And, counting in this way—let me see—
I myself but five years old shall be,

And dear Magan, when the' event takes place,

An actual new-born child of

grace

Should Heav'n in mercy so dispose

A six-foot baby, in swaddling clothes.

Finding myself, by some good fate,
With Mr. Magan left tête-à-tête,

Wednesday.

Had just begun—having stirr'd the fire,
And drawn my chair near his-to inquire
What his notions were of Original Sin,

When that naughty Fanny again bounc'd in;
And all the sweet things I had got to say

Of the Flesh and the Devil were whisk'd away!

Much grieved to observe that Mr. Magan
Is actually pleased and amused with Fan!
What charms any sensible man can see
In a child so foolishly young as she-
But just eighteen, come next May-day,
With eyes, like herself, full of nought but play-
Is, I own, an exceeding puzzle to me.

LETTER III.

FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS

KITTY

STANZAS (INCLOSED)

TO MY SHADOW; OR, WHY?-WHAT?-HOW?

DARK comrade of my path! while earth and sky Thus wed their charms, in bridal light array'd, Why in this bright hour, walk'st thou ever nigh, Blackening my footsteps with thy length of shadeDark comrade, WHY?

Thou mimic Shape that, mid these flowery scenes,
Glidest beside me o'er each sunny spot,

Sadd'ning them as thou goest-say, what means
So dark an adjunct to so bright a lot—

Grim goblin, WHAT?

Still, as to pluck sweet flowers I bend my brow,

Thou bendest, too-then risest when I rise;

Say, mute mysterious Thing! how is't that thou Thus com'st between me and those blessed skiesDim shadow, How?

(ADDITIONAL STANZA, BY ANOTHER HAND.)

Thus said I to that Shape, far less in grudge
Than gloom of soul; while, as I eager cried,
Oh Why? What? How?-a Voice, that one might
judge

To be some Irish echo's, faint replied,

Oh fudge, fudge, fudge!

You have here, dearest Coz, my last lyric effusion;
And, with it, that odious "additional stanza,"
Which Aunt will insist I must keep, as conclusion,
And which, you'll at once see, is Mr. Magan's;-a
Most cruel and dark-design'd extravaganza,
And part of that plot in which he and my Aunt are
To stifle the flights of my genius by banter.

Just so 'twas with Byron's young eagle-ey'd strain, Just so did they taunt him ;-but vain, critics, vain

All your efforts to saddle Wit's fire with a chain ! To blot out the splendour of Fancy's young stream, Or crop, in its cradle, her newly-fledg'd beam!!! Thou perceiv'st, dear, that, ev'n while these lines I indite,

Thoughts burn, brilliant fancies break out, wrong or right,

And I'm all over poet, in Criticism's spite!

That my Aunt, who deals only in Psalms, and regards Messrs. Sternhold and Co. as the first of all bardsThat she should make light of my works I can't blame;

But that nice, handsome, odious Magan—what a shame!

Do you know, dear, that, high as on most points I

rate him,

I'm really afraid—after all, I—must hate him.
He is so provoking-nought's safe from his tongue;
He spares no one authoress, ancient or young.
Were you Sappho herself, and in Keepsake or Bijou
Once shone as contributor, Lord how he'd quiz you!
He laughs at all Monthlies-I've actually seen
A sneer on his brow at the Court Magazine!-

While of Weeklies, poor things, there's but one he

peruses,

And buys every book which that Weekly abuses.
But I care not how others such sarcasm may fear,
One spirit, at least, will not bend to his sneer;
And though tried by the fire, my young genius shall
burn as

Uninjured as crucified gold in the furnace!

(I suspect the word "crucified" must be made "crucible,"

Before this fine image of mine is producible.)

And now, dear-to tell you a secret which, pray
Only trust to such friends as with safety you may-
You know, and, indeed the whole county suspects
(Though the Editor often my best things rejects),
That the verses sign'd so, which you now and

then see

In our County Gazette (vide last) are by me.

But 'tis dreadful to think what provoking mistakes
The vile country Press in one's prosody makes.
For you know, dear-I may, without vanity, hint-
Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must