Such was the grand, the glorious cause that now
Hung trembling on Napoleon's single brow;
Such the sublime arbitrement, that pour'd,
In patriot eyes, a light around his sword,
A glory then, which never, since the day
Of his young victories, had illum'd its way!

Oh, 'twas not then the time for tame debates,
Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates;
When he, who fled before your Chieftain's eye,
As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly,
Denounc'd against the land, that spurn'd his chain,
Myriads of swords to bind it fast again—
Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track
Through your best blood his path of vengeance back;
When Europe's Kings, that never yet combin'd
But (like those upper Stars, that, when conjoin'd,
Shed woe and pestilence) to scourge mankind,
Gather'd around, with hosts from every shore,
Hating Napoleon much, but Freedom more ;
And, in that coming strife, appall❜d to see
The world yet left one chance for liberty!—
No, 'twas not then the time to weave a net
Of bondage round your Chief; to curb and fret
Your veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight,
When every hope was in his speed and might-
To waste the hour of action in dispute,

And coolly plan how Freedom's boughs should shoot,
When your invader's axe was at the root!
No, sacred Liberty! that God, who throws
Thy light around, like his own sunshine, knows

How well I love thee, and how deeply hate

All tyrants, upstart and Legitimate

Yet, in that hour, were France my native land,

I would have followed, with quick heart and hand,
Napoleon, Nero-ay, no matter whom-

To snatch my country from that damning doom,—

That deadliest curse that on the conquered waits—
A Conqueror's satrap, thron'd within her gates!
True, he was false, despotic-all you please-
Had trampled down man's holiest liberties—
Had, by a genius form'd for nobler things
Than lie within the grasp of vulgar Kings,
But rais'd the hopes of men-as eaglets fly
With tortoises aloft into the sky-

To dash them down again more shatteringly!
*All this I own-but still *

All is not in this high-wrought strain, which we like as well as the War Eclogues of Tyrtæus, or the Birth-day Odes (which seem also to have broke off in the middle) of Mr. Southey. Mr. Thomas Brown the Younger, is a man of humanity, as Mr. Southey formerly was he is also a man of wit, which Mr. Southey is not. For instance, Miss Biddy Fudge, in her first letter, writes as follows:

By the bye though at Calais, Papa had a touch
Of romance on the pier, which affected me much.
At the sight of that spot, where our darling Dixhuit,
Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet,t
(Modell'd out so exactly, and-God bless the mark!
'Tis a foot, Dolly, worthy so Grand a Monarque) :

He exclaim'd, "Oh mon Roi!" and, with tear-dropping eye,
Stood to gaze on the spot-while some Jacobin nigh,
Mutter'd out with a shrug (what an insolent thing!)

"Ma foi, he be right-'tis de Englishman's King;

* Somebody (Fontenelle, I believe) has said, that if he had his hand full of truths, he would open but one finger at a time; and I find it necessary to use the same sort of reserve with respect to Mr. Phelim Connor's very plainspoken letters. The remainder of this Epistle is so full of unsafe matter of fact, that it must, for the present at least, be withheld from the public.

+ To commemorate the landing of Louis le Desiré from England, the impression of his foot is marked out upon the pier at Calais, and a pillar with an inscription raised opposite to the spot."

A a

And dat gros pied de cochon-begar, me vil say

Dat de foot look mosh better, if turn'd toder way."

Mr. Phil. Fudge, in his dreams, thinks of a plan for changing heads.

Good Viscount S-dm-th, too, instead

Of his own grave, respected head,
Might wear (for aught I see that bars)
Old Lady Wilhelmina Frump's-

So while the hand sign'd Circulars,

The head might lisp out, "What is trumps?"
The R-g-t's brains could we transfer
To some robust man-milliner,

The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbon,
Would go, I doubt not, quite as glib on;
And, vice versa, take the pains

To give the P-ce the shopman's brains,
The only change from thence would flow,
Ribbons would not be wasted so!

Or here is another proposal for weighing the head of the State;

Suppose, my Lord,-and far from me

To treat such things with levity—
But just suppose the R-g-t's weight
Were made thus an affair of state;
And, ev'ry sessions, at the close,

'Stead of a speech, which, all can see, is
Heavy and dull enough, God knows-

We were to try how heavy he is.
Much would it glad all hearts to hear
That, while the Nation's Revenue
Loses so many pounds a year,

The Pe, God bless him! gains a few.

With bales of muslin, chintzes, spices,

I see the Easterns weigh their Kings;—

But, for the R-g-t, my advice is,

We should throw in much heavier things:
For instance, 's quarto volumes,

Which, though not spices, serve to wrap them;
Dominie St-dd-t's Daily columns,

"Prodigious!"-in, of course we'd clap them-
Letters, that C-rtw-t's pen indites,

In which, with logical confusion,
The Major like a Minor writes,

And never comes to a conclusion:
Lord S-m-rs' pamphlet, or his head-
(Ah, that were worth its weight in lead!)
Along with which we in may whip, sly,
The Speeches of Sir John C-x H-pp-sly;
That Baronet of many words,

Who loves so, in the House of Lords,
To whisper Bishops-and so nigh

Unto their wigs in whisp'ring goes,

That you may always know him by
A patch of powder on his nose !—
If this won't do, we must in cram
The "Reasons" of Lord B-ck—gh—m ;
(A book his Lordship means to write,

Entitled, "Reasons for my Ratting:"
Or, should these prove too small and light,
His -'s a host, we'll bundle that in!
And, still should all these masses fail
To stir the R-g-t's ponderous scale,
Why then, my Lord, in heaven's name,
Pitch in, without reserve or stint,
The whole of R-g-ly's beauteous dame-
If that won't raise him, devil's in't.

But we stop here, or we shall quote the whole work. We like the political part of this jeu d'esprit better, on the whole, than the merely comic and familiar. Bob Fudge is almost too suffocating a coxcomb, even in description, with his stays and patés; and Miss Biddy Fudge, with her poke bonnet and her

princely lover, who turned out to be no better than a manmilliner, is not half so interesting as a certain Marchioness in the Twopenny Post Bag, with curls" in the manner of Ackermann's dresses for May, and her yellow charioteer." Besides, Miss Biddy's amour ends in nothing. In short, the Fudges abroad are not such fat subjects for ridicule as the Fudges at home. They do not cut up so well in the cawl; they do not tallow so in the kidneys:" but as far as they 'go, Mr. Brown, Junior, uses the dissecting knife with equal dexterity, and equally to the delight and edification of the byestanders.

CHARACTER OF LORD CHATНАМ.

1807.

LORD CHATHAM's genius burnt brightest at the last. The spark of liberty, which had lain concealed and dormant, buried under the dirt and rubbish of state intrigue and vulgar faction, now met with congenial matter, and kindled up a flame of sacred vehemence" in his breast. It burst forth with a fury and a splendour that might have awed the world, and made kings tremble. He spoke as a man should speak, because he felt as a man should feel, in such circumstances. He came forward as the advocate of liberty, as the defender of the rights of his fellow-citizens, as the enemy of tyranny, as the friend of his country, and of mankind. He did not stand up to make a vain display of his talents, but to discharge a duty, to maintain that cause which lay nearest to his heart, to preserve the ark of the British constitution from every sacrilegious touch, as the highpriest of his calling, with a pious zeal. The feelings and the rights of Englishmen were enshrined in his heart; and with their united force braced every nerve, possessed every faculty, and communicated warmth and vital energy to every part of his being. The whole man moved under this impulse. He felt the cause