But why recur to ancient story,

Or balls of modern date?

Be mine to trace the minuet's fate,
And mourn its fallen glory.

To ask who rang the passing bell?
If Vestris ran the solemn dirge to hear?
Genius of Valoüy, didst thou hover near?
Shade of Lepicq! and spirit of Gondel!
Now their angry forms arise,

Where wreaths of smoke involve the skies,
Above St. James's steepie.

I heard them curse our heavy heel,
The Irish step, the Highland reel,
And all the United People.

To the dense air the curse adhesive clung,
Repeated since by many a modish tongue
In words that may be said, but never shall be sung.*
What cause untimely urged the minuet's fate?
Did war subvert the manners of the state?
Did savage nations give the barbarous law,
The Gaul Cisalpine or the Gonoquaw ?
Its fall was destined to a peaceful land,

A sportive pencil and a courtly hand.

They left a name that time itself might spare
To grinding organs, and the dancing bear.

*

*

*

My next extract is a restoration. I have it myself, printed in two editions of Lord Byron's works; the one English, the other American. The friend already quoted says of it,-"The letter H (I mean the Enigma so called, ascribed to Lord Byron,) she wrote at the Deepdene. I well remember her bringing it down at breakfast and reading it to us, and my impression is, that she had then just composed it."

* "Go to the devil and shake yourself." The tune of a favourite country-dance.

VOL. I.

P

A RIDDLE.

'Twas in heaven pronounced, and 'twas mutter'd in hell,
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confess'd;
"Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder.
"Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends him at birth, and awaits him in death,
Presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.

It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,

With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown'd.
Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,

But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!

In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,

Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drown'd.

"Twill not soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear,

It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower,

Ah! breathe on it softly-it dies in an hour.

Now for another riddle-a charade-which my fair friends shall have the pleasure of discovering for themselves.

Inscribed on many a learned page,
In mystic characters and sage,
Long time my First has stood;
And though its golden age be past,
In wooden walls it yet may last

Till clothed in flesh and blood.

My Second is a glorious prize
For all who love their wandering eyes
With curious sights to pamper ;

But 'tis a sight—which should they meet,
All' improviso in the street,

Ye gods! how they would scamper!

My tout's a sort of wandering throne,
To woman limited alone,

The salique law reversing;
But while the imaginary queen
Prepares to act this novel scene,
Her royal part rehearsing,
O'erturning her presumptuous plan,
Up climbs the old usurper-man,
And she jogs after as she can.

It is not often that so trifling a subject has been rendered so graceful and so pleasant as in the following pleadings of two initials, C versus K.

EPISTLE TO EARL HARCOURT.,

On his wishing her to spell her name of Catherine with a K. And can his antiquarian eyes

My Anglo-Saxon C despise?

And does Lord Harcourt, day by day,
Regret the extinct initial K ?

And still, with ardour unabated,
Labour to get it reinstated?

I know, my lord, your generous passion
For every long-exploded fashion;

And own the Katherine you delight in
Looks irresistibly inviting,

Appears to bear the stamp and mark
Of English used in Noah's Ark;
"But all that glitters is not gold,"
Nor all things obsolete are old.
Would you but take the pains to look
In Doctor Johnson's quarto book,
(As I did, wishing much to see
The aforesaid letter's pedigree),
Believe me 'twould a tale unfold

Would make your Norman blood run cold.
My lord, you'll find the K's no better

Than an interpolated letter—

A wandering Greek, a franchised alien,
Derived from Cadmus or Deucalion,

1

The learned say our English tongue
On Gothic beams is built and hung:
Then why the solid fabric piece
With motley ornaments from Greece?
Her lettered despots had no bowels
For Northern consonants and vowels;
The Norman and the Greek grammarian
Deemed us and all our words barbarian,
Till those hard words, and harder blows
Had silenced all our haughty foes,

And proud they were to kiss the sandals
(Shoes we had none) of Goths and Vandals.

Who from their "sole dominion" hurled
The giants of the ancient world,
Their boasted languages confounding,

And with such mortal gutturals wounding,
That Greek or Latin fell or fled,

And soon were numbered with the dead;—
Befits it us, so much their betters,

To spell our names with conquered letters ?
And shall they rise and prate again,
Like Falstaff from among the slain ?
A licence quite of modern date
Which no long customs consecrate;
For since this K, of doleful sound,
First set his foot on British ground,
"Tis not, as antiquaries know,
A dozen centuries ago.

That darling theme of English story,
For learning famed and martial glory,
Alfred, who quelled the usurping Dane,
And burst indignant from his chain ;
Who slaves redeemed to reign o'er men,
Changing the falchion for the pen,

But grant this specious plea prevailing,
And all my legal learning failing,
There yet remains so black a charge,
Not only 'gainst the Ks at large,
But the individual K in question,
You'd tremble at the bare suggestion,
Nor ever more a wish reveal
So adverse to the public weal.

Dear gentle Earl, you little know
That wish might work a world of woe;
The ears that are unborn would rise
In judgment 'gainst your lordship's eyes;
The ears that are unborn would rue
Your letter patent to renew

The dormant dignity of shrew.

The K restored takes off the attainder,
And grants the title, with remainder
In perpetuity devised

To Katherines lawfully baptised.

What has not Shakespeare said and sung
Of our pre-eminence of tongue!
His glowing pen has writ the name
In characters of fire and flame;
Not flames that mingle as they rise
Innocuous with their kindred skies;
Some chemic lady-like solution,
Shown at the Royal Institution :

But such as still with ceaseless clamour,
Dance round the anvil and the hammer.

See him the comic muse invoking,

(The merry nymph with laughter choking) While he exhibits at her shrine

The unhallowed form of Katherine;