My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell, Thoughts that could patience hold-'twere wiser far To leave still hid and burning where they are. Brinsley Sheridan, John Horne Tooke, Francis Burdett Jones, &c. &c. The Romans called a thief" homo trium literarum." Tun' trium literarum homo Me vituperas? Fur. 1 PLAUTUS, Aulular. Act ii. Scene 4. - that is, 1 Dissaldeus supposes this word to be a glossema: he thinks"Fur" has made his escape from the margin into the text. LETTER V. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY WHAT a time since I wrote! -I'm a sad, naughty girl For, 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! presses, there's no language ex Except just the two words "superbe," " magnifique," The trimmings of that which I had home last week! It is call'd-I forget a 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 ROI'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, poking, Like things that are put to keep chimnies from smoking. Where shall I begin with the endless delights acting But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting? Imprimis, the Opera - mercy, my ears! Brother BOBBу's remark, t'other night, was a true one; "This must be the music," said he, " of the spears, "For I'm curst if each note of it doesn't run 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 chose to make use of it! No-never was known in this riotous sphere Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear. 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 cholic! But, the dancing-ah parlez-moi, DOLLY, de çaThere, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa. * The oldest, most celebrated, and most noisy of the singers at the French Opera. Such beauty-such grace-oh ye sylphs of romance! 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 its cadences die, judge What a crisis 'twould be for your friend BIDDY FUDGE ! |