glowing at the very tip of his tongue; in which case Jack will watch an opportunity of taking me aside for Jack and I are the best friends in the world-and after a moment of most expressive silence, and with a smile which indicates his relish of his own wit, bestow upon me, after the following fashion, the entire benefit of some piece of pleasantry which he had intended for the whole party. "I say, Tom; I'll tell you what I meant to say-so and so-and I don't think it so bad; do you, Tom?" But to return-not one of us but, at some moment or other, saw our hopes of inheritance dangling by a single thread.

But, in order that our sufferings and our dangers may be fairly appreciated, it must be stated, that Mr. and Mrs. Briggs dislike dogs generally, Lovely in particular; Pomponius Briggs and Miss Julia Briggs inherit the family aversion to the canine species, with the superaddition of a peculiar dislike of poodles beyond all other dogs, and of my Aunt Margaret's Lovely beyond all other possible poodles; Miss Priss, the fifty-seven-year-old maiden cousin, loathes the very sight of Lovely, and hates it most devoutly, simply upon the true oldmaiden principle-because it happens to be a favourite with Aunt Margaret; poor Jack and myself are the only two of the family who do not entertain a sweeping dislike of all dogs, yet we partake of the general aversion to Lovely, and hate him with heart and soul, for the reason that the dog is an unamiable dog. In a word, not one of us but is a deadly foe to the animal, and would hang or drown it-if we dared.

Within one hour of dinner-time we were all assembled in my Aunt Margaret's drawing-room. After she had received our felicitations, and listened to our wishes that she might enjoy many happy returns of the day, Jack slily whispered in my ear, "Of course, Tom, we don't mean too many." She burst into tears; lamented to see so few of her relations about her upon such a day; regretted that the misconduct of the absentees (towards Mr. Lovely, be it understood) had compelled her to have done with them for ever; declared that she had altered her will in our favour, and hinted that she was mistress to alter it again if she should see cause. Of this edifying discourse, which lasted till dinner was announced, the text was "Love me, love my Dog," and the obvious moral, "Look to your Legacies." It was not without its effect; and Lovely, who seemed to understand the intention of it, occasionally bent his evil eye upon each of us, with a look of villanous exultation. Old Briggs whistled the dog towards him; Pomponius drew a collar for the "little rogue" from his pocket; Julia and Mamma each patted the " pretty fellow ;" and then turned aside, with a look of disgust, to dabble their fingers with Eau de Cologne; "Come hither, pretty poodle," said Miss Priscilla, holding out some sugar-plums which she had "bought on purpose for the dear dog;" poor Jack Noland volunteered to give the "little fellow" a washing in the Serpentine next Sunday; whilst I vehemently swore that Lovely grew prettier and prettier every day. Here Jack Noland drew me aside, and, assuming a ludicrous swagger of independence, said: "I tell you what, Tom: this slavery is no longer to be borne;" adding, in his dry way, Only we must bear it, you know."

At dinner we had not a moment's peace. The reptile was either jumping upon us, and growling till he had extorted from us the choicest morsel on our plates, or worrying us into a fever by snapping

at our legs under the table; evidently with an intention to provoke us to the commission of some outrage upon him, which might draw down upon our heads the displeasure of Aunt Margaret. Presently, in pure spite, he ran yelping to his mistress, as if he had been hurt, although I am persuaded no one had touched him. "How can you be so cruel to the poor dumb beast?" said Miss Priscilla; unjustly and ill-naturedly singling out the family scape-goat, poor Jack Noland, for the question. Reproaches were showered upon poor Jack from all quarters, who bore them together with a pretty smart lecture from Aunt Margaret, and a hint about every shilling of her money being at her own disposal-with silence and resignation. Jack had, however, the good fortune to repair the error he had not committed by the lucky application of an epigram he had lately read, which afforded him an opportunity of conveying a pretty compliment to Mr. Lovely, highly gratifying to my old aunt, and at the same time of revenging himself by a sly, but desperate hit at Miss Priscilla. Perceiving her fondling the detested poodle, "Apropos," said Jack-the apropos was, certainly, somewhat too severe→ "Apropos in an old newspaper which I picked up the other day, I met with this epigram on an old maid caressing a lap-dog." There was an awful pause, and Priscilla let the dog gently down. Jack resumed: "Rufa, I'm not astonish'd in the least,

That thou should'st lick so dainty, clean a beast;

But that so dainty, clean a beast licks thee!—
That surprises me!"

A dead silence succeeded, which was only interrupted by my Aunt Margaret desiring Jack to ring for coffee. This was the first time in my life I had ever known Jack to do a savage thing; and as we were returning to the drawing-room, he endeavoured to justify himself in my opinion, by whispering to me, "It was rather hard, to be sure, Tom ; but I don't think Cousin Priss will be in a hurry again to try and get me cut off with a shilling on account of that rascally poodle."

The rain was pouring in torrents; and the "rascally poodle," who, to add to his natural attractions, had been scampering about the muddy grounds, came dripping into the drawing-room. In this interesting condition he ran from one to another (carefully avoiding my Aunt Margaret,) squeezing himself between our legs, and jumping into our laps. The fortitude with which the attack was borne by us all, and the heroic control we maintained over our feelings, were astonishing. It is probable that Aunt Margaret's reprimand of Jack Noland, and her hint about every shilling of her money being at her own disposal, may have contributed to strengthen our nerves. My first impulse certainly was to toss the mongrel out of window; but, considering that a good four hundred a-year (for which, I know, I am down in the will) might be tossed out along with him, I contented myself by affecting a laugh at the unceremonious little gentleman," as I called him, and, with my cambric pocket-handkerchief, smearing the mud over my white silk stockings till they were dry. Noland and Pomponius Briggs followed my example; Pomponius, as he was making bad worse by scrubbing his white kerseymeres, muttering," Two-pound-ten, by jingo!" Mr. Briggs senior swore he was the most fortunate man breathing, for it would not show much upon black. Mrs. Briggs, whose French pink sarsnet dress was ruined for ever, merely simpered out, Well, it cannot be

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helped." Miss Julia Briggs, like her papa, congratulated herself upon her good fortune; for, being dressed in white muslin, which would wash, "it didn't much signify." And Miss Priscilla, whose saffroncoloured white satin dress, which never saw the light except on state occasions, such as the present, and which was now in a condition to set at defiance the utmost magic of the scowerer, asseverated, as she walked towards the window to conceal her tears, that "it did not signify the least in the world." When Mr. Lovely had thoroughly cleaned himself by his visits to us, he ventured to approach his mistress. "I am fearful," said my aunt, patting his back, for he was now perfectly dry, "I am fearful Lovely has been rather troublesome." It was now who should be foremost to assure Aunt Margaret that, so far from being troublesome, nothing, in our opinion, could be more delightful than his good-natured playfulness, nothing more entertaining than his innocent frolics; and that in every possible respect, Lovely was, incontestably, and beyond all means of comparison, the sweetest dog in the universe.

My Aunt Margaret's property is all funded; and of her twelve hundred a-year, she regularly lays by two-thirds. This we happen to know. P*.

LONDON LYRICS.

The Poet of Fashion.

His book is successful, he's steep'd in renown,
His lyric effusions have tickled the town:
Dukes, dowagers, dandies, are eager to trace
The fountain of verse in the verse-maker's face:
While, proud as Apollo, with peers tête à tête,
From Monday to Saturday dining off plate,
His heart full of hope, and his head full of gain,
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Park-lane.

Now lean-jointured widows, who seldom draw corks,

Whose tea-spoons do duty for knives and for forks,

Send forth, vellum-cover'd, a six o'clock card,

And get up a dinner to peep at the bard:

Veal, sweetbread, boil'd chickens, and tongue, crown the cloth,
And soup à la reine, little better than broth:

While, past
his meridian, but still with some heat,
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane-street.

Enroll'd in the tribe who subsist by their wits,
Remember'd by starts, and forgotten by fits,
Now artists and actors the bardling engage
To squib in the journals, and write for the stage.
Now soup à la reine bends the knee to ox-cheek,
And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak-
While still in translation employ'd by "The Row,"
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho.

Push'd down from Parnassus to Phlegethon's brink,
Toss'd, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink,
Now squab city misses their albums expand,
And woo the worn rhymer for "something off-hand;"
No longer with stilted effrontery fraught,

Bucklersbury now seeks what St. James's once sought,-
And-(oh what a classical haunt for a bard!)—
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge-yard.

SKETCHES OF PARISIAN SOCIETY, POLITICS, & LITERATURE.

Paris, Feb. 10, 1826.

SIR, England can present nothing comparable to the spectacle which we yesterday enjoyed here. The object of the ceremony was, indeed, ridiculous; it was the introduction to the French Academy of the Duke Mathieu de Montmorency, who possesses neither talent nor literary distinction; but he is a man of most polished and graceful manners, and almost wholly free from what may be termed the ferocity of the middle ages, which is not yet entirely exploded in France, except among the native Parisians. The grace of French manners is not incompatible with energy of character, if indeed we can be said to possess energy. A daring character in France, observed the Abbé Sieyes, is a hand of iron covered with a velvet glove. In other countries, and particularly in the North, a daring character is a hand of iron, the surface of which has been smoothed with a sharp file. I am sorry to be obliged to speak evil of the Duke Mathieu de Montmorency; but he was guilty of a bad action in suffering himself, through the medium of two or there intriguing academicians (MM. Roger, Auger, Chateaubriand, &c.) to be introduced to a place in which he is quite out of character.

It was precisely on account of this unfitness, which ought to have excluded "the first Christian Baron" from the Academy, that all the higher classes made a point of sanctioning his introduction by their presence. Ridicule soon wears out in France. With us, it is not sufficient that a joke should make one laugh; there must also be somebody to make the joke. During the last two months, there has been so much jesting on the folly of the Academy in choosing the first Christian Baron as one of its members, and the folly of the Baron in acceding to the choice, that any man who might have ventured to throw out a joke on the subject in the saloon of the Academy, would have been laughed at for retailing the wit which had been printed in the journals of the morning. In London you have not, like us, nine daily journals, the sole object of which is to pass jokes upon every body, from Robin des Bois (the King) down to M. Sosthène; and you can form no idea of the effect produced by this kind of ridicule.

I am afraid too that I shall be unable to afford you any adequate notion of the delightful spectacle which was yesterday witnessed at the Institute. The hall is an elegant rotunda, lighted by a dome. This rotunda, which is not very large, is surrounded by seats, and the middle is set aside for the members of the Institute. Yesterday, however, as early as one o'clock, and with that disregard of order which invariably attends every ceremony in France, these reserved seats were occupied by about two hundred ladies of rank, almost all remarkable for beauty, and all elegantly dressed. Another singular circumstance attendant on this sitting, which may be regarded as unique in its kind, was, that all these beautiful women were selected from among that class which is most distinguished for talent in this highly intellectual nation. The dread of dulness banishes from the hall of the Institute such persons as are incapable of understanding the obscure hints and allusions of which French Academic eloquence is composed. Amidst this choice assemblage of beauty and fashion, a few men were here and there perceived; and on inquiring who they were, one was sure to find that they were all distinguished for talent or rank, all either belonging to the class of noms historiques, or anxious to be included in it. Excepting the few who were yesterday attracted to the saloon of the Academy through mere curiosity, none were admitted but persons of note. Mademoiselle Delphine Gay, who has assumed the surname of La Muse de la Patrie, was seated opposite to the celebrated Countess de Cayla; and Mademoiselle Mars sat facing the Abbé Feutrier, the most witty and gallant of all our French bishops. Next to the pensive Mademoiselle Delphine Gay was seated Madame Belloc, who is no less beautiful than the French Muse, and whose charming work on Byron is more read than the emphatic and somewhat unmeaning verses of March-VOL. XVI. NO. LXIII.

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her fair neighbour. I could mention more than twenty lovely women, the grace and ornament of Parisian society; but I have determined to name only those ladies who are known in the literary circles, and the men who are quartered on the Academic establishment.

For the space of an hour the most animated conversation prevailed in the saloon of the Academy, when suddenly the words "Gentlemen, the sitting is opened," pronounced in a loud voice, produced general silence. This announcement was made by M. Daru, who was Napoleon's Minister during the Russian campaign. On his right was M. de Chateaubriand, his brow still clouded with the ill-humour occasioned by his expulsion from the Ministry. On the left of M. Daru was M. Renouard, the Secretary of the Academy, who formerly enjoyed celebrity for a year or two, and who is now the complaisant instrument of power, and a worthy colleague of the censors, Lemontey, Auger, and Lacretelle. No sooner had M. Daru announced the opening of the sitting, thau a man with a remarkably pale complexion and handsome features, but whose countenance expressed nothing but feebleness of character, rose from his seat. From the numerous crosses which adorned his black dress embroidered with green, it was easy to recognize the Duke Mathieu de Montmorency, the General of the short-robed Jesuits, and the tutor of the young Duke de Bordeaux. One might almost have mistaken him for one of those ghastly objects which the medical professors at our hospitals raise from their beds and conduct to the lecture-rooms, for the purpose of explaining to the students some singular and incurable disease. The Duke de Montmorency read a printed speech, of which the following was the commencement:

"Gentlemen,

"Ever since your suffrage conferred on me an honour to which my deficiency, or rather my utter want, of literary distinction forbade me to aspire, I have anxiously looked forward to the day when I should have to thank, in the midst of the Academy, those whose admission was not, like my own, gratuitous and generous, but was at once the proof and the reward of reputation and talent."

On hearing this extraordinary, yet perfectly just confession, which was rendered necessary by the jokes that have amused Paris for the last two months, every one naturally thought, since the new Academician was so sensible of his want of claim to the distinction conferred on him, how could he honestly accept a place, which indeed has not been very enviable since 1814, but which nevertheless is the property of those poor men of letters, who are weak enough to seek it, and who have been fagging for twenty years to obtain it? Want of honesty is the only reproach we shall address to the Duke de Montmorency; but, to a man of honour, surely this is a very serious one. The place in which Duke Mathieu has just been installed belongs to M. Etienne, our best comic poet, who was driven from the Academy by Vaublanc, an indifferent writer, and the instrument of the fury of the Bourbons; it belongs to M. de la Martine, to M. le Brun, to M. Berenger, to M. de Barante, and to a dozen others, whose claims might be variously estimated, but who would evince no want of honesty in becoming Members of the French Academy. Another circumstance which marks the insincerity of the present age is, that while committing a theft, the only one that could be committed by a Montmorency, a Duke, and a man of a hundred thousand francs a year, while in the very act of perpetrating a theft, this Duke, the leader of the Saints, delivered, instead of an academic discourse, a sermon on Virtue, which he extolled above talent of any kind. Such hypocrisy reminds one of the worst days of Louis XIV.'s dotage. Heaven defend us from such a reaction as the manners of the Regency!

Next to the Duke Mathieu de Montmorency was seated M. de Lally-Tolendal, whom Madame de Stael humorously styled the fattest and most feeling 'man she ever knew. He smiled during the whole of his colleague's tedious sermon. Why, it will be asked, did he take this task upon himself, when the gloomy silence of the assembly so forcibly testified the fatigue and dis