The Bag, from which the following Letters are selected, was dropped by a Twopenny Postman about two months since, and picked up by an emissary of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, who supposing it might materially assist the private researches of that Institution, immediately took it to his employers and was rewarded handsomely for his trouble. Such a treasury of secrets was worth a whole host of informers; and, accordingly, like the Cupids of the poet (if I may use so profane a simile) who "fell at odds about the sweet-bag of a bee,"[1] those venerable Suppressors almost fought with each other for the honor and delight of first ransacking the Post-Bag. Unluckily, however, it turned out upon examination that the discoveries of profligacy which it enabled them to make, lay chiefly in those upper regions of society which their well-bred regulations forbid them to molest or meddle with.—In consequence they gained but very few victims by their prize, and after lying for a week or two under Mr. Hatchard's counter the Bag with its violated contents was sold for a trifle to a friend of mine.

It happened that I had been just then seized with an ambition (having never tried the strength of my wing but in a Newspaper) to publish something or other in the shape of a Book; and it occurred to me that, the present being such a letter-writing era, a few of these Twopenny-Post Epistles turned into easy verse would be as light and popular a task as I could possibly select for a commencement. I did not, however, think it prudent to give too many Letters at first and accordingly have been obliged (in order to eke out a sufficient number of pages) to reprint some of those trifles, which had already appeared in the public journals. As in the battles of ancient times, the shades of the departed were sometimes seen among the combatants, so I thought I might manage to remedy the thinness of my ranks, by conjuring up a few dead and forgotten ephemerons to fill them.

Such are the motives and accidents that led to the present publication; and as this is the first time my Muse has ever ventured out of the go-cart of a Newspaper, though I feel all a parent's delight at seeing little Miss go alone, I am also not without a parent's anxiety lest an unlucky fall should be the consequence of the experiment; and I need not point out how many living instances might be found of Muses that have suffered very severely in their heads from taking rather too early and rashly to their feet. Besides, a Book is so very different a thing from a Newspaper!—in the former, your doggerel without either company or shelter must stand shivering in the middle of a bleak page by itself; whereas in the latter it is comfortably backed by advertisements and has sometimes even a Speech of Mr. Stephen's, or something equally warm, for a chauffe-pieds—so that, in general, the very reverse of "laudatur et alget" is its destiny.

Ambition, however, must run some risks and I shall be very well satisfied if the reception of these few Letters should have the effect of sending me to the Post-Bag for more.

[1] Herrick.

INTERCEPTED LETTERS, ETC.

LETTER I.

FROM THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES TO THE LADY BARBARA ASHLER.[1]

My dear Lady Bab, you'll be shockt I'm afraid,
When you hear the sad rumpus your Ponies have made;
Since the time of horse-consuls (now long out of date),
No nags ever made such a stir in the state.
Lord Eldon first heard—and as instantly prayed he
To "God and his King"—that a Popish young Lady
(For tho' you've bright eyes and twelve thousand a year,
It is still but too true you're a Papist, my dear,)
Had insidiously sent, by a tall Irish groom,
Two priest-ridden ponies just landed from Rome,
And so full, little rogues, of pontifical tricks
That the dome of St. Paul was scarce safe from their kicks.

Off at once to Papa in a flurry he flies—
For Papa always does what these statesmen advise
On condition that they'll be in turn so polite
As in no case whate'er to advise him too right—
"Pretty doings are here, Sir (he angrily cries,
While by dint of dark eyebrows he strives to look wise)—
"'Tis a scheme of the Romanists, so help me God!
"To ride over your most Royal Highness roughshod—
"Excuse, Sir, my tears—they're from loyalty's source-
"Bad enough 'twas for Troy to be sackt by a Horse,
"But for us to be ruined by Ponies still worse!"
Quick a Council is called—the whole Cabinet sits—
The Archbishops declare, frightened out of their wits,
That if once Popish Ponies should eat at my manger,
From that awful moment the Church is in danger!
As, give them but stabling and shortly no stalls
Will suit their proud stomachs but those at St. Paul's.

The Doctor,[2] and he, the devout man of Leather,[3]
Vansittart, now laying their Saint-heads together,
Declare that these skittish young abominations
Are clearly foretold in Chap. vi. Revelations—
Nay, they verily think they could point out the one
Which the Doctor's friend Death was to canter upon.

Lord Harrowby hoping that no one imputes
To the Court any fancy to persecute brutes,
Protests on the word of himself and his cronies
That had these said creatures been Asses, not Ponies,
The Court would have started no sort of objection,
As Asses were, there, always sure of protection.

"If the Princess will keep them (says Lord Castlereagh),
"To make them quite harmless, the only true way
"Is (as certain Chief Justices do with their wives)
"To flog them within half an inch of their lives.
"If they've any bad Irish blood lurking about,
"This (he knew by experience) would soon draw it out."
Should this be thought cruel his Lordship proposes
"The new Veto snaffle[4] to bind down their noses—
"A pretty contrivance made out of old chains,
"Which appears to indulge while it doubly restrains;
"Which, however high-mettled, their gamesomeness checks
"(Adds his Lordship humanely), or else breaks their necks!"

This proposal received pretty general applause
From the Statesmen around-and the neck-breaking clause
Had a vigor about it, which soon reconciled
Even Eldon himself to a measure so mild.
So the snaffles, my dear, were agreed to nem. con.,
And my Lord Castlereagh, having so often shone
In the fettering line, is to buckle them on.
I shall drive to your door in these Vetoes some day,
But, at present, adieu!-I must hurry away
To go see my Mamma, as I'm suffered to meet her
For just half an hour by the Queen's best repeater.

CHARLOTTE.

[1] This young Lady, who is a Roman Catholic, had lately made a present of some beautiful Ponies to the Princess.

[2] Mr. Addington, so nicknamed.

[3] Alluding to a tax lately laid upon leather.

[4] The question whether a Veto was to be allowed to the Crown in the appointment of Irish Catholic Bishops was, at this time, very generally and actively agitated.

LETTER II.

FROM COLONEL M'MAHON TO GOULD FRANCIS LECKIE, ESQ.

DEAR SIR—
I've just had time to look
Into your very learned Book,
Wherein—as plain as man can speak.
Whose English is half modern Greek—
You prove that we can ne'er intrench
Our happy isles against the French,
Till Royalty in England's made
A much more independent trade;—
In short until the House of Guelph
Lays Lords and Commons on the shelf,
And boldly sets up for itself.

All that can well be understood
In this said Book is vastly good;
And as to what's incomprehensible,
I dare be sworn 'tis full as sensible.

But to your work's immortal credit
The Prince, good Sir, the Prince has read it
(The only Book, himself remarks,
Which he has read since Mrs. Clarke's).
Last levee-morn he lookt it thro',
During that awful hour or two
Of grave tonsorial preparation,
Which to a fond, admiring nation
Sends forth, announced by trump and drum,
The best-wigged Prince in Christendom.

He thinks with you, the imagination
Of partnership in legislation
Could only enter in the noddles
Of dull and ledger-keeping twaddles,
Whose heads on firms are running so,
They even must have a King and Co.,
And hence most eloquently show forth
On checks and balances and so forth.

But now, he trusts, we're coming near a
Far more royal, loyal era;
When England's monarch need but say,
"Whip me those scoundrels, Castlereagh!"
Or, "Hang me up those Papists, Eldon,"
And 'twill be done—ay, faith, and well done.

With view to which I've his command
To beg, Sir, from your travelled hand,
(Round which the foreign graces swarm)[1]
A Plan of radical Reform;
Compiled and chosen as best you can,
In Turkey or at Ispahan,
And quite upturning, branch and root,
Lords, Commons, and Burdett to boot.

But, pray, whate'er you may impart, write
Somewhat more brief than Major Cartwright:
Else, tho' the Prince be long in rigging,
'Twould take at least a fortnight's wigging,—
Two wigs to every paragraph—
Before he well could get thro' half.

You'll send it also speedily—
As truth to say 'twixt you and me,
His Highness, heated by your work,
Already thinks himself Grand Turk!
And you'd have laught, had you seen how
He scared the Chancellor just now,
When (on his Lordship's entering puft) he
Slapt his back and called him "Mufti!"

The tailors too have got commands
To put directly into hands
All sorts of Dulimans and Pouches,
With Sashes, Turbans and Paboutches,
(While Yarmouth's sketching out a plan
Of new Moustaches À l'Ottomane)
And all things fitting and expedient
To turkify our gracious Regent!

You therefore have no time to waste—
So, send your System.—
Yours in haste.

POSTSCRIPT.

Before I send this scrawl away,
I seize a moment just to say
There's some parts of the Turkish system
So vulgar 'twere as well you missed 'em.
For instance—in Seraglio matters—
Your Turk whom girlish fondness flatters,
Would fill his Haram (tasteless fool!)
With tittering, red-cheekt things from school.
But here (as in that fairy land,
Where Love and Age went hand in hand;[2]
Where lips, till sixty, shed no honey,
And Grandams were worth any money,)
Our Sultan has much riper notions—
So, let your list of she-promotions
Include those only plump and sage,
Who've reached the regulation-age;
That is, (as near as one can fix
From Peerage dates) full fifty-six.

This rule's for favorites—nothing more—
For, as to wives, a Grand Signor,
Tho' not decidedly without them,
Need never care one curse about them.

[1] "The truth indeed seems to be, that having lived so long abroad as evidently to have lost, in a great degree, the use of his native language, Mr. Leckie has gradually come not only to speak, but to feel, like a foreigner."—Edinburgh Review.

[2] The learned Colonel must allude here to a description of the Mysterious Isle, in the History of Abdalla, Son of Hanif, where such inversions of the order of nature are said to have taken place.—"A score of old women and the same number of old men played here and there in the court, some at chuck-farthing, others at tip-cat or at cockles."—And again, "There is nothing, believe me, more engaging than those lovely wrinkles."—See "Tales of the East," vol. iii. pp. 607, 608.

LETTER III.

FROM GEORGE PRINCE REGENT TO THE EARL OF YARMOUTH.[1]

We missed you last night at the "hoary old sinner's,"
Who gave us as usual the cream of good dinners;
His soups scientific, his fishes quite prime—
His pÂtÉs superb, and his cutlets sublime!
In short, 'twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a
Stomachic orgasm in my Lord Ellenborough,
Who set to, to be sure, with miraculous force,
And exclaimed between mouthfuls, "a He-Cook, of course!—
"While you live—(what's there under that cover? pray, look)—
"While you live—(I'll just taste it)—ne'er keep a She-Cook.
"'Tis a sound Salic Law—(a small bit of that toast)—
"Which ordains that a female shall ne'er rule the roast;
"For Cookery's a secret—(this turtle's uncommon)—
"Like Masonry, never found out by a woman!"

The dinner you know was in gay celebration
Of my brilliant triumph and Hunt's condemnation;
A compliment too to his Lordship the Judge
For his Speech to the Jury—and zounds! who would grudge
Turtle soup tho' it came to five guineas a bowl,
To reward such a loyal and complaisant soul?
We were all in high gig—Roman Punch and Tokay
Travelled round till our heads travelled just the same way;
And we cared not for Juries or Libels—no—damme! nor
Even for the threats of last Sunday's Examiner!

More good things were eaten than said—but Tom Tyrrhitt
In quoting Joe Miller you know has some merit;
And hearing the sturdy Judiciary Chief
Say—sated with turtle—"I'll now try the beef"—
Tommy whispered him (giving his Lordship a sly hit)
"I fear 'twill be hung-beef, my Lord, if you try it!"

And Camden was there, who that morning had gone
To fit his new Marquis's coronet on;
And the dish set before him—oh! dish well-devised!—
Was what old Mother Glasse calls, "a calf's head surprised!"
The brains were near Sherry and once had been fine,
But of late they had lain so long soaking in wine,
That tho' we from courtesy still chose to call
These brains very fine they were no brains at all.

When the dinner was over, we drank, every one
In a bumper, "the venial delights of Crim. Con.;"
At which Headfort with warm reminiscences gloated,
And Ellenb'rough chuckled to hear himself quoted.

Our next round of toasts was a fancy quite new,
For we drank—and you'll own 'twas benevolent too—
To those well-meaning husbands, cits, parsons or peers,
Whom we've any time honored by courting their dears:
This museum of wittols was comical rather;
Old Headfort gave Massey, and I gave your father.
In short, not a soul till this morning would budge—
We were all fun and frolic, and even the Judge
Laid aside for the time his juridical fashion,
And thro' the whole night wasn't once in a passion!

I write this in bed while my whiskers are airing,
And Mac[2] has a sly dose of jalap preparing
For poor Tommy Tyrrhitt at breakfast to quaff—
As I feel I want something to give me a laugh,
And there's nothing so good as old Tommy kept close
To his Cornwall accounts after taking a dose.

[1] This letter, as the reader will perceive, was written the day after a dinner given by the Marquis of Headfort.

[2] Colonel M'Mahon.

LETTER IV.

FROM THE RIGHT HON. PATRICK DUIGENAN TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN NICHOL.

Last week, dear Nichol, making merry
At dinner with our Secretary,
When all were drunk or pretty near
(The time for doing business here),
Says he to me, "Sweet Bully Bottom!
"These Papist dogs—hiccup—'od rot 'em!—
"Deserve to be bespattered—hiccup—
"With all the dirt even you can pick up.
"But, as the Prince (here's to him—fill—
"Hip, hip, hurra!)—is trying still
"To humbug them with kind professions,
"And as you deal in strong expressions—
"Rogue"—"traitor"—hiccup—and all that—
"You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat!—
"You must indeed—hiccup—that's flat."—

Yes—"muzzled" was the word Sir John—
These fools have clapt a muzzle on
The boldest mouth that e'er run o'er
With slaver of the times of yore![1]—
Was it for this that back I went
As far as Lateran and Trent,
To prove that they who damned us then
Ought now in turn be damned again?
The silent victim still to sit
Of Grattan's fire and Canning's wit,
To hear even noisy Mathew gabble on,
Nor mention once the Whore of Babylon!
Oh! 'tis too much—who now will be
The Nightman of No-Popery?
What Courtier, Saint or even Bishop
Such learned filth will ever fish up?
If there among our ranks be one
To take my place, 'tis thou, Sir John;
Thou who like me art dubbed Right Hon.
Like me too art a Lawyer Civil
That wishes Papists at the devil.

To whom then but to thee, my friend,
Should Patrick[2] his Port-folio send?
Take it—'tis thine—his learned Port-folio,
With all its theologic olio
Of Bulls, half Irish and half Roman—
Of Doctrines now believed by no man—
Of Councils held for men's salvation,
Yet always ending in damnation—
(Which shows that since the world's creation
Your Priests, whate'er their gentle shamming,
Have always had a taste for damning,)
And many more such pious scraps,
To prove (what we've long proved, perhaps,)
That mad as Christians used to be
About the Thirteenth Century,
There still are Christians to be had
In this, the Nineteenth, just as mad!

Farewell—I send with this, dear Nichol,
A rod or two I've had in pickle
Wherewith to trim old Grattan's jacket.—
The rest shall go by Monday's packet.

P. D.

Among the Enclosures in the foregoing Letter was the following "Unanswerable Argument against the Papists."

We're told the ancient Roman nation
Made use of spittle in lustration;
(Vide "Lactantium ap. Gallaeum"[3]—
i. e. you need not read but see 'em;)
Now Irish Papists—fact surprising—
Make use of spittle in baptizing;
Which proves them all, O'Finns, O'Fagans,
Connors and Tooles all downright Pagans.
This fact's enough; let no one tell us
To free such sad, salivous fellows.—
No, no—the man, baptized with spittle,
Hath no truth in him—not a tittle!

[1] In sending this sheet to the Press, however, I learn that the "muzzle" has been taken off, and the Right Hon. Doctor again let loose!

[2] A bad name for poetry; but Duigenan is still worse.

[3] I have taken the trouble of examining the Doctor's reference here, and find him for once correct.

My dear Lady—-! I've been just sending out
About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout—
(By the by, you've seen "Rokeby"?—this moment got mine—
The "Mail-Coach Edition"—prodigiously fine!)
But I can't conceive how in this very cold weather
I'm ever to bring my five hundred together;
As, unless the thermometer's near boiling heat,
One can never get half of one's hundreds to meet.

(Apropos—you'd have thought to see Townsend last night,
Escort to their chairs, with his staff, so polite,
The "three maiden Miseries," all in a fright;
Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts,
Supervisor of thieves and chief-usher of ghosts!)

But, my dear Lady——, can't you hit on some notion,
At least for one night to set London in motion?—
As to having the Regent, that show is gone by—
Besides, I've remarkt that (between you and I)
The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more ways,
Have taken much lately to whispering in doorways;
Which—considering, you know, dear, the size of the two—
Makes a block that one's company cannot get thro';
And a house such as mine is, with door-ways so small,
Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all.—
(Apropos, tho', of love-work—you've heard it, I hope,
That Napoleon's old mother's to marry the Pope,—
"What a comical pair!)—but, to stick to my Rout,
'Twill be hard if some novelty can't be struck out.
Is there no Algerine, no Kamchatkan arrived?
No Plenipo Pacha, three-tailed and ten-wived?
No Russian whose dissonant consonant name
Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame?

I remember the time three or four winters back,
When—provided their wigs were but decently black—
A few Patriot monsters from Spain were a sight
That would people one's house for one, night after night.
But—whether the Ministers pawed them too much—
(And you—know how they spoil whatsoever they touch)
Or, whether Lord George (the young man about town)
Has by dint of bad poetry written them down.
One has certainly lost one's peninsular rage;
And the only stray Patriot seen for an age
Has been at such places (think, how the fit cools!)
As old Mrs. Vaughan's or Lord Liverpool's.

But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschitstopschinzoudhoff
Are the only things now make an evening go smooth off:
So, get me a Russian—till death I'm your debtor—
If he brings the whole Alphabet, so much the better.
And—Lord! if he would but, in character, sup
Off his fish-oil and candles, he'd quite set me up!

Au revoir, my sweet girl—I must leave you in haste—
Little Gunter has brought me the Liqueurs to taste.

POSTSCRIPT.

By the by, have you found any friend that can conster
That Latin account, t'other day, of a Monster?[1]
If we can't get a Russian, and that think in Latin
Be not too improper, I think I'll bring that in.

[1] Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin Advertisement of a lusus Naturae in the Newspapers lately.

LETTER VI.

FROM ABDALLAH,[1] IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN ISPAHAN.

Whilst thou, Mohassan, (happy thou!)
Dost daily bend thy loyal brow
Before our King—our Asia's treasure!
Nutmeg of Comfort: Rose of Pleasure!—
And bearest as many kicks and bruises
As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses;
Thy head still near the bowstring's borders.
And but left on till further orders—
Thro' London streets with turban fair,
And caftan floating to the air,
I saunter on, the admiration
Of this short-coated population—
This sewed-up race—this buttoned nation—
Who while they boast their laws so free
Leave not one limb at liberty,
But live with all their lordly speeches
The slaves of buttons and tight breeches.

Yet tho' they thus their knee-pans fetter
(They're Christians and they know no better)
In some things they're a thinking nation;
And on Religious Toleration.
I own I like their notions quite,
They are so Persian and so right!
You know our Sunnites,[2] hateful dogs!
Whom every pious Shiite flogs
Or longs to flog—'tis true, they pray
To God, but in an ill-bred way;
With neither arms nor legs nor faces
Stuck in their right, canonic places.[3]
'Tis true, they worship Ali's name—
Their heaven and ours are just the same—
(A Persian's Heaven is easily made,
'Tis but black eyes and lemonade.)
Yet tho' we've tried for centuries back—
We can't persuade this stubborn pack,
By bastinadoes, screws or nippers,
To wear the establisht pea-green slippers.[4]
Then, only think, the libertines!
They wash their toes—they comb their chins,
With many more such deadly sins;
And what's the worst, (tho' last I rank it)
Believe the Chapter of the Blanket!

Yet spite of tenets so flagitious,
(Which must at bottom be seditious;
Since no man living would refuse
Green slippers but from treasonous views;
Nor wash his toes but with intent
To overturn the government,)—
Such is our mild and tolerant way,
We only curse them twice a day
(According to a Form that's set),
And, far from torturing, only let
All orthodox believers beat 'em,
And twitch their beards where'er they meet 'em.

As to the rest, they're free to do
Whate'er their fancy prompts them to,
Provided they make nothing of it
Towards rank or honor, power or profit;
Which things we naturally expect,
Belong to US, the Establisht sect,
Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked!)
The aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket.
The same mild views of Toleration
Inspire, I find, this buttoned nation,
Whose Papists (full as given to rogue,
And only Sunnites with a brogue)
Fare just as well, with all their fuss,
As rascal Sunnites do with us.

The tender Gazel I enclose
Is for my love, my Syrian Rose—
Take it when night begins to fall,
And throw it o'er her mother's wall.

GAZEL.

Rememberest thou the hour we past,—
That hour the happiest and the last?
Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn
To summer bees at break of morn,
Not half so sweet, thro' dale and dell,
To Camels' ears the tinkling bell,
As is the soothing memory
Of that one precious hour to me.

How can we live, so far apart?
Oh! why not rather, heart to heart,
United live and die—
Like those sweet birds, that fly together,
With feather always touching feather,
Linkt by a hook and eye![5]

[1] I have made many inquiries about this Persian gentleman, but cannot satisfactorily ascertain who he is. From his notions of Religious Liberty, however, I conclude that he is an importation of Ministers; and he has arrived just in time to assist the Prince and Mr. Leckie in their new Oriental Plan of Reform.—See the second of these letters.—How Abdallah's epistle to Ispahan found its way into the Twopenny Post-Bag is more than I can pretend to account for.

[2] Sunnites and Shiites are the two leading sects into which the Mahometan world is divided; and they have gone on cursing and persecuting each other, without any intermission, for about eleven hundred years. The Sunni is the established sect in Turkey, and the Shia in Persia; and the differences between them turn chiefly upon those important points, which our pious friend Abdallah, is the true spirit of Shiite Ascendency, reprobates in this Letter.

[3] "In contradistinction to the Sounis, who in their prayers cross their hands on the lower part of the breasts, the Schiahs drop their arms in straight lines; and as the Sounis, at certain periods of the prayer, press their foreheads on the ground or carpet, the Schiahs," etc.—Forster's Voyage.

[4] "The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sunnites consider as a great abomination."—Mariti.

[5] This will appear strange to an English reader, but it is literally translated from Abdallah's Persian, and the curious bird to which he alludes is the Juftak, of which I find the following account in Richardson:—"A sort of bird, that is said to have but one wing; on the opposite side to which the male has a hook and the female a ring, so that, when they fly, they are fastened together."

LETTER VII.

FROM MESSRS. LACKINGTON AND CO. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

Per Post, Sir, we send your MS.—look it thro'—
Very sorry—but can't undertake—'twouldn't do.
Clever work, Sir!—would get up prodigiously well—
Its only defect is—it never would sell.
And tho' Statesmen may glory in being unbought,
In an Author 'tis not so desirable thought.

Hard times, Sir, most books are too dear to be read—
Tho' 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[1] 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![2]
(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 can not 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.[3])
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 (tho' none of our hackneys can beat him)
To start a fresh Poet thro' 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 curst 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 week.
At present, no more—in reply to this Letter,
A line will oblige very much
Yours, et cetera.

Temple of the Muses.

[1] Sir John Carr, the author of "Tours in Ireland, Holland. Sweden," etc.

[2] This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence, which is said to have passed lately between Albina, Countess of Buckinghamshire, and a certain ingenious Parodist.

[3] Paternoster Row.

LETTER VIII.

FROM COLONEL THOMAS TO —— SKEFFINGTON, ESQ.

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,
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;
Tho' more we love thy roseate days,
When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze
Full o'er thy face and amply spread,
Tips even 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 washt,) 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 Coates, Esquire.[1]
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![2]

Thou knowest the time, thou man of lore!
It takes to chalk a ball-room floor—
Thou knowest the time, too, well-a-day!
It takes to dance that chalk away.[3]
The Ball-room opens—far and nigh
Comets and suns beneath us lie;
O'er snow-white moons and stars we walk,
And the floor seems one sky of chalk!
But soon shall fade that 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:—
With every step a star hath 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, Strahlweg,[4] no;
Thy Cupids 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 comest off, whate'er thy faults,
With flying colors in a Waltz.
Nor needest thou mourn the transient date
To thy best works assigned by fate.
While some chef-d'oeuvres 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!"[5]

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 facsimile;[6]
The same long Masquerade of Rooms,
All trickt up in such odd costumes,
(These, Porter,[7] 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 olio pleasant
Had sent a State-Room as a present.
The same fauteuils and girondoles—
The same gold Asses,[8]pretty souls!
That in this rich and classic dome
Appear so perfectly at home.
The same bright river 'mong 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, prithee, come—our FÊte will be
But half a FÊte if wanting thee.

[1] An amateur actor of much risible renown.

[2] The crest of Mr. Coates, the very amusing amateur tragedian here alluded to, was a cock; and most profusely were his liveries, harness, etc. covered wit this ornament.

[3] To those who neither go to balls nor read The Morning Post, it may be necessary to mention, that the floors of Ballrooms, in general, are chalked for safety and for ornament with various fanciful devices.

[4] A foreign artist much patronized by the Prince Regent.

[5] The name of a popular country-dance.

[6] "Carleton House will exhibit a complete facsimile in respect to interior ornament, to what it did at the last FÊte. The same splendid draperies," etc.—Morning Post.

[7] Mr. Walsh Porter, to whose taste was left the furnishing of the rooms of Carletone House.

[8] The salt-cellars on the Prince's own table were in the form of an Ass with panniers.

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APPENDIX.