the marriage tie and the ordinances of religion still obtained respect. The Regent was hated. Paris was filled not only with lampoons and satires against him and his Court, but with terrible philippics, accusing him of crimes too hideous to be even glanced at in these pages. The most remarkable of these extant is that of La Grange Chancel, who expiated its composition by years of imprisonment. The young Arouet (Voltaire) then just rising into fame, with that audacious irony which always characterised the man, actually solicited the presence of Orléans and the Duchesse de Berry at the first representation of Edipus.' They acceded to his request, and were equal to the occasion, joining in the tumultuous applause with which the play was greeted by an audience who applied every incident of the ghastly story to the Regent and his daughter; and to further testify his gratification with the work the Duke bestowed a pension upon the author.

At forty-six Philippe d'Orléans was a wreck, broken down in health and strength, his once handsome face blotched and carbuncled, his person heavy and obese. In vain the doctors entreated him to reform his mode of life. They warned him that he was in hourly danger of apoplexy; advised bleeding. "Come, to-morrow," was still his answer. One day-it was the 21st of December, 1723-he had dined heartily, and passed into his cabinet in company with the Duchesse Falari; he complained of dulness, and requested her to tell him one of the pretty stories for the relation of which she was famous. She sat down at his feet, and resting her head upon his knees began. But she had scarcely completed the first sentence when the Duke's head fell forward upon his chest; she raised her eyes in affright, then springing to her feet, rushed out to call assistance. All in vain-he was

dead!

So died, in the very prime of manhood, a man who might, but for evil training and the cruel jealousy of Louis the Fourteenth, have transmitted to posterity a name loaded with the honours of genius, instead of which it has become the symbol of all that is vicious and sensual.

Horace without his Toga.

EPISTLE I. vi.

To G. W., Esq.

Not to be over-earnest, but to bear
Whate'er betides one with an easy air,
Is the one rule by which a wise man lives,
Which gives content, and aids the gift it gives.
Should Cumming future destiny unfold
And sell his prophecies for current gold,
Should Shaftesbury seek to raise a pious fear,
(Some man of science hoaxed the unctuous peer)
By telling us that just below the soil
Volcanoes strive to burst and geysers boil;
Though timorous souls may feel themselves afraid
Some men exist who never are dismayed.
Who do not care one jot for Grosvenor's rents,
For all that's Overston's in Three per Cents,
And were it offered even, would refuse
The fortunes won by money-lending Jews.

No man, unless he's knave or fool, would stoop
To dupe at races or to be the dupe.
Can we not guess the measure of his ears
Whom agents cheat-the venal voter cheers?

Trust me, my friend, a man with sense and eyes
Can well afford such trifles to despise,

While he who fears to lose them is the same
As one who makes them his absorbing aim.
Each is a prey to fear, each lives in pain,
Lest sudden change may rob him of his gain;
He joys, he grieves, he's filled with hope or dread.
What can it matter, if it racks his head,

If at whatever happens, good or ill,

He stands amazed, and cannot use his will?
If mind and body, staked upon the strife,
Are wrecked in seeking for the gains of life.
That man's a fool, however wise he seems,
And this does wrong, however just his dreams,

Who, when for virtue's self they've fairly sought,
Carry their virtue farther than they ought.

Well prosecute your aims, get tons of plate,
Old pictures, china, at the dearest rate,
Buy violins and paintings by the score,
As Gillott did; if possible, get more,
Pick up the knicknacks and bijouterie
Which Cole collects and Kensington may see;
Boast, if you like, that when you talk and teach
Reporters hurry to take down your speech;
Pore in your chambers over many a brief;
Plead for the swindler, and defend the thief,
Or like the mudlarks of Penzance's court
Win your own luck, and find the public sport;
Begin your labours with the morning light
And wearied home return at dead of night;
Grudge the fat acres of the lucky sot

Whose wife has given him what his brains could not,
Who, snob and fool confest, through fortune's whim,
Is envied more by you than you by him.
For change and time, experience still has found,
Are one at least in sense, if not in sound.
Thus Fortune, when she lets her work be seen
Puts down the noble and puts up the mean,
Chooses her puppets, and, no matter which,
Can make a Clinton poor, a Padwick rich.

Should every body know you in St. James, Should Rotten Row allow your proudest claims, Should Charing Cross salute you as you walk, Should you become the town's incessant talk, At last, you must perforce, do what you can, Go the same road which once went good Queen Anne. Your head grows dizzy, in your feet's the gout. What's to be done? Go, find a doctor out. Would you live honestly? As most pretend, Think you that virtue is a proper end? The man who seeks to make a thing his own Must set his heart on that, and that alone.

"Virtue's a name," you say, "while money sticks,"
A church is only timber, stones, and bricks.
You long for wealth; of course you'll advertise,
And learn to deftly mix up truth with lies.

Strain every inch of canvas on the seas,
Hurry to London Docks the earliest teas.
Traffic in tallow, wool, guano, leather,
Bring Russian and Australian goods together.
If you build ships, secure yourself a seat,
And you may get an order for a fleet.
Compete for contracts, fee the clerks all round;
Spend but a penny, and you'll make a pound.
Smith-decent man-one rarely fit for trade,
By one good stroke of wit a fortune made.
Far more astute than any of his tribe,
He bought the budget for a heavy bribe;
Armed with the facts, to Mincing Lane he went,
Purchased ad lib. and won his cent. per cent.
The world condones the trick by which he gained:
Knowledge is power-however 'tis obtained.
You've gained a million, for another try;
With proper pains a third comes by-and-by.
A prudent man still lets his money roll,
And lo! a fourth appears to square the whole.
Money's a gracious queen to men of thrift;
She heaps upon her courtier every gift ;
Finds him an heiress, if he needs a wife;

Gives credit, friends, the dearest friends in life;
Grants pedigree and arms, and beauty too.
What? a rich man-there's nothing he can't do.
He drops his h's, talks the sorriest stuff;
But people follow him, and that's enough.
Let him appear as ugly as you will
No man of fortune needs a Rachel's skill,
Though if he cares to do so he can buy
A portrait of himself a painted lie.

A rich Thersites-what's the need to blush-
Grows an Adonis under Richmond's brush.

Nay more, since most men think that heaven is worth

About as much as what they loved on earth,
No marvel that they measure that by this
And make investments in the hope of bliss.
An ancient Begum, when her death drew near,
(She had good reason, I admit, for fear,)
Hit on a plan by which she shrewdly thought
Her soul might really win the rest she sought;
Summoned her lawyer, made him read her will,
And bade him add another codicil:

"On my decease, let there be no delay,

I order my executors to pay

A thousand pounds (it must be duty free)
To each of these by way of legacy:

The Pope, the Patriarch, and the chiefest Jew,
The Sheyk ul Islam, the Grand Lama too,
All England's primate. Mind what I have said:
Pay them the cash as soon as I am dead.
They promise fairly, each with all his might;
'Tis true they differ, but may all be right;
At any rate they cannot be so nice
As not to grant a prayer at such price.
And then perhaps I may be with the blest.
There-let me sign it. Now I feel at rest.

Is it witnessed?" "Yes." "Well, then I'm satisfied."
And with a heavenly smile the Begum died.

'Tis ready money only makes men great.
Upon some Russian noble's huge estate
A hundred thousand serfs may fear the lash
And yet their master may be short of cash.

In France, while Eugénie still held her sway,
Some folks of fashion chose to act a play.
One stage direction ran, "A hundred girls,
Dressed in white satin, trimmed with lace and pearls,
Here enter on the stage at once, and then "-
"Impossible! we scarce can furbish ten!

Let's ask the Empress." So the thing was done.
"A hundred ?" said she "why I mayn't have one!
But I'll be sure to bear your wish in mind,
And promise that I'll send you all I find."

Then comes: "The Empress hears that she has got
Five thousand; take a part or take the lot."
That's a poor place, where everything is known,
Whose master's able to count up his own.
Whose servants are not undiscovered thieves—
A fact that Bonaparte now believes.

So then, if fortune only makes you blest
Follow that only, and neglect the rest;
Begin it early and continue late.

If popularity will make you great,

An agent's services you must not grudge.
He'll tell important names, and with a nudge,