The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

My dear Lady Bab, you'll be shock'd, I'm afraid,
When you hear the sad rumpus your Ponies have made;
Since the time of horse-consuls (now long out of date),
No nags ever made such a stir in the state.
Lord Eld---n first heard—and as instantly pray'd he
To “God and his King”—that a Popish young Lady

(For though you've bright eyes and twelve thousand a year,
It is still but too true you're a Papist, my dear,)
Had insidiously sent, by a tall Irish groom,
Two priest-ridden Ponies, just landed from Rome,
And so full, little rogues, of pontifical tricks,
That the dome of St. Paul's was scarce safe from their kicks.

Off at once to Papa, in a flurry he flies—
For Papa always does what these statesmen advise,
On condition that they'll be, in turn, so polite
As in no case whate'er to advise him too right—
“Pretty doings are here, Sir (he angrily cries,
While by dint of dark eyebrows he strives to look wise)—
“'Tis a scheme of the Romanists, so help me God!
“To ride over your most Royal Highness roughshod—
“Excuse, Sir, my tears—they're from loyalty's source—
“Bad enough 'twas for Troy to be sack'd by a Horse,
“But for us to be ruin'd by Ponies still worse!”

Quick a Council is call'd—the whole Cabinet sits—
The Archbishops declare, frighten'd out of their wits,
That if once Popish Ponies should eat at my manger,
From that awful moment the Church is in danger!
As, give them but stabling, and shortly no stalls
Will suit their proud stomachs but those at St. Paul's.

The Doctor , and he, the devout man of Leather ,
V---ns---tt---t, now laying their Saint-heads together,
Declare that these skittish young a-bominations
Are clearly foretold in Chap. vi. Revelations—
Nay, they verily think they could point out the one
Which the Doctor's friend Death was to canter upon.

Lord H---rr---by, hoping that no one imputes
To the Court any fancy to persecute brutes,
Protests, on the word of himself and his cronies,
That had these said creatures been Asses, not Ponies,
The Court would have started no sort of objection,
As Asses were, there, always sure of protection.

100

“If the Pr*nc*ss will keep them (says Lord C*stl*r---gh),
“To make them quite harmless, the only true way
“Is (as certain Chief Justices do with their wives)
“To flog them within half an inch of their lives.
“If they've any bad Irish blood lurking about,
“This (he knew by experience) would soon draw it out.”
Should this be thought cruel, his Lordship proposes
“The new Veto snaffle to bind down their noses—
“A pretty contrivance, made out of old chains,
“Which appears to indulge, while it doubly restrains;
“Which, however high-mettled, their gamesomeness checks
“(Adds his Lordship humanely), or else breaks their necks!”

This proposal receiv'd pretty general applause
From the Statesmen around—and the neck-breaking clause

101

Had a vigour about it, which soon reconcil'd
Even Eld---n himself to a measure so mild.
So the snaffles, my dear, were agreed to nem. con.,
And my Lord C*stl*r---gh, having so often shone
In the fettering line, is to buckle them on.

I shall drive to your door in these Vetos some day,
But, at present, adieu!—I must hurry away
To go see my Mamma, as I'm suffer'd to meet her
For just half an hour by the Qu---n's best repeater.

Ch*rl*tte.

This young Lady, who is a Roman Catholic, had lately made a present of some beautiful Ponies to the Pr*nc*ss.

Mr. Addington, so nicknamed.

Alluding to a tax lately laid upon leather.

The question whether a Veto was to be allowed to the Crown in the appointment of Irish Catholic Bishops was, at this time, very generally and actively agitated.

102

LETTER II. FROM COLONEL M'M---H---N TO G---LD FR---NC---S L---CKIE, ESQ.

Dear Sir, I've just had time to look
Into your very learned Book ,
Wherein—as plain as man can speak,
Whose English is half modern Greek—
You prove that we can ne'er intrench
Our happy isles against the French,
Till Royalty in England's made
A much more independent trade;—
In short, until the House of Guelph
Lays Lords and Commons on the shelf,
And boldly sets up for itself.

For an account of this extraordinary work of Mr. Leckie, see the Edinburgh Review, vol. xx.

103

All, that can well be understood
In this said Book, is vastly good;
And, as to what's incomprehensible,
I dare be sworn 'tis full as sensible.
But, to your work's immortal credit,
The Pr*n*e, good Sir, the Pr*n*e has read it
(The only Book, himself remarks,
Which he has read since Mrs. Clarke's).
Last levee-morn he look'd it through,
During that awful hour or two
Of grave tonsorial preparation,
Which, to a fond, admiring nation,
Sends forth, announc'd by trump and drum,
The best-wigg'd Pr*n*e in Christendom.
He thinks with you, th' imagination
Of partnership in legislation
Could only enter in the noddles
Of dull and ledger-keeping twaddles,
Whose heads on firms are running so,
They ev'n must have a King and Co.,
And hence, most eloquently show forth
On checks and balances, and so forth.

104

But now, he trusts, we're coming near a
Far more royal, loyal era;
When England's monarch need but say,
“Whip me those scoundrels, C*stl*r---gh!”
Or, “Hang me up those Papists, Eld---n,”
And 'twill be done—ay, faith, and well done.
With view to which, I've his command
To beg, Sir, from your travell'd hand,
(Round which the foreign graces swarm )
A Plan of radical Reform;
Compil'd and chos'n as best you can,
In Turkey or at Ispahan,
And quite upturning, branch and root,
Lords, Commons, and Burdétt to boot.

“The truth indeed seems to be, that having lived so long abroad as evidently to have lost, in a great degree, the use of his native language, Mr. Leckie has gradually come not only to speak, but to feel, like a foreigner.” —Edinburgh Review.

But, pray, whate'er you may impart, write
Somewhat more brief than Major C*rtwr*ght:
Else, though the Pr---e be long in rigging,
'Twould take, at least, a fortnight's wigging,—

105

Two wigs to every paragraph—
Before he well could get through half.
You'll send it also speedily—
As, truth to say, 'twixt you and me,
His Highness, heated by your work,
Already thinks himself Grand Turk!
And you'd have laugh'd, had you seen how
He scar'd the Ch*nc*ll*r just now,
When (on his Lordship's entering puff'd) he
Slapp'd his back and call'd him “Mufti!”
The tailors too have got commands,
To put directly into hands
All sorts of Dulimans and Pouches,
With Sashes, Turbans, and Paboutches,
(While Y*rm---th's sketching out a plan
Of new Moustaches à l'Ottomane)
And all things fitting and expedient
To turkify our gracious R*g*nt!
You therefore, have no time to waste—
So, send your System.—
Yours, in haste.

106

POSTSCRIPT.

Before I send this scrawl away,
I seize a moment, just to say,
There's some parts of the Turkish system
So vulgar, 'twere as well you miss'd 'em.
For instance—in Seraglio matters—
Your Turk, whom girlish fondness flatters,
Would fill his Haram (tasteless fool!)
With tittering, red-cheek'd things from school.
But here (as in that fairy land,
Where Love and Age went hand in hand ;
Where lips, till sixty, shed no honey,
And Grandams were worth any money,)

107

Our Sultan has much riper notions—
So, let your list of she-promotions
Include those only, plump and sage,
Who've reach'd the regulation-age;
That is, (as near as one can fix
From Peerage dates) full fifty-six.

This rule's for fav'rites—nothing more—
For, as to wives, a Grand Signor,
Though not decidedly without them,
Need never care one curse about them.

The learned Colonel must allude here to a description of the Mysterious Isle, in the History of Abdalla, Son of Hanif, where such inversions of the order of nature are said to have taken place.—“A score of old women and the same number of old men played here and there in the court, some at chuck-farthing, others at tip-cat or at cockles.”— And again, “There is nothing, believe me, more engaging than those lovely wrinkles,” &c. &c.—See Tales of the East, vol. iii. pp. 607, 608.

108

LETTER III. FROM G---GE PR---CE R*G---T TO THE E--- OF Y---TH.

We miss'd you last night at the “hoary old sinner's,”
Who gave us, as usual, the cream of good dinners;
His soups scientific—his fishes quite prime—
His pâtés superb—and his cutlets sublime!
In short, 'twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a
Stomachic orgasm in my Lord El---b---gh,
Who set to, to be sure, with miraculous force,
And exclaim'd, between mouthfuls, “a He-Cook, of course!—
“While you live—(what's there under that cover? pray, look)—
“While you live—(I'll just taste it)—ne'er keep a She-Cook.

109

“'Tis a sound Salic Law—(a small bit of that toast)—
“Which ordains that a female shall ne'er rule the roast;
“For Cookery's a secret—(this turtle's uncommon)—
“Like Masonry, never found out by a woman!”

The dinner, you know, was in gay celebration
Of my brilliant triumph and H---nt's condemnation;
A compliment, too, to his Lordship the Judge
For his Speech to the Jury—and zounds! who would grudge
Turtle soup, though it came to five guineas a bowl,
To reward such a loyal and complaisant soul?
We were all in high gig—Roman Punch and Tokay
Travell'd round, till our heads travell'd just the same way;
And we car'd not for Juries or Libels—no—damme! nor
Ev'n for the threats of last Sunday's Examiner!

110

More good things were eaten than said—but Tom T---rrh---t
In quoting Joe Miller, you know, has some merit;
And, hearing the sturdy Justiciary Chief
Say—sated with turtle—“ I'll now try the beef”—
Tommy whisper'd him (giving his Lordship a sly hit)
“I fear 'twill be hung-beef, my Lord, if you try it!”

And C---md---n was there, who, that morning, had gone
To fit his new Marquis's coronet on;
And the dish set before him—oh dish well-devis'd!—
Was, what old Mother Glasse calls, “a calf's head surpris'd!”
The brains were near Sh---ry, and once had been fine,
But, of late, they had lain so long soaking in wine,
That, though we, from courtesy, still chose to call
These brains very fine, they were no brains at all.

When the dinner was over, we drank, every one
In a bumper, “the venial delights of Crim. Con.;”

111

At which H---df---t with warm reminiscences gloated,
And E---b'r---h chuckled to hear himself quoted.

Our next round of toasts was a fancy quite new,
For we drank—and you'll own 'twas benevolent too—
To those well-meaning husbands, cits, parsons, or peers,
Whom we've, any time, honour'd by courting their dears:
This museum of wittols was comical rather;
Old H---df---t gave M*ss*y, and I gave your f*th*r.

In short, not a soul till this morning would budge—
We were all fun and frolic,—and even the J---e
Laid aside, for the time, his juridical fashion,
And through the whole night wasn't once in a passion!

I write this in bed, while my whiskers are airing,
And M*c has a sly dose of jalap preparing

112

For poor T*mmy T---rr---t at breakfast to quaff—
As I feel I want something to give me a laugh,
And there's nothing so good as old T*mmy, kept close
To his Cornwall accounts, after taking a dose.

This letter, as the reader will perceive, was written the day after a dinner given by the M*rq---s of H---d---t.

Colonel M'Mahon.

113

LETTER IV. FROM THE RIGHT HON. PTRCK D---GEN---N TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR JHN NCH*L.

Dublin.

Last week, dear N*ch*l, making merry
At dinner with our Secretary,
When all were drunk, or pretty near
(The time for doing business here),
Says he to me, “Sweet Bully Bottom!
“These Papist dogs—hiccup—'od rot 'em!—
“Deserve to be bespatter'd—hiccup—
“With all the dirt ev'n you can pick up.
“But, as the Pr---ce (here's to him—fill—
“Hip, hip, hurra!)—is trying still

114

“To humbug them with kind professions,
“And, as you deal in strong expressions—
“Rogue”—“traitor”—hiccup—and all that—
“You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat!—
“You must indeed—hiccup—that's flat.”—

Yes—“muzzled” was the word, Sir John—
These fools have clapp'd a muzzle on
The boldest mouth that e'er ran o'er
With slaver of the times of yore! —
Was it for this that back I went
As far as Lateran and Trent,
To prove that they, who damn'd us then,
Ought now, in turn, be damn'd again?—
The silent victim still to sit
Of Gr---tt---n's fire and C*nn---g's wit,
To hear ev'n noisy M---th---w gabble on,
Nor mention once the W---e of Babylon!
Oh! 'tis too much—who now will be
The Nightman of No-Popery?

115

What Courtier, Saint, or even Bishop,
Such learned filth will ever fish up?
If there among our ranks be one
To take my place, 'tis thou, Sir John;
Thou, who, like me, art dubb'd Right Hon.
Like me too, art a Lawyer Civil
That wishes Papists at the devil.

To whom then but to thee, my friend,
Should Patrick his Port-folio send?
Take it—'tis thine—his learn'd Port-folio,
With all its theologic olio
Of Bulls, half Irish and half Roman—
Of Doctrines, now believ'd by no man—
Of Councils, held for men's salvation,
Yet always ending in damnation—
(Which shows that, since the world's creation,
Your Priests, whate'er their gentle shamming,
Have always had a taste for damning,)

116

And many more such pious scraps,
To prove (what we've long prov'd, perhaps,)
That, mad as Christians us'd to be
About the Thirteenth Century,
There still are Christians to be had
In this, the Nineteenth, just as mad!

Farewell—I send with this, dear N*ch*l,
A rod or two I've had in pickle
Wherewith to trim old Gr---tt---n's jacket.—
The rest shall go by Monday's packet.

P. D.

117

Among the Enclosures in the foregoing Letter was the following “Unanswerable Argument against the Papists.“

[OMITTED] We're told the ancient Roman nation
Made use of spittle in lustration ;
(Vide Lactantium ap. Gallæum—
i.e. you need not read but see 'em;)
Now, Irish Papists, fact surprising,
Make use of spittle in baptizing;
Which proves them all, O'Finns, O'Fagans,
Connors, and Tooles, all downright Pagans.
This fact's enough;—let no one tell us
To free such sad, salivous fellows.—
No, no—the man, baptiz'd with spittle,
Hath no truth in him—not a tittle!

This letter, which contained some very heavy enclosures, seems to have been sent to London by a private hand, and then put into the Twopenny Post-Office, to save trouble. See the Appendix.

In sending this sheet to the Press, however, I learn that the “muzzle” has been taken off, and the Right Hon. Doctor again let loose!

A bad name for poetry; but D---gen---n is still worse.— As Prudentius says upon a very different subject—

Torquetur Apollo
Nomine percussus.

------ Lustralibus antè salivis
Expiat.

Pers. sat. 2.

I have taken the trouble of examining the Doctor's reference here, and find him, for once, correct. The following are the words of his indignant referee Gallæus—“Asserere non veremur sacrum baptismum a Papistis profanari, et sputi usum in peccatorum expiatione a Paganis non a Christianis manâsse.”

141

APPENDIX.

Among the papers, enclosed in Dr. D---g---n---n's Letter, was found an Heroic Epistle in Latin verse, from Pope Joan to her Lover, of which, as it is rather a curious document, I shall venture to give some account. This female Pontiff was a native of England, (or, according to others, of Germany,) who, at an early age, disguised herself in male attire, and followed her lover, a young ecclesiastic, to Athens, where she studied with such effect, that upon her arrival at Rome, she was thought worthy of being raised to the Pontificate. This Epistle is addressed to her Lover (whom she had elevated to the dignity of Cardinal), soon after the fatal accouchement, by which her Fallibility was betrayed.

142

She begins by reminding him tenderly of the time, when they were together at Athens—when, as she says,

------ “by Ilissus' stream
“We whispering walk'd along, and learn'd to speak
“The tenderest feelings in the purest Greek;—
“Ah, then how little did we think or hope,
“Dearest of men, that I should e'er be Pope!
“That I, the humble Joan, whose house-wife art
“Seem'd just enough to keep thy house and heart,
“(And those, alas, at sixes and at sevens,)
“Should soon keep all the keys of all the heavens!”

Still less (she continues to say) could they have foreseen, that such a catastrophe as had happened in Council would befall them—that she

“Should thus surprise the Conclave's grave decorum,
“And let a little Pope pop out before 'em—

143

“Pope Innocent! alas, the only one
“That name could e'er be justly fix'd upon.”

She then very pathetically laments the downfall of her greatness, and enumerates the various treasures to which she is doomed to bid farewell for ever:—

“But oh, more dear, more precious ten times over—
“Farewell my Lord, my Cardinal, my Lover!
“I made thee Cardinal—thou mad'st me—ah!
“Thou mad'st the Papa of the world Mamma!”

I have not time at present to translate any more of this Epistle; but I presume the argument which the Right Hon. Doctor and his friends mean to deduce from it, is (in their usual convincing strain) that Romanists must be unworthy of Emancipation now, because they had a Petticoat Pope in the Ninth Century. Nothing can be more logically clear, and I find that Horace had exactly the same views upon the subject.

Romanus (eheu posteri negabitis!)
Emancipatus Fœminæ
Fert vallum!

Spanheim attributes the unanimity, with which Joan was elected, to that innate and irresistible charm, by which her sex, though latent, operated upon the instinct of the Cardinals— “Non vi aliquâ, sed concorditer, omnium in se converso desiderio, quæ sunt blandientis sexus artes, latentes in hâc quanquam!”

118

LETTER V. FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF C*RK TO LADY ------.

My dear Lady ------! I've been just sending out
About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout—
(By the bye, you've seen Rokeby?—this moment got mine—
The Mail-Coach Edition —prodigiously fine!)
But I can't conceive how, in this very cold weather,
I'm ever to bring my five hundred together;
As, unless the thermometer's near boiling heat,
One can never get half of one's hundreds to meet.
(Apropos—you'd have laugh'd to see Townsend last night,
Escort to their chairs, with his staff, so polite,
The “three maiden Miseries,” all in a fright;

119

Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts,
Supervisor of thieves, and chief-usher of ghosts!)

But, my dear Lady ------, can't you hit on some notion,
At least for one night to set London in motion?—
As to having the R*g*nt, that show is gone by—
Besides, I've remark'd that (between you and I)
The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more ways,
Have taken much lately to whispering in doorways;
Which—consid'ring, you know, dear, the size of the two—
Makes a block that one's company cannot get through;
And a house such as mine is, with doorways so small,
Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all.—
(Apropos, though, of love-work—you've heard it, I hope,
That Napoleon's old mother's to marry the Pope,—
What a comical pair!)—but, to stick to my Rout,
'Twill be hard if some novelty can't be struck out.

120

Is there no Algerine, no Kamchatkan arriv'd?
No Plenipo Pacha, three-tail'd and ten-wiv'd?
No Russian, whose dissonant consonant name
Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame?

I remember the time, three or four winters back,
When—provided their wigs were but decently black—
A few Patriot monsters, from Spain, were a sight
That would people one's house for one, night after night.
But—whether the Ministers paw'd them too much—
(And you know how they spoil whatsoever they touch)
Or, whether Lord G---rge (the young man about town)
Has, by dint of bad poetry, written them down,
One has certainly lost one's peninsular rage;
And the only stray Patriot seen for an age
Has been at such places (think, how the fit cools!)
As old Mrs. V---gh*n's or Lord L*v*rp---l's.

121

But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschitstopschinzoudhoff
Are the only things now make an ev'ning go smooth off:
So, get me a Russian—till death I'm your debtor—
If he brings the whole Alphabet, so much the better.
And—Lord! if he would but, in character, sup
Off his fish-oil and candles, he'd quite set me up!

Au revoir, my sweet girl—I must leave you in haste—
Little Gunter has brought me the Liqueurs to taste.

POSTSCRIPT.

By the bye, have you found any friend that can construe
That Latin account, t'other day, of a Monster?
If we can't get a Russian, and that thing in Latin
Be not too improper, I think I'll bring that in.

See Mr. Murray's Advertisement about the Mail-Coach copies of Rokeby.

Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin Advertisement of a Lusus Naturæ in the Newspapers lately.

122

LETTER VI. FROM ABDALLAH , IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN ISPAHAN.

Whilst thou, Mohassan, (happy thou!)
Dost daily bend thy loyal brow
Before our King—our Asia's treasure!
Nutmeg of Comfort; Rose of Pleasure!—
And bear'st as many kicks and bruises
As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses;
Thy head still near the bowstring's borders,
And but left on till further orders—
Through London streets, with turban fair,
And caftan, floating to the air,

123

I saunter on, the admiration
Of this short-coated population—
This sew'd up race—this button'd nation—
Who, while they boast their laws so free,
Leave not one limb at liberty,
But live, with all their lordly speeches,
The slaves of buttons and tight breeches.
Yet, though they thus their knee-pans fetter
(They're Christians, and they know no better)
In some things they're a thinking nation;
And, on Religious Toleration,
I own I like their notions quite,
They are so Persian and so right!
You know our Sunnites ,—hateful dogs!
Whom every pious Shiite flogs

124

Or longs to flog —'tis true, they pray
To God, but in an ill-bred way;
With neither arms, nor legs, nor faces
Stuck in their right, canonic places.
'Tis true, they worship Ali's name
Their Heav'n and ours are just the same—
(A Persian's Heav'n is eas'ly made,
'Tis but black eyes and lemonade.)
Yet, though we've tried for centuries back—
We can't persuade this stubborn pack,
By bastinadoes, screws, or nippers,
To wear th' establish'd pea-green slippers.
Then, only think, the libertines!
They wash their toes—they comb their chins ,
With many more such deadly sins;

125

And what's the worst, though last I rank it)
Believe the Chapter of the Blanket!

“C'est un honnête homme,” said a Turkish governor of De Ruyter; “c'est grand dommage qu'il soit Chrétien.”.

Sunnites and Shiites are the two leading sects into which the Mahometan world is divided; and they have gone on cursing and persecuting each other, without any intermission, for about eleven hundred years. The Sunni is the established sect in Turkey, and the Shia in Persia; and the differences between them turn chiefly upon those important points, which our pious friend Abdallah, in the true spirit of Shiite Ascendency, reprobates in this Letter.

“Les Sunnites, qui étoient comme les Catholiques de Musulmanisme.” —D' Herbelot.

“In contradistinction to the Sounis, who in their prayers cross their hands on the lower part of the breast, the Schiahs drop their arms in straight lines; and as the Sounis, at certain periods of the prayer, press their foreheads on the ground or carpet, the Schiahs,” &c. &c. —Forster's Voyage.

“Les Tures ne détestent pas Ali réciproquement; au contraire, ils le reconnoissent,” &c. &c. —Chardin.

“The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sunnites consider as a great abomination.” —Mariti.

For these points of difference, as well as for the Chapter of the Blanket, I must refer the reader (not having the book by me) to Picart's Account of the Mahometan Sects.

Yet, spite of tenets so flagitious,
(Which must, at bottom, be seditious;
Since no man living would refuse
Green slippers, but from treasonous views;
Nor wash his toes, but with intent
To overturn the government,)—
Such is our mild and tolerant way,
We only curse them twice a day
(According to a Form that's set),
And, far from torturing, only let
All orthodox believers beat 'em,
And twitch their beards, where'er they meet 'em.
As to the rest, they're free to do
Whate'er their fancy prompts them to,
Provided they make nothing of it
Tow'rds rank or honour, power or profit;
Which things, we nat'rally expect,
Belong to us, the Establish'd sect,

126

Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked!)
Th' aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket.
The same mild views of Toleration
Inspire, I find, this button'd nation,
Whose Papists (full as giv'n to rogue,
And only Sunnites with a brogue)
Fare just as well, with all their fuss,
As rascal Sunnites do with us.
The tender Gazel I enclose
Is for my love, my Syrian Rose—
Take it when night begins to fall,
And throw it o'er her mother's wall.

GAZEL.

Rememberest thou the hour we past,—
That hour the happiest and the last?
Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn
To summer bees, at break of morn,

127

Not half so sweet, through dale and dell,
To Camels' ears the tinkling bell,
As is the soothing memory
Of that one precious hour to me.

How can we live, so far apart?
Oh! why not rather, heart to heart,
United live and die—
Like those sweet birds, that fly together,
With feather always touching feather,
Link'd by a hook and eye!

This will appear strange to an English reader, but it is literally translated from Abdallah's Persian, and the curious bird to which he alludes is the Juftak, of which I find the following account in Richardson:—“A sort of bird, that is said to have but one wing; on the opposite side to which the male has a hook and the female a ring, so that, when they fly, they are fastened together.”

I have made many inquiries about this Persian gentleman, but cannot satisfactorily ascertain who he is. From his notions of Religious Liberty, however, I conclude that he is an importation of Ministers; and he has arrived just in time to assist the P---e and Mr. L---ck---e in their new Oriental Plan of Reform.—See the second of these Letters.— How Abdallah's epistle to Ispahan found its way into the Twopenny Post-Bag is more than I can pretend to account for.

128

LETTER VII. FROM MESSRS. L---CK---GT---N AND CO. TO ------, ESQ.

Per Post, Sir, we send your MS.—look'd it thro'—
Very sorry—but can't undertake—'twouldn't do.
Clever work, Sir!—would get up prodigiously well—
Its only defect is—it never would sell.
And though Statesmen may glory in being unbought,
In an Author 'tis not so desirable thought.

Hard times, Sir,—most books are too dear to be read—
Though the gold of Good-sense and Wit's small-change are fled,
Yet the paper we Publishers pass, in their stead,
Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it)
Not even such names as F*tzg*r---d's can sink it!

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However, Sir—if you're for trying again,
And at somewhat that's vendible—we are your men.

Since the Chevalier C*rr took to marrying lately,
The Trade is in want of a Traveller greatly—
No job, Sir, more easy—your Country once plann'd,
A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land
Puts your Quarto of Travels, Sir, clean out of hand.

An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell—
And a lick at the Papists is sure to sell well.
Or—supposing you've nothing original in you—
Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you,
You'll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of Albinia!
(Mind—not to her dinners—a second-hand Muse
Mustn't think of aspiring to mess with the Blues.)

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Or—in case nothing else in this world you can do—
The deuce is in't, Sir, if you cannot review!

Should you feel any touch of poetical glow,
We've a Scheme to suggest—Mr. Sc*tt, you must know,
(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the Row ,)
Having quitted the Borders, to seek new renown,
Is coming, by long Quarto stages, to Town;
And beginning with Rokeby (the job's sure to pay)
Means to do all the Gentlemen's Seats on the way.
Now, the Scheme is (though none of our hackneys can beat him)
To start a fresh Poet through Highgate to meet him;
Who, by means of quick proofs—no revises—long coaches—
May do a few Villas, before Sc*tt approaches.
Indeed, if our Pegasus be not curst shabby,
He'll reach, without found'ring, at least Woburn-Abbey.

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Such, Sir, is our plan—if you're up to the freak,
'Tis a match! and we'll put you in training next week.
At present, no more—in reply to this Letter, a
Line will oblige very much
Yours, et cetera.

Temple of the Muses.

From motives of delicacy, and, indeed, of fellow-feeling, I suppress the name of the Author, whose rejected manuscript was inclosed in this letter.—See the Appendix.

Sir John Carr, the author of “Tours in Ireland, Holland, Sweden,” &c. &c.

This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence, which is said to have passed lately between Alb*n*a, Countess of B*ck---gh*ms---e, and a certain ingenious Parodist.

Paternoster Row.

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APPENDIX.

The Manuscript, found enclosed in the Bookseller's Letter, turns out to be a Melo-Drama, in two Acts, entitled “The Book ,” of which the Theatres, of course, had had the refusal, before it was presented to Messrs. L*ck*ngt*n and Co. This rejected Drama, however, possesses considerable merit, and I shall take the liberty of laying a sketch of it before my Readers.

The first Act opens in a very awful manner— Time, three o'clock in the morning—Scene, the

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Bourbon Chamber in C*rl---t*n House— Enter the P---e R*g---t solus—After a few broken sentences, he thus exclaims:—

Away—Away—
Thou haunt'st my fancy so, thou devilish Book,
I meet thee—trace thee, wheresoe'er I look.
I see thy damned ink in Eld---n's brows—
I see thy foolscap on my H*rtf---d's Spouse—
V---ns---tt---t's head recalls thy leathern case,
And all thy blank-leaves stare from R---d---r's face!
While, turning here (laying his hand on his heart)
, I find, ah wretched elf,
Thy List of dire Errata in myself. (Walks the stage in considerable agitation.)

Oh Roman Punch! oh potent Curacoa!
Oh Mareschino! Mareschino oh!
Delicious drams! why have you not the art
To kill this gnawing Book-worm in my heart?

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He is here interrupted in his Soliloquy by perceiving on the ground some scribbled fragments of paper, which he instantly collects, and “by the light of two magnificent candelabras” discovers the following unconnected words, “Wife neglected”—“the Book”—“Wrong Measures”—“the Queen”— “Mr. Lambert”—“the R*g---t.”

Ha! treason in my house!—Curst words, that wither
My princely soul, (shaking the papers violently)
what Demon brought you hither?
“My Wife;”—“the Book” too!—stay—a nearer look— (holding the fragments closer to the Candelabras)

Alas! too plain, B, double O, K, Book—
Death and destruction!

He here rings all the bells, and a whole legion of valets enter. A scene of cursing and swearing (very much in the German style) ensues, in the course of which messengers are despatched, in different directions, for the L*rd Ch*nc*ll*r, the D---e of C---b---l---d, &c. &c. The intermediate time is filled up by another Soliloquy, at

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the conclusion of which the aforesaid Personages rush on alarmed; the D---ke with his stays only half-laced, and the Ch*nc*ll*r with his wig thrown hastily over an old red night-cap, “to maintain the becoming splendour of his office.” The R*g---t produces the appalling fragments, upon which the Ch*nc*ll*r breaks out into exclamations of loyalty and tenderness, and relates the following portentous dream.

'Tis scarcely two hours since
I had a fearful dream of thee, my P---e!—
Methought I heard thee, midst a courtly crowd,
Say from thy throne of gold, in mandate loud,
“Worship my whiskers!”— (weeps)
not a knee was there
But bent and worshipp'd the Illustrious Pair,
Which curl'd in conscious majesty! (pulls out his handkerchief)
—while cries
Of “Whiskers, whiskers!” shook the echoing skies.—

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Just in that glorious hour, methought, there came,
With looks of injur'd pride, a Princely Dame,
And a young maiden, clinging by her side,
As if she fear'd some tyrant would divide
Two hearts that nature and affection tied!
The Matron came—within her right hand glow'd
A radiant torch; while from her left a load
Of Papers hung— (wipes his eyes)
collected in her veil—
The venal evidence, the slanderous tale,
The wounding hint, the current lies that pass
From Post to Courier, form'd the motley mass;
Which, with disdain, before the Throne she throws,
And lights the Pile beneath thy princely nose. (Weeps.)

Heav'ns, how it blaz'd!—I'd ask no livelier fire, (With animation)
To roast a Papist by, my gracious Sire!—
But ah! the Evidence— (weeps again)
I mourn'd to see—
Cast, as it burn'd, a deadly light on thee:
And Tales and Hints their random sparkles flung,
And hiss'd and crackled, like an old maid's tongue;

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While Post and Courier, faithful to their fame,
Made up in stink for what they lack'd in flame.
When, lo, ye Gods! the fire ascending brisker,
Now singes one, now lights the other whisker.
Ah! where was then the Sylphid, that unfurls
Her fairy standard in defence of curls?
Throne, Whiskers, Wig soon vanish'd into smoke,
The watchman cried “Past One,” and—I awoke.

Here his Lordship weeps more profusely than ever, and the R*g---t (who has been very much agitated during the recital of the Dream) by a movement as characteristic as that of Charles XII. when he was shot, claps his hands to his whiskers to feel if all be really safe. A Privy Council is held—all the Servants, &c. are examined, and it appears that a Tailor, who had come to measure the R*g---t for a Dress (which takes three whole pages of the best superfine clinquant in describing) was the only person who had been in the Bourbon Chamber during the day. It is, accordingly, determined to seize the Tailor, and the Council breaks up with a unanimous resolution to be vigorous.

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The commencement of the Second Act turns chiefly upon the Trial and Imprisonment of two Brothers —but as this forms the under plot of the Drama, I shall content myself with extracting from it the following speech, which is addressed to the two Brothers, as they “exeunt severally” to Prison:—

Go to your prisons—though the air of Spring
No mountain coolness to your cheeks shall bring;
Though Summer flowers shall pass unseen away,
And all your portion of the glorious day
May be some solitary beam that falls,
At morn or eve, upon your dreary walls—
Some beam that enters, trembling as if aw'd,
To tell how gay the young world laughs abroad!
Yet go—for thoughts as blessed as the air
Of Spring or Summer flowers await you there;
Thoughts, such as He, who feasts his courtly crew
In rich conservatories, never knew;
Pure self-esteem—the smiles that light within—
The Zeal, whose circling charities begin

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With the few lov'd-ones Heaven has plac'd it near,
And spread, till all Mankind are in its sphere;
The Pride, that suffers without vaunt or plea,
And the fresh Spirit, that can warble free,
Through prison-bars, its hymn to Liberty!

The Scene next changes to a Tailor's Work-shop, and a fancifully-arranged group of these Artists is discovered upon the Shop-board—Their task evidently of a royal nature, from the profusion of gold-lace, frogs, &c. that lie about—They all rise and come forward, while one of them sings the following Stanzas to the tune of “Derry Down.”

My brave brother Tailors, come, straighten your knees,
For a moment, like gentlemen, stand up at ease,
While I sing of our P---e (and a fig for his railers)
The Shop-board's delight! the Mæcenas of Tailors!
Derry down, down, down derry down.

Some monarchs take roundabout ways into note,
While His short cut to fame is—the cut of his coat;

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Philip's Son thought the World was too small for his Soul,
But our R*g---t's finds room in a lac'd button-hole.
Derry down, &c.

Look through all Europe's Kings—those, at least, who go loose—
Not a King of them all's such a friend to the Goose.
So, God keep him increasing in size and renown,
Still the fattest and best fitted P---e about town!
Derry down, &c.

During the “Derry down” of this last verse, a messenger from the S*c---t---y of S---e's Office rushes on, and the singer (who, luckily for the effect of the scene, is the very Tailor suspected of the mysterious fragments) is interrupted in the midst of his laudatory exertions, and hurried away, to the no small surprise and consternation of his comrades. The Plot now hastens rapidly in its developement—the management of the Tailor's examination is highly skilful, and the alarm, which he is made to betray, is natural without being ludicrous. The explanation, too, which he finally gives is not

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more simple than satisfactory. It appears that the said fragments formed part of a self-exculpatory note, which he had intended to send to Colonel M'M---n upon subjects purely professional, and the corresponding bits (which still lie luckily in his pocket) being produced, and skilfully laid beside the others, the following billet-doux is the satisfactory result of their juxta-position.

Honour'd Colonel—my Wife, who's the Queen of all slatterns,
Neglected to put up the Book of new Patterns.
She sent the wrong Measures too—shamefully wrong—
They're the same us'd for poor Mr. Lambert, when young;
But, bless you! they wouldn't go half round the R*g---t—
So, hope you'll excuse yours till death, most obedient.

This fully explains the whole mystery—the R*g---t resumes his wonted smiles, and the Drama terminates as usual, to the satisfaction of all parties.

There was, in like manner, a mysterious Book, in the 16th Century, which employed all the anxious curiosity of the Learned of that time. Every one spoke of it; many wrote against it; though it does not appear that any body had ever seen it; and Grotius is of opinion that no such Book ever existed. It was entitled “Liber de tribus impostoribus.” (See Morhof. Cap. de Libris damnatis.)—Our more modern mystery of “the Book” resembles this in many particulars; and, if the number of Lawyers employed in drawing it up be stated correctly, a slight alteration of the title into “à tribus impostoribus” would produce a coincidence altogether very remarkable.

The same Chamber, doubtless, that was prepared for the reception of the Bourbons at the first Grand Fête, and which was ornamented (all “for the Deliverance of Europe”) with fleurs-de-lys.

“To enable the individual, who holds the office of Chancellor, to maintain it in becoming splendour.” (A loud laugh.) —Lord Castlereagh's Speech upon the Vice-Chancellor's Bill.

Mr. Leigh Hunt and his brother.

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LETTER VIII. FROM COLONEL THMS TO ------ SKFFNGT*N, ESQ.

Come to our Fête , and bring with thee
Thy newest, best embroidery.
Come to our Fête, and show again
That pea-green coat, thou pink of men,
Which charm'd all eyes, that last survey'd it;
When Br*mm*l's self inquir'd “who made it?”—
When Cits came wond'ring, from the East,
And thought thee Poet Pye at least!

Oh! come, (if haply 'tis thy week
For looking pale,) with paly cheek;
Though more we love thy roseate days,
When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze

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Full o'er thy face, and, amply spread,
Tips ev'n thy whisker-tops with red—
Like the last tints of dying Day
That o'er some darkling grove delay.

Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander,
(That lace, like H*rry Al*x*nd*r,
Too precious to be wash'd,)—thy rings,
Thy seals—in short, thy prettiest things!
Put all thy wardrobe's glories on,
And yield in frogs and fringe, to none
But the great R*g---t's self alone;
Who—by particular desire—
For that night only, means to hire
A dress from Romeo C---tes, Esquire.
Hail, first of Actors! best of R*g---ts!
Born for each other's fond allegiance!

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Both gay Lotharios—both good dressers—
Of serious Farce both learn'd Professors—
Both circled round, for use or show,
With cock's combs, wheresoe'er they go!

Thou know'st the time, thou man of lore!
It takes to chalk a ball-room floor—
Thou know'st the time, too, well-a-day!
It takes to dance that chalk away.
The Ball-room opens—far and nigh
Comets and suns beneath us lie;
O'er snow-white moons and stars we walk,
And the floor seems one sky of chalk!
But soon shall fade that bright deceit,
When many a maid, with busy feet
That sparkle in the lustre's ray,
O'er the white path shall bound and play
Like Nymphs along the Milky Way:—

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With every step a star hath fled,
And suns grow dim beneath their tread!
So passeth life—(thus Sc*tt would write,
And spinsters read him with delight,)—
Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on,
Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone!

But, hang this long digressive flight!—
I meant to say, thou'lt see, that night,
What falsehood rankles in their hearts,
Who say the Pr---e neglects the arts—
Neglects the arts?—no, Str---hl---g , no;
Thy Cupids answer “'tis not so;”
And every floor, that night, shall tell
How quick thou daubest, and how well.
Shine as thou may'st in French vermilion,
Thou'rt best, beneath a French cotillion;
And still com'st off, whate'er thy faults,
With flying colours in a Waltz.

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Nor need'st thou mourn the transient date
To thy best works assign'd by fate.
While some chef-d'œuvres live to weary one,
Thine boast a short life and a merry one;
Their hour of glory past and gone
With “Molly put the kettle on!”

But, bless my soul! I've scarce a leaf
Of paper left—so, must be brief.

This festive Fête, in fact, will be
The former Fête's fac-simile ;
The same long Masquerade of Rooms,
All trick'd up in such odd costumes,
(These, P*rt*r , are thy glorious works!)
You'd swear Egyptians, Moors, and Turks,
Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice,
Had clubb'd to raise a Pic-Nic Palace;

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And each to make the olio pleasant
Had sent a State-Room as a present.
The same fauteuils and girondoles—
The same gold Asses , pretty souls!
That, in this rich and classic dome,
Appear so perfectly at home.
The same bright river 'mong the dishes,
But not—ah! not the same dear fishes—
Late hours and claret kill'd the old ones—
So 'stead of silver and of gold ones,
(It being rather hard to raise
Fish of that specie now-a-days)
Some sprats have been by Y*rm---th's wish,
Promoted into Silver Fish,
And Gudgeons (so V---ns---tt---t told
The R*g---t) are as good as Gold!

So, prithee, come—our Fête will be
But half a Fête if wanting thee.

This Letter enclosed a Card for the Grand Fête on the 5th of February.

An amateur actor of much risible renown.

Quem tu, Melpomene, semel
Nascentem placido lumine, videris, &c.

Horat.

The Man, upon whom thou hast deign'd to look funny,
Oh Tragedy's Muse! at the hour of his birth—
Let them say what they will, that's the Man for my money,
Give others thy tears, but let me have thy mirth!

The crest of Mr. C---tes, the very amusing amateur tragedian here alluded to, was a cock; and most profusely were his liveries, harness, &c., covered with this ornament.

To those, who neither go to balls nor read the Morning Post, it may be necessary to mention, that the floors of Ball-rooms, in general, are chalked, for safety and for ornament, with various fanciful devices.

Hearts are not flint, yet flints are rent,
Hearts are not steel, yet steel is bent.

After all, however, Mr. Sc*tt may well say to the Colonel, (and, indeed, to much better wags than the Colonel,) ραον μωμεισθαι η μιμεισθαι

A foreign artist much patronized by the Prince Regent.

The name of a popular country-dance.

“C*rl---t*n H---e will exhibit a complete fac-simile, in respect to interior ornament, to what it did at the last Fête. The same splendid draperies,” &c. &c. —Morning Post.

Mr. Walsh Porter, to whose taste was left the furnishing of the rooms of Carlton House.

The salt-cellars on the Pr---e's own table were in the form of an Ass with panniers.