302 Notes of the Month on [Magrcu, 
deliberation resolved, that mustachios were no convincing proof, but 
rather in the style of a mask, and, in fact, suspicious; that lounging 
behind the Opera scenes, a half-hour’s swagger through Bond-street, 
nay, even the privilege of hanging one’s boots out of the Guards’ 
Club-house window ; or wearing a Hussar jacket, embroidered as thickly 
as a Lord Mayor’s footman, or a travelling jack-pudding, were not infal- 
lible evidences. The resolution of the council has not transpired ; but 
we understand that, by the suggestion of his Majesty’s sempstress, who 
had advised a great public measure on the subject, a very considerable 
number of gowns and petticoats are in hand, to be ready for the first 
effect of the proclamation, which is supposed to be on the tapis, against 
deluding his Majesty’s lieges by false appearances. 
We are sick of Dr. Curtis and his noble correspondent, one of 
whom answers by a public letter, which he “ never intended to be seen,” 
as the other had begun the affair by a private letter, written by a 
committee of Jesuits. But the doctor, impatient to display himself just 
as he is, writes a second letter to a newspaper editor to disclose at last 
to the admiring world, the fact, that his original letter, the private 
impulse affair was written, “ contrary to his own wish and opinion, and 
at the urgent request of several of his friends.’ Of course, the Duke’s 
answer, which the doctor declared himself unwillingly and compul- 
sively induced to read to several of his friends, merely to avoid the 
public surmises of what was inside the letter, from seeing “‘ Wellington” 
on the cover, was actually received by him as an answer to the letter 
of his Jesuit committee, and was as such read to them: it no doubt 
being as such written by his Grace. Now, let honest men see the whole 
shuffle on both sides, and think what dependence can be placed on 
either. The Doctor contradicts himself under his own hand—the Duke 
contradicts himself by word of mouth. So much for the primate—so 
much for the premier—Philpotts, and Philpotts alone, could have made 
the third. 
De Beranger, the French poet—perhaps the only poet of France, in 
the Parisian sense of the word, namely, a keen, bitter, very impu- 
dent, and very Jacobinical versifier—has lately undergone the natural 
apotheosis of French fame. He has libelled his king grossly, religion 
more grossly still, and, for the double exploit, has been tried, found 
guilty, fined, and confined as he deserved. We give a parodied spe- 
cimen of him, much better than the original poem ;— 
THE PIGMY OPPOSITION. 
In sorcery my faith is great: 
A wizard shewed me in a glass, 
A night or two ago, what Fate 
Would in our country bring to pass. 
At the droll sight I stood and gazed, 
And of delight I drank my fill, 
To see—I was not much amazed— 
The Whigs in opposition still, 
