AMONG the papers, enclosed in Dr. D-g-n-n's Letter, was found an Heroic Epistle in Latin verse, from Pope Joan to her Lover, of which, as it is rather a curious document, I shall venture to give some account. This female Pontiff was a native of England, (or, according to others, of Germany,) who, at an early age, disguised herself in male attire, and followed her lover, a young ecclesiastic, to Athens, where she studied with such effect, that upon her arrival at Rome, she was thought worthy of being raised to the Pontificate. This Epistle is addressed to her Lover (whom she had elevated to the dignity of Cardinal), soon after the fatal accouchement, by which her Fallibility was betrayed.

She begins by reminding him tenderly of the time, when they were together at Athens when, as she says,

"by Ilissus' stream

"We whispering walk'd along, and learn'd to speak "The tenderest feelings in the purest Greek; "Ah, then how little did we think or hope, "Dearest of men, that I should e'er be Pope ! * “That I, the humble Joan, whose house-wife art "Seem'd just enough to keep thy house and heart, "(And those, alas, at sixes and at sevens,) "Should soon keep all the keys of all the heavens!"

Still less (she continues to say) could they have foreseen, that such a catastrophe as had happened in Council would befall them - that she

"Should thus surprise the Conclave's grave de

corum,

"And let a little Pope pop out before 'em

* Spanheim attributes the unanimity, with which Joan was elected, to that innate and irresistible charm, by which her sex, though latent, operated upon the instinct of the Cardinals "Non vi aliquâ, sed concorditer, omnium in se converso desiderio, quæ sunt blandientis sexus artes, latentes in hâc quanquam !"

Pope Innocent! alas, the only one "That name could e'er be justly fix'd upon."

She then very pathetically laments the downfall of her greatness, and enumerates the various treasures to which she is doomed to bid farewell for

"But oh, more dear, more precious ten times

over

"Farewell my Lord, my

"I made thee Cardinal

Cardinal, my Lover!

thou mad'st me ah!

"Thou mad'st the Papa of the world Mamma!"

I have not time at present to translate any more of this Epistle; but I presume the argument which the Right Hon. Doctor and his friends mean to deduce from it, is (in their usual convincing strain) that Romanists must be unworthy of Emancipation now, because they had a Petticoat Pope in the Ninth Century. Nothing can be more logically clear, and I find that Horace had exactly the same views upon the subject.

Romanus (eheu posteri negabitis !)
Emancipatus FŒMINE

Fert vallum!

THE Manuscript, found enclosed in the Bookseller's Letter, turns out to be a Melo-Drama, in two Acts, entitled "The Book*," of which the Theatres, of course, had had the refusal, before it was presented to Messrs. L-ck—ngt―n and Co. This rejected Drama, however, possesses considerable merit, and I shall take the liberty of laying a sketch of it before my Readers.

The first Act opens in a very awful manner Time, three o'clock in the morning-Scene, the

* There was, in like manner, a mysterious Book, in the 16th Century, which employed all the anxious curiosity of the Learned of that time. Every one spoke of it; many wrote against it; though it does not appear that any body had ever seen it; and Grotius is of opinion that no such Book ever existed. It was entitled "Liber de tribus impostoribus." (See Morhof. Cap. de Libris damnatis.)—Our more modern mystery of "the Book" resembles this in many particulars; and, if the number of Lawyers employed in drawing it up be stated correctly, a slight alteration of the title into "à tribus impostoribus would produce a coincidence altogether very remarkable.

Bourbon Chamber* in C-rl-t-n House

Enter the Pe R-g-t solus After a few broken sentences, he thus exclaims:

Thou haunt'st my fancy so, thou devilish Book,
I meet thee - trace thee, wheresoe'er I look.

I see thy damned ink in Eld-n's brows

I see thy foolscap on my H-rtf-d's Spouse—
V-ns-tt-t's head recalls thy leathern case,

And all thy blank-leaves stare from R-d-r's face!

While, turning here (laying his hand on his heart), I find, ah wretched elf,

Thy List of dire Errata in myself.

(Walks the stage in considerable agitation.)

Oh Roman Punch! oh potent Curaçoa!
Oh Mareschino! Mareschino oh!

Delicious drams! why have you not the art
To kill this gnawing Book-worm in my heart?

* The same Chamber, doubtless, that was prepared for the reception of the Bourbons at the first Grand Fête, and which was ornamented (all "for the Deliverance of Europe ") with fleurs-de-lys.