LETTER II.

FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ. TO THE LORD VISCOUNT C-ST-R-GH.

Paris.

Ar length, my Lord, I have the bliss

To date to you a line from this
"Demoraliz'd" metropolis;

Where, by plebeians low and scurvy,
The throne was turn'd quite topsy turvy,
And Kingship, tumbled from its seat,
"Stood prostrate" at the people's feet;
Where (still to use your Lordship's tropes)
The level of obedience slopes

Upward and downward, as the stream

Of hydra faction kicks the beam ! *

* This excellent imitation of the noble Lord's style shows how deeply Mr. Fudge must have studied his great original. Irish oratory, indeed, abounds with such startling peculiarities. Thus the eloquent Counsellor B- in describing

some hypocritical pretender to charity, said, "He put his hand in his breeches-pocket, like a crocodile, and," &c. &c.

Where the

poor Palace changes masters

Quicker than a snake its skin,

And Louis is roll'd out on castors,

While BONEY'S borne on shoulders in:

But where, in every change, no doubt,

:

One special good your Lordship traces,—

That 'tis the Kings alone turn out,
The Ministers still keep their places.

How oft, dear Viscount C

-GH,

I've thought of thee upon the way,
As in my job (what place could be
More apt to wake a thought of thee?)-
Or, oftener far, when gravely sitting
Upon my dicky, (as is fitting

For him who writes a Tour, that he
May more of men and manners see,)
I've thought of thee and of thy glories,
Thou guest of Kings, and King of Tories!
Reflecting how thy fame has grown

And spread, beyond man's usual share, At home, abroad, till thou art known,

Like Major SEMPLE, every where !

And marv❜lling with what pow'rs of breath

Your Lordship, having speech'd to death

Some hundreds of your

fellow-men,

Next speech'd to Sovereigns' ears,—and when
All Sovereigns else were doz'd, at last
Speech'd down the Sovereign* of Belfast.
Oh! mid the praises and the trophies
Thou gain'st from Morosophs and Sophis;
Mid all the tributes to thy fame,

There's one thou should'st be chiefly pleas'd at—

That Ireland gives her snuff thy name,

And C —————GH's the thing now sneez'd at!

But hold, my pen !- —a truce to praising—
Though ev'n your Lordship will allow
The theme's temptations are amazing ;

But time and ink run short, and now,

* The title of the chief magistrate of Belfast, before whom his Lordship (with the "studium immane loquendi" attributed by Ovid to that chattering and rapacious class of birds, the pies) delivered sundry long and self-gratulatory orations, on his return from the Continent. It was at one of these Irish dinners that his gallant brother, Lord S., proposed the health of "The best cavalry officer in Europe - the Regent !"

(As thou wouldst say, my guide and teacher

In these gay metaphoric fringes,

I must embark into the feature

On which this letter chiefly hinges* ;-
My Book, the Book that is to prove—
And will, (so help ye Sprites above,
That sit on clouds, as grave as judges,
Watching the labours of the FUDGES!)
Will prove that all the world, at present,
Is in a state extremely pleasant;
That Europe-thanks to royal swords

And bay'nets, and the Duke commanding-
Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord's,
Passeth all human understanding:

That France prefers her go-cart King
To such a coward scamp as Boney;
Though round, with each a leading-string,
There standeth many a Royal crony,
For fear the chubby, tottering thing
Should fall, if left there loney-poney;
That England, too, the more her debts,
The more she spends, the richer gets;

* Verbatim from one of the noble Viscount's Speeches"And now, Sir, I must embark into the feature on which this question chiefly hinges."

And that the Irish, grateful nation !
Remember when by thee reign'd over,
And bless thee for their flagellation,
As HELOISA did her lover! *
That Poland, left for Russia's lunch
Upon the side-board, snug reposes:
While Saxony's as pleased as Punch,
66 on a bed of roses!"

And Norway

That, as for some few million souls,

Transferr❜d by contract, bless the clods! If half were strangled-Spaniards, Poles,

And Frenchmen-'twouldn't make much odds, So Europe's goodly Royal ones Sit easy on their sacred thrones ; So FERDINAND embroiders gaily †, And Louis eats his salmi‡, daily;

*See her Letters.

It would be an edifying thing to write a history of the private amusements of sovereigns, tracing them down from the fly-sticking of Domitian, the mole-catching of Artabanus, the hog-mimicking of Parmenides, the horse-currying of Aretas, to the petticoat-embroidering of Ferdinand, and the patienceplaying of the Pe Rt!