Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all Like star to shepherds' eyes; 'twas but a meteor
That we inherit in its mortal shroud,
And spreads the dim and universal pall
Through which all things grow phantoms;
and the cloud

SIR,-I am a country gentleman of a midland county. I might have been a Parliament man for a certain borough; having had the offer of as many votes as General T. at the general election in 1812.* But I was all for domestic happiness; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, I married a middle-aged maid of honour. We lived happily at Hornem Hall till last season, when my wife and I were invited by the Countess of Waltzaway (a distant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in town. Thinking no harm, and our girls being come to a marriageable (or, as they call it, marketable) age, and having besides a Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon the family estate, we came up in our old chariot; of which, by the by, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than a week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, of which I might mount the box, Mrs H. says, if I could drive, but never see the inside-that place being reserved for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner-general and opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs H.'s dancing (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the latter end of the last century), I unbooted, and went to a ball at the Countess's, expecting to see a country dance, or, at most, cotillons, reels, and all the old paces to the newest tunes. But judge of my surprise, on arriving, to see poor dear Mrs Hornem with her arms half round the loins of a huge hussarlooking gentleman I never set eyes on before: and his, to say truth, rather more than half round her waist, turning round, and round, and round, to a d- -d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the "Black Joke," only more "affetuoso," till it made me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. By and by they stopped a bit, and I thought they would sit or fall down. But no; with Mrs H.'s hand on his shoulder, " quam familiariter" (as Terence said when I was at school), they walked about a minute, and then at it again, like two cockchafers spitted upon the same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a name I never heard but in the Vicar of Wakefield, though her mother would call her after the Princess of Swappenbach) said "Lord! Mr Hornem, can't you see they are valtzing!" or waltzing (I forget which); and then up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they went, and round-abouted it till supper-time. Now that I know what it is, I like it of all things, and so does Mrs H. (though I have broken my shins, and four times overturned Mrs Hornem's maid, in practising the preliminary steps in a morning). Indeed, so much do I like it, that having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, and songs in honour of all the victories (but till lately I have had little practice in that way), I sat down, and with the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq., and a few hints from Dr Busby (whose recitations I attend, and am monstrous fond of Master Busby's manner of delivering his father's late successful "Drury Lane Address"), I composed the following hymn, wherewithal to make my sentiments known to the public; whom, nevertheless, I heartily despise, as well as the critics. -I am, Sir, yours, &c., &c., HORACE HORNEM.

*State of the poll (last day), 5

E

MUSE of the many-twinkling feet!* whose
charms

Are now extended up from legs to arms;
Terpsichore !-too long misdeem'd a maid-
Reproachful term-bestow'd but to upbraid-
Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine,
The least a vestal of the virgin Nine.

Far be from thee and thine the name of prude;
Mock'd, yet triumphant ; sneer'd at, unsubdued;
Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly,
If but thy coats are reasonably high;

Thy breast, if bare enough, requires no shield:
Dance forth-sans armour thou shalt take the
field,

And own-impregnable to most assaults,
Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz.'

Hail, nimble nymph! to whom the young
hussar,

The whisker'd votary of waltz and war,
His night devotes, despite of spurs and boots;
A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes:
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz! beneath whose

banners

A modern hero fought for modish manners;
On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's fame, t
Cock'd, fired, and miss'd his man-but gain'd
his aim:

Hail, moving Muse! to whom the fair one's

breast

Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest.
Oh, for the flow of Busby or of Fitz,
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits,
To "energize the object I pursue,'
And give both Belial and his dance their due!
Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine),
Long be thine import from all duty free,
And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee;
In some few qualities alike-for hock
Improves our cellar-thou our living stock.
The head to hock belongs-thy subtler art
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart:
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims,
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs.

O Germany! how much to thee we owe,
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below,
Ere cursed confederation made thee France's,
And only left us thy dd debts and dances!
Of subsidies and Hanover bereft,

We bless thee still-for George the Third is

left!

Of kings the best, and last not least in worth,
For graciously begetting George the Fourth."
To Germany, and highnesses serene,
Who owe us millions-don't we owe the queen?
To Germany, what owe we not besides?
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides;
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood,
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud;
Who sent us-so be pardoned all our faults--
A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen-and
Waltz.

But peace to her, her emperor and diet,
Though now transferr'd to Bonaparte's "fiat!"
Back to my theme-O Muse of motion! say,
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?
*"Glance their many-twinkling feet."-GRAY.

To rival Lord Wellesley's, or his nephew's, (the Duke of Wellington), as the reader pleases.

Of Heynè, such as should not sink the packet.

Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate,
Fraught with this cargo, and her fairest freight,
The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand,
And round her flock'd the daughters of the land.
Not decent David, when, before the ark,
His grand pas seul excited some remark;
Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought
The knight's fandango friskier than it ought:
Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread,
Her nimble feet danced off another's head;
Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck,
Display'd so much of leg, or more of neck,
Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune!

To you, ye husbands of ten years! whose
brows

Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse:
To you of nine years less, who only bear
The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear,
With added ornaments around them roll'd
Of native brass, or law-awarded gold:
To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch
To mar a son's, or make a daughter's, match;
To you, ye children of-whom chance accords
To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek
Always the ladies, and sometimes their lords:
Torments for life, or pleasures for a week;
As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide,
To gain your own, or snatch another's bride ;-
And every ball-room echoes with her name.
To one and all the lovely stranger came,

Endearing Waltz! to thy more melting tune
Bow Irish jig and ancient rigadoon.
Scotch reels, avaunt! and country dance, forego
Your future claims to each fantastic toe!
Waltz, Waltz alone, both legs and arms demands,
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands;
Hands which may freely range in public sight
Where ne'er before-but-pray "put out the
light.'

Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier
Shines much too far, or I am much too near;
And true, though strange-Waltz whispers this
remark,

"My slippery steps are safest in the dark!"