Biddy,

Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet,-
Age thirty, or thereabouts-stature six feet,
And warranted godly-to make all complete.
Nota Bene-a Churchman would suit, if he's high,
But Socinians or Catholics need not apply.

What say you, DICK? doesn't this tempt your ambition?

The whole wealth of Fudge, that renown'd man of pith,

Such a thing as no rainbow hath colors to paint; Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers, And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint. Poor "Pa" hath popp'd off-gone, as charity judges, To some choice Elysium reserved for the Fudges; And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectations From some much revered and much-palsied relations,

tion,

Sole encumbrance, Miss Fudge to be taken there

with.

Think, my boy, for a Curate how glorious a catch! While, instead of the thousands of souls you now

watch,

To save Biddy Fudge's is all you need do;
And her purse will, meanwhile, be the saving of

you.

You may ask, DICK, how comes it that I, a poor elf, Wanting substance even more than your spiritual self,

What luck thus to find a kind witch at your back, An old goose with gold eggs, from all debts to release ye;

shelf,

When, God knows! there ne'er was young gentle

man yet

So much lack'd an old spinster to rid him from debt, Or had cogenter reasons than mine to assail her With tender love-suit-at the suit of his tailor.

But thereby there hangs a soft secret, my friend, Which thus to your reverend breast I commend: Miss Fudge hath a niece-such a creature!-with

eyes

Like those sparklers that peep out from summernight skies

At astronomers-royal, and laugh with delight
To see elderly gentlemen spying all night.
While her figure-oh, bring all the gracefullest
things

That are borne through the light air by feet or by wings,

Not a single new grace to that form could they teach,
Which combines in itself the perfection of each;
While, rapid or slow, as her fairy feet fall,
The mute music of symmetry modulates all.

Ne'er, in short, was there creature more form'd to bewilder

A gay youth like me, who of castles aërial (And only of such) am, God help me! a builder;

Still peopling each mansion with lodgers ethereal, And now, to this nymph of the seraph-like eye, Letting out, as you see, my first floor next the sky.

But, alas! nothing's perfect on earth—even she, This divine little gipsy, does odd things sometimes;

Talks learning-looks wise, (rather painful to see,)
Prints already in two County papers her rhymes;
And raves-the sweet, charming, absurd little dear!
About Amulets, Bijous, and Keepsakes, next year,
In a manner which plainly bad symptoms portends
Of that Annual blue fit, so distressing to friends;
A fit which, though lasting but one short edition,
Leaves the patient long after in sad inanition.

However, let's hope for the best-and, meanwhile, Be it mine still to bask in the niece's warm smile; While you, if you're wise, DICK, will play the gallant (Uphill work, I confess) to her Saint of an Aunt. Think, my boy, for a youngster like you, who've a lack,

Not indeed of rupees, but of other specie,

What are all the Three Graces to her Three per

Cents.?

While her acres!-oh DICK, it dont matter one pin How she touches th' affections, so you touch the

rents;

And Love never looks half so pleased, as when, bless him! he

Sings to an old lady's purse "Open, Sesamé."

By the way I've just heard, in my walks, a report, Which, if true, will insure for your visit some sport.

"Tis rumor'd our Manager means to bespeak

The Church tumblers from Exeter Hall for next

week;

And certainly ne'er did a queerer or rummer set Throw, for th' amusement of Christians, a summer

set.

'Tis fear'd their chief "Merriman," COOKE, cannot

come,

Being called off, at present, to play Punch at home;"
And the loss of so practised a wag in divinity
Will grieve much all lovers of jokes on the Trin-

ity;

His pun on the name Unigenitus, lately Having pleased Robert Taylor, the Reverend, greatly.

"Twill prove a sad drawback, if absent he be,
As a wag Presbyterian's a thing quite to see;
And, 'mong the Five Points of the Calvinists, none
of 'em

Ever yet reckon'd a point of wit one of 'em.
But even though deprived of this comical elf,
We've a host of buffoni in Murtagh himself,
Who of all the whole troop is chief mummer and
mime,

As COOKE takes the Ground Tumbling, he the Sublime ;*

And of him we're quite certain, so, pray, come in time.

LETTER II.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MRS. ELIZABETH

JUST in time for the post, dear, and monstrously busy,

With godly concernments-and worldly ones,

too;

Things carnal and spiritual mix'd, my dear Lizzy, In this little brain till, bewilder'd and dizzy,

"Twixt heaven and earth, I scarce know what I do. First, I've been to see all the gay fashions from Town,

Which our favorite Miss Gimp for the spring has had down;

Sleeves still worn (which I think is wise) à la folle, Charming hats, pou de soie-though the shape rather droll.

But you can't think how nicely the caps of tulle lace,
With the mentonnières, look on this poor sinful face;
And I mean, if the Lord in his mercy thinks right,
To wear one at Mrs. Fitz-wigram's to night.
The silks are quite heavenly:—I'm glad, too, to say,
Gimp herself grows more godly and good every day;
Hath had sweet experience—yea, even doth begin
To turn from the Gentiles, and put away sin-
And all since her last stock of goods was laid in.
What a blessing one's milliner, careless of pelf,.
Should thus "walk in newness" as well as one's self!

So much for the blessing, the comforts of Spirit I've had since we met, and they're more than I merit!

Poor, sinful, weak creature in every respect;

In short, dear, this preaching and psalm-singing pair, Chosen vessels of mercy," as I thought they were, Have together this last week eloped; making bold To whip off as much goods as both vessels could hold

Not forgetting some scores of sweet tracts from my shelves,

Two Family Bibles as large as themselves, And besides, from the drawer-I neglecting to lock it

My neat" Morning Manna, done up for the pocket." Was there e'er known a case so distressing, dear Liz? It has made me quite ill :-and the worst of it is, When rogues are all pious, 'tis hard to detect Which rogues are the reprobate, which the elect. This man "had a call," he said—impudent mockery! What call had he to my linen and crockery?

I'm now, and have been for this week past, in chase
Of some godly young couple this pair to replace.
The enclosed two announcements have just met my
eyes,

In that venerable Monthly where Saints advertise
For such temporal comforts as this world supplies ;*
And the fruits of the Spirit are properly made
An essential in every craft, calling, and trade.

Elect.

But now for the picture's reverse.-You remember
That footman and cook-maid I hired last December;
He, a Baptist Particular-she, of some sect
Not particular, I fancy, in any respect;

But desirous, poor thing, to be fed with the Word,
And "to wait," as she said,“ on Miss Fudge and the
Lord."

Well, my dear, of all men, that Particular Baptist
At preaching a sermon, off hand, was the aptest;
And, long as he stay'd, do him justice, more rich in
Sweet savors of doctrine, there never was kitchen.
He preach'd in the parlor, he preach'd in the hall,
He preach'd to the chambermaids, scullions, and all.
All heard with delight his reprovings of sin,
But above all, the cook-maid;-oh, ne'er would she
tire-

Though in learning to save sinful souls from the fire,

She would oft let the soles she was frying fall in. (God forgive me for punning on points thus of piety!

A sad trick I've learned in Bob's heathen society.) But ah! there remains still the worst of my tale; Come, Asterisks, and help me the sad truth to veilConscious stars, that at even your own secret turn pale!

youth

Who has "learn'd to fear God, and to walk in the

truth;"

Where the sempstress, in search of employment, declares,

That pay is no object, so she can have prayers; And th' Establish'd Wine Company proudly gives

out,

That the whole of the firm, Co. and all, are devout. Happy London, one feels, as one reads o'er the pages, Where Saints are so much more abundant than

sages;

Where Parsons may soon be all laid on the shelf,
As each Cit can cite chapter and verse for himself,
And the serious frequenters of market and dock
All lay in religion as part of their stock."
Who can tell to what lengths we may go on im-
proving,

When thus through all London the Spirit keeps moving,

And heaven's so in vogue, that each shop advertisement

Is now not so much for the earth as the skies meant?

P.S.

Have mislaid the two paragraphs-can't stop to look, But both describe charming-both Footman and

Cook,

She, "decidedly pious"-with pathos deplores
Th' increase of French cookery and sin on our
shores;

And adds—(while for further accounts she refers
To a great Gospel preacher, a cousin of hers,)
That "though some make their Sabbaths mere
matter-of-fun days,

She asks but for tea and the Gospel, on Sundays." The footman, too, full of the true saving knowledge ;

Has late been to Cambridge-to Trinity College; Served last a young gentleman studying divinity, But left-not approving the morals of Trinity.

Heigho!-what a blessing should Mr. Magan
Turn out, after all, a "renew'd" young man;
And to me should fall the task, on earth,
To assist at the dear youth's second birth.
Blest thought! and, ah, more blest the tie,
Were it heaven's high will, that he and I—
But I blush to write the nuptial word—
Should wed, as St. Paul says, " in the Lord;"
Not this world's wedlock-gross, gallant,
But pure-as when Amram married his aunt.

Our ages differ-but who would count
One's natural sinful life's amount,
Or look in the Register's vulgar page
For a regular twice-born Christian's age,
Who, blessed privilege! only then
Begin's to live when he's born again.
And, counting in this way—let me see—
I myself but five years old shall be,
And dear Magan, when th' event takes place,
An actual new-born child of grace-
Should Heaven in mercy so dispose-
A six-foot baby, in swaddling clothes.

Wednesday.

Finding myself, by some good fate,
With Mr. Magan left tête-à-tête,
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 bounced 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, comes next May-day,
With eyes, like herself, full of naught but play—
Is, I own, an exceeding puzzle to me.

Why in this bright hour, walk'st thou ever nigh, Black'ning my footsteps with thy length of shade

Dark 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-thou risest when I rise;— Say, mute mysterious Thing! how is't that thou Thus comest between me and those blessed skies

Dim 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-eyed 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 splendor of Fancy's young stream, Or crop, in its cradle, her newly-fledged beam!!! Thou perceiv'st, dear, that, even while these lines

I indite,

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

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

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-naught'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 signed 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

print;

And you can't think what havoc these demons sometimes

Choose to make of one's sense, and what's worse,

of one's rhymes.

But a week or two since, in my Ode upon Spring, Which I meant to have made a most beautiful

thing,

Where I talk'd of the "dewdrops from freshly

blown roses,"

The nasty things made it "from freshly-blown noses!"

And once when, to please my cross Aunt, I had tried

To commemorate some saint of her clique, who'd just died,