Who say this world of thinking souls were 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

Who, proud to kiss each separate rod of power, Bless, while he reigns, the minion of the hour; Worship each would-be God, that o'er them moves,

And take the thundering of his brass for JOVE'S!

If this be wisdom, then farewell my books, Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye classic books, 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 awak'd my strings,
Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings,
The High L*git**ates, 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!
Instead of him, th' Athenian bard, whose blade
Had stood the onset which his pen pourtray'd,

And, 'stead of ARISTIDES-woe the day
Such names should mingle welcome
C-GH?

Here break we off, at this unhallowed name, Like priests of old, when words ill omen'd

came.

My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell,

To leave still hid and burning were they are !

LETTER V.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY-T

WHAT a time since I wrote!-I'm a sad, naughty girl

Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl, Yet ev❜n (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," "magnifique,"

The trimmings of that which I had home last week!

It is called-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 chimnies from smoking.

Where shall I begin with the endless delights Of this Eden of milliners, monkies, and sightsThis dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting [acting? But dressing and dinnering, dancing and

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

66 spears,

"For I'm curst if each note of it doesn't run

"C through one!"

Pa says (and you know, love, his Book's to make out

'Twas 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 LAïs,* and choose to make use of it!

No-never was known in this riotous sphere Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.

cholic !

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
[ça-
But, the dancing-ah parlez-moi DoLLY, de
There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but
[mance!
Such beauty-such grace-oh ye sylphs of ro-

Papa.

*The oldest, most celebrated, and most noisy of the singers at the French Opera,

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 dæmons 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 it 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
[FUDGE !
What a crisis 'twould be for your friend BIDDY

The next place (which BOBBY has near lost his heart in)

They call it the Play-house-I think—of SaintMartin ;*

The Theatre de la Porte St. Martin, which was built when the Opera House in the Palais Royal wab