And Daphnes, and vases, and many a statue There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you! The ponds, too, we view'd--stood awhile on the brink To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes-- "LIVE BULLION" says merciless Bob, "which I think, Would, if COIN'D, with a little MINT sauce, be delicious!"

But WHAT, Dolly, what is the gay orange-grove, Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love? In vain did I wildly explore every chair Where a thing LIKE a man was--no lover sat there! In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast At the whiskers, mustaches, and wigs that went past, To obtain, if I could, but a glance at that curl, But a glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl, As the lock that, Pa says, is to Mussulmen given, For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!" Alas, there went by me full many a quiz, And mustaches in plenty, but nothing like his! Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day," Thought of the words of T-H M-RE'S Irish melody, Something about the "green spot of delight," (Which you know, Captain Macintosh sung to us one day) Ah, Dolly! MY "spot" was that Saturday night, And its verdure, how fleeting, had wither'd by Sunday!

We dined at a tavern--La, what do I say? If Bob was to know!--a Restaurateur's, dear; Where your PROPEREST ladies go dine every day, And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer. Fine Bob (for he's really grown SUPER-fine) Condescended, for once, to make one of the party; Of course, though but three, we had dinner for nine, And, in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty; Indeed, Doll, I know not how 'tis, but in grief, I have always found eating a wondrous relief; And Bob, who's in love, said he felt the same QUITE-- "My sighs," said he "ceased with the first glass I drank you, The LAMB made me tranquil, the PUFFS made me light, And now that's all o'er--why, I'm--pretty well, thank you!"

To MY great annoyance, we sat rather late; For Bobby and Pa had a furious debate About singing and cookery--Bobby, of course, Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force; And Pa saying, "God only knows which is worst, The French singers or cooks, but I wish us well over it-- What with old Lais and Very, I'm curst If MY head or my stomach will ever recover it!" 'T was dark when we got to the Boulevards to stroll, And in vain did I look 'mong the street Macaronis, When sudden it struck me--last hope of my soul-- That some angel might take the dear man to Tortoni's! We enter'd--and scarcely had Bob, with an air, For a grappe a la jardiniere call'd to the waiters, When, oh! Dolly, I saw him--my hero was there (For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters), A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him, And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him! Oh Dolly, these heroes--what creatures they are! In the boudoir the same as in fields full of slaughter; As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car As when safe at Tortoni's, o'er iced currant-water! He joined us--imagine, dear creature my ecstasy-- Join'd by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see! Bob wish'd to treat him with punch a la glace, But the sweet fellow swore that my beaute, my GRACE, And my je-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirl'd) Were, to HIM, "on de top of all ponch in de vorld."-- How pretty!--though oft (as, of course, it must be) Both his French and his English are Greek, Doll, to me. But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did: And, happier still, when 't was fix'd, ere we parted, That, if the next day should be PASTORAL weather, We all would set off in French buggies, together, To see Montmorency--that place which, you know, Is so famous for cherries and Jean Jacques Rousseau. His card then he gave us--the NAME, rather creased-- But 't was Calicot--something--a colonel, at least! After which--sure there never was hero so civil--he Saw us safe home to our door in Rue Rivoli, Where his LAST words, as at parting, he threw A soft look o'er his shoulders, were--"how do you do?"

But, Lord--there's Papa for the post---I'm so vex'd-- Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next. That dear Sunday night!--I was charmingly dress'd, And--SO providential--was looking my best; Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce--and my frills, You've no notion how rich--(though Pa has by the bills)-- And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near, Colonel Calicot eyeing the cambric, my dear. Then the flowers in my bonnet--but, la, it's in vain-- So, good by, my sweet Doll--I shall soon write again,

R.F.

Nota bene--our love to all neighbors about-- Your papa in particular--how is his gout?

P. S.--I 've just open'd my letter to say, In your next you must tell me (now DO, Dolly, pray For I hate to ask Bob, he's so ready to quiz) What sort of a thing, dear, a BRANDENBURG is.

THIRD LETTER.

At last, DOLLY--thanks to a potent emetic Which BOBBY and Pa, with grimace sympathetic, Have swallowed this morning to balance the bliss Of an eel matelote, and a bisque d'ecrevisses-- I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down To describe you our heavenly trip out of town. How agog you must be for this letter, my dear! Lady JANE in the novel less languish'd to hear If that elegant cornet she met at LORD NEVILLE'S Was actually dying with love or--blue devils. But love, DOLLY, love is the theme _I_ pursue; With, blue devils, thank heaven, I've nothing to do-- Except, indeed, dear Colonel CALICOT spies Any imps of that color in CERTAIN blue eyes, Which he stares at till _I_, DOLL, at HIS do the same; Then he simpers--I blush--and would often exclaim, If I knew but the French for it, "Lord, sir, for shame!"

Well, the morning was lovely--the trees in full dress For the happy occasion--the sunshine EXPRESS-- Had we order'd it dear, of the best poet going, It scarce could be furnish'd more golden and glowing. Though late when we started, the scent of the air Was like GATTIE'S rose-water, and bright here and there On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet, Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabinet! And the birds seemed to warble, as blest on the boughs, As if EACH a plumed CALICOT had for her spouse, And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows, And--in short, need I tell you, wherever one goes With the creature one loves, 'tis all couleur de rose; And ah, I shall ne'er, lived I ever so long, see A day such as that at divine Montmorency!

There was but ONE drawback---at first when we started, The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted; How cruel--young hearts of such moments to rob! He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with BOB: And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to know That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so, For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of BONEY'S-- Served with him, of course--nay, I'm sure they were cronies; So martial his features, dear DOLL, you can trace Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face As you do on that pillar of glory and brass Which the poor Duc de B**RI must hate so to pass, It appears, too, he made--as most foreigners do-- About English affairs an odd blunder or two. For example--misled by the names. I dare say-- He confounded JACK CASTLES with Lord CASTLEREAGH, And--such a mistake as no mortal hit ever on-- Fancied the PRESENT Lord CAMDEN the CLEVER one!

But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade; 'T was for war and the ladies my Colonel was made. And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'd Through that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talk'd; And how perfectly well he appear'd, DOLL, to know All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU!-- "'T was there," said he--not that his WORDS I can state-- 'T was a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate;-- But "there," said he (pointing where, small and remote, The dear Hermitage rose), "there his JULIE he wrote, Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure, Then sanded it over with silver and azure, And--oh, what will genius and fancy not do?- Tied the leaves up together with nomparsille blue!" What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions From sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here! Alas! that a man of such exquisite notions, Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!

"'T was here, too, perhaps," Colonel CALICOT said-- As down the small garden he pensively led-- (Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle)-- "'T was here he received from the fair D'EPINAY, (Who call'd him so sweetly HER BEAR, every day), That dear flannel petticoat, pull'd off to form A waistcoat to keep the enthusiast warm!"

Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we ponder'd, As, full of romance, through that valley we wander'd, The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is) Led us to talk about other commodities, Cambric, and silk, and I ne'er shall forget, For the sun way then hastening in pomp to its set, And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down, When he ask'd ne, with eagerness--who made my gown? The question confused me--for, DOLL, you must know, And I OUGHT to have told my best friend long ago, That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ That enchanting couturiere, Madame LE ROI, But am forc'd, dear, to have VICTORINE, who--deuce take her-- It seems is, at present, the king's mantua-maker-- I mean OF HIS PARTY--and, though much the smartest, LE ROI is condemned as a rank B*n*pa*t*st.

Think, DOLL, how confounded I look'd--so well knowing The Colonel's opinions--my cheeks were quite glowing; I stammer'd out something--nay, even half named The LEGITIMATE semptress, when, loud, he exclaimed, "Yes, yes, by the stiching 'tis plain to be seen It was made by that B*rb*n**t b--h, VIOTORINE!" What a word for a hero, but heroes WILL err, And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things JUST as they were, Besides, though the word on good manners intrench, I assure you, 'tis not HALF so shocking in French.

But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon pass'd away, And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day, The thoughts that arise when such dear fellows woo us-- The NOTHINGS that then, love, are EVERYTHING to us-- That quick correspondence of glances and sighs, And what BOB calls the "Twopenny-Post of the Eyes"-- Ah DOLL, though I KNOW you've a heart, 'tis in vain To a heart so unpracticed these things to explain, They can only be felt in their fullness divine By her who has wander'd, at evening's decline, Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!

But here I must finish--for BOB, my dear DOLLY, Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy, Is seized with a fancy for church-yard reflections; And full of all yesterday's rich recollections, Is just setting off for Montmartre--"for THERE is," Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VERYS! Long, long have I wisn'd, as a votary true, O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans; And to-day, as my stomach is not in good cue For the FLESH of the VERYS--I'll visit their BONES!" He insists upon MY going with him--how teasing! This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lie Unseal'd in my drawer, that if any thing pleasing Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you--Good-by. B. F.

Four o'clock. Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruin'd forever-- I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never; To think of the wretch!--what a victim was _I_! 'Tis too much to endure--I shall die, I shall die! My brain's in a fever--my pulses beat quick-- I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly sick! Oh what do you think? after all my romancing, My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing, This Colonel--I scarce can commit it to paper-- This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!! 'Tis true as I live--I had coax'd brother BOB so (You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so), For some little gift on my birth-day--September The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember-- That BOB to a shop kindly order'd the coach (Ah, little thought I who the shopman would prove), To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche, Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love-- (The most beautiful things--two Napoleons the price-- And one's name in the corner embroidered so nice!) Well, with heart full of pleasure, I enter'd the shop, But--ye gods, what a phantom!--I thought I should drop-- There he stood, my dear DOLLY--no room for a doubt-- There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand, With a piece of French cambric before him roll'd out, And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand! Oh--Papa all along knew the secret, 'tis clear-- 'T was a SHOPMAN he meant by a "Brandenburg," dear! The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King, And when THAT too delightful illusion was past, As a hero had worship'd--vile treacherous thing-- To turn out but a low linen-draper at last! My head swam round--the wretch smil'd, I believe, But his smiling, alas! could no longer deceive-- I fell back on BOB--my whole heart seem'd to wither, And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!

I only remember that BOB, as I caught him, With cruel facetiousness said--"Curse the Kiddy, A staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him, But now I find out he's a COUNTER one, BIDDY!" Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known To that saucy satirical thing, MISS MALONE! What a story 't will be at Shandangen forever! What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men! It will spread through the country--and never, oh never Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again!

Farewell--I shall do something desperate, I fear-- And ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear, One tear of compassion my DOLL will not grudge To her poor--broken-hearted--young friend, BIDDY FUDGE

Nota Bene,--I'm sure you will hear with delight, That we're going, all three, to see BRUNET to-night A laugh will revive me--and kind Mr. Cox (Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box.

THE LITERARY LADY.
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.