when

Will that redeeming day shine out on men,
That shall behold them rise, erect and free

As Heav'n and Nature meant mankind should be!
When Reason shall no longer blindly bow
To the vile pagod things, that o'er her brow,
Like him of Jaghernaut, drive trampling now;
Nor Conquest dare to desolate God's earth;
Nor drunken Vict'ry, with a NERO's mirth,
Strike her lewd harp amidst a people's groans;—
But, built on love, the world's exalted thrones
Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given-
Those bright, those sole Legitimates of Heaven!

When will this be?-or, oh! is it, in truth,
But one of those sweet, day-break dreams of youth,
In which the Soul, as round her morning springs,
"Twixt sleep and waking, sees such dazzling things!
And must the hope, as vain as it is bright,
Be all resign'd?-and are they only right,
Who say this world of thinking souls was made
To be by Kings partition'd, truck'd, and weigh'd
In scales that, ever since the world begun,
Have counted millions but as dust to one?
Are they the only wise, who laugh to scorn
The rights, the freedom to which man was born?
Who

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Who, proud to kiss each sep'rate rod of pow'r,
Bless, while he reigns, the minion of the hour;
Worship each would-be god, that o'er them moves,
And take the thund'ring of his brass for Jove's!
If this be wisdom, then farewell, my books,
Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye classic brooks,
Which fed my soul with currents, pure and fair,
Of living Truth, that now must stagnate there!—
Instead of themes that touch the lyre with light,
Instead of Greece, and her immortal fight
For Liberty, which once awaked my strings,
Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings,
The High Legitimates, the Holy Band,
Who, bolder ev'n than He of Sparta's land,
Against whole millions, panting to be free,
Would guard the pass of right-line tyranny.

Except just the two words "superbe," "magnifique," The trimmings of that which I had home last week! It is call'd-I forget-à 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 Ror'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 diff'rence, at least as to phrase, Between beef à la Psyché and curls à la braise.— But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite à la Française,

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-

"Ah! my dear-if Ma'mselle vil be so very goodJust for von littel 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 'twas like heav'n 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!

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 'twould to utter despairing its folly push

Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief

By rattling, as Вов 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 RUPPIN, 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 Legitimate cut, and could see,
In the way he went poising and managed to tower
So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power.

LETTER VI.

FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO HIS BROTHER TIM FUDGE, ESQ., BARRISTER AT LAW.

YOURS of the 12th received just nowThanks for the hint, my trusty brother! 'Tis truly pleasing to see how

We, FUDGES, stand by one another. But never fear-I know my chap, And he knows me too-verbum sap. My Lord and I are kindred spirits, Like in our ways as two young ferrets; Both fashion'd, as that supple race is, To twist into all sorts of places ;Creatures lengthy, lean, and hungering Fond of blood and burrow-mongering.

Have form'd a Club this season, where
His Lordship sometimes takes the chair,
And gives us many a bright oration
In praise of our sublime vocation;
Tracing it up to great King MIDAS,
Who, though in fable typified as
A royal Ass, by grace divine
And right of ears, most asinine,
Was yet no more, in fact historical,

Than an exceedingly well-bred tyrant;
And these, his ears, but allegorical,

Meaning Informers, kept at high rent-35 Gem'men, who touch'd the Treasury glist'ners, Like us, for being trusty list'ners; And picking up each tale and fragment, For royal MIDAS's Green Bag meant. "And wherefore," said this best of Peers, "Should not the REGENT too have ears,"

"To reach as far. as long and wide as

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Those of his model, good King MIDAS?" This speech was thought extremely good, And (rare for him) was understoodInstant we drank "The REGENT's Ears," With three times three illustrious cheers, Which made the room resound like thunder"The REGENT Ears, and may he ne'er "From foolish shame, like MIDAS, wear

"Old paltry wigs to keep them under !"*7 This touch at our old friends, the Whigs, Made us as merry all as grigs.

In short, (I'll thank you not to mention
These things again,) we get on gayly;
And thanks to pension and Suspension,
Our little Club increases daily.
CASTLES, and OLIVER, and such,
Who don't as yet full salary touch,
Nor keep their chaise and pair, nor buy
Houses and lands, like Tom and I,
Of course don't rank with us, salvators,
But merely serve the Club as waiters.
Like Knights, too, we've our collar days,
(For us, I own, an awkward phrase,)
When, in our new costume adorn'd,-
The REGENT's buff-and-blue coats turn'd-
We have the honor to give dinners

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To the chief Rats in upper stations ;39

Your WEMYSS, VERNONS,-half-fledged sinners,

Who shame us by their imitations;
Who turn, 'tis true-but what of that?
Give me the useful peaching Rat;

Not things as mute as Punch, when bought,
Whose wooden heads are all they've brought;
Who, false enough to shirk their friends,
But too faint-hearted to betray,

Are, after all their twists and bends,
But souls in Limbo, damn'd half way.
No, no, we nobler vermin are
A genus useful as we're rare;
'Midst all the things miraculous

Of which your natural histories brag,
The rarest must be Rats like us,
Who let the cat out of the bag.

Yet still these Tyros in the cause
Deserve, I own, no small applause;
And they're by us received and treated
With all due honors-only seated
In th' inverse scale of their reward,
The merely promised next my Lord;
Small pensions then, and so on, down,
Rat after rat, they graduate
Through job, red ribbon, and silk gown,
To Chane'llorship and Marquisate.
This serves to nurse the ratting spirit;
The less the bribe the more the merit.

Our music's good you may be sure;
My Lord, you know, 's an amateur-40
Takes every part with perfect ease,

Though to the Base by nature suited;
And, form'd for all, as best may please,
For whips and bolts, or chords and keys,
Turns from his victims to his glees,

And has them both well executed." HERTFORD, who, though no Rat himself,

Delights in all such liberal arts, Drinks largely to the House of Guelph,

And superintends the Corni parts. While CANNING,12 who'd be first by choice, Consents to take an under voice;

And GROVES," who well that signal knows, Watches the Volti subitos."4

In short, as I've already hinted,
We take, of late, prodigiously;
But as our Club is somewhat stinted
For Gentlemen, like Toм and me,
We'll take it kind if you'll provide
A few Squireens from t'other side ;---
Some of those loyal, cunning elves,

(We often tell the tale with laughter,) Who used to hide the pikes themselves, Then hang the fools who found them after

I doubt not you could find us, too,
Some Orange Parsons that might do;
Among the rest, we've heard of one,
The Reverend-something-HAMILTON,
Who stuff'd a figure of himself

(Delicious thought!) and had it shot at,

To bring some Papists to the shelf,
That could'nt otherwise be got at-
If he'll but join th' Association,
We'll vote him in by acclamation.

And now, my brother, guide, and friend,
This somewhat tedious scrawl must end.
I've gone into this long detail,

Because I saw your nerves were shaken With anxious fears lest I should fail

In this new, loyal, course I've taken. But, bless your heart! you need not doubtWe, FUDGES, know what we're about. Look round, and say if you can see A much more thriving family. There's JACK, the doctor-night and day Hundreds of patients so besiege him, You'd swear that all the rich and gay

Fell sick on purpose to oblige him. And while they think, the precious ninnies, He's counting o'er their pulse so steady, The rogue but counts how many guineas

He's fobb'd, for that day's work, already, I'll ne'er forget th' old maid's alarm,

When, feeling thus Miss Sukey Flirt, he Said, as he dropp'd her shrivell'd arm, "Damn'd bad this morning-only thirty!"

Your dowagers, too, every one,

So gen'rous are, when they call him in, That he might now retire upon

The rheumatisms of three old women. Then, whatsoe'er your ailments are,

He can so learnedly explain ye 'emYour cold, of course, is a catarrh,

Your headache is a hemi-cranium :His skill, too, in young ladies' lungs,

The grace with which, most mild of men, He begs them to put out their tongues,

Then bids them-put them in again:
In short, there's nothing now like Jack!—
Take all your doctors great and small,

Of present times and ages back,
Dear Doctor FUDGE is worth them all.

So much for physic-then, in law too,
Counsellor TIM, to thee we bow;
Not one of us gives more eclat to

Th' immortal name of FUDGE than thou.
Not to expatiate on the art

With which you play'd the patriot's part,
Till something good and snug should offer;—
Like one, who, by the way he acts
Th' enlight'ning part of candle-snuffer,
The manager's keen eye attracts,

And is promoted thence by him
To strut in robes, like thee, my TIM!—
Who shall describe the pow'rs of face,
Thy well-feed zeal in ev'ry case,

Or wrong or right-but ten times warmer
(As suits thy calling) in the former—
Thy glorious, lawyer-like delight
In puzzling all that's clear and right,
Which, though conspicuous in thy youth,
Improves so with a wig and band on,
That all thy pride's to waylay Truth,

And leave her not a leg to stand on.
Thy patent, prime, morality,—

Thy cases, cited from the BibleThy candor, when it falls to thee

To help in trouncing for a libel;— "God knows, I, from my soul, profess

"To hate all bigots and benighters! "God knows, I love, to ev'n excess, "The sacred Freedom of the Press,

"My only aim's to-crush the writers." These are the virtues, TIM, that draw The briefs into thy bag so fast; And these, oh TIM-if Law be LawWill raise thee to the Bench at last.