The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| III, IV. |
| V. |
| VI, VII. |
 | VIII, IX. |
|
|
|
FROM THE HON. HENRY ---, TO LADY EMMA ---. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
|
|
| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
105
FROM THE HON. HENRY ---, TO LADY EMMA ---.
Paris, March 30. 1832.
You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle,
How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell;
And the truth is,—as truth you will have, my sweet railer,—
There are two worthy persons I always feel loth
To take leave of at starting,—my mistress and tailor,—
As somehow one always has scenes with them both;
The Snip in ill-humour, the Syren in tears,
She calling on Heaven, and he on the' attorney,—
Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears,
A young gentleman risks being stopp'd in his journey.
How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell;
And the truth is,—as truth you will have, my sweet railer,—
There are two worthy persons I always feel loth
To take leave of at starting,—my mistress and tailor,—
As somehow one always has scenes with them both;
The Snip in ill-humour, the Syren in tears,
She calling on Heaven, and he on the' attorney,—
Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears,
A young gentleman risks being stopp'd in his journey.
But, to come to the point,—though you think, I dare say,
That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away,
'Pon honour you're wrong;—such a mere bagatelle
As a pestilence, nobody, now-a-days, fears;
And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell-mell,
To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers ;
This deluge of coronets, frightful to think of,
Which England is now, for her sins, on the brink of;
This coinage of nobles,—coin'd, all of 'em, badly,
And sure to bring Counts to a discount most sadly.
That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away,
'Pon honour you're wrong;—such a mere bagatelle
As a pestilence, nobody, now-a-days, fears;
106
To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers ;
This deluge of coronets, frightful to think of,
Which England is now, for her sins, on the brink of;
This coinage of nobles,—coin'd, all of 'em, badly,
And sure to bring Counts to a discount most sadly.
Only think, to have Lords overrunning the nation,
As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation;
No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection,
And tadpole young Lords, too, in every direction,—
Things created in haste, just to make a Court list of,
Two legs and a coronet all they consist of!
The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George R---se
(My particular friend) says is perfectly true,
That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows,
'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do;
And Sir George even doubts,—could he choose his disorder,—
'Twixt coffin and coronet, which he would order.
This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma,
'Twere best to fight shy of so curs'd a dilemma;
And though I confess myself somewhat a villain,
To've left idol mio without an addio,
Console your sweet heart, and, a week hence, from Milan
I'll send you—some news of Bellini's last trio.
As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation;
No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection,
And tadpole young Lords, too, in every direction,—
Things created in haste, just to make a Court list of,
Two legs and a coronet all they consist of!
The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George R---se
(My particular friend) says is perfectly true,
That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows,
'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do;
And Sir George even doubts,—could he choose his disorder,—
'Twixt coffin and coronet, which he would order.
107
'Twere best to fight shy of so curs'd a dilemma;
And though I confess myself somewhat a villain,
To've left idol mio without an addio,
Console your sweet heart, and, a week hence, from Milan
I'll send you—some news of Bellini's last trio.
N. B.—Have just pack'd up my travelling set-out,
Things a tourist in Italy can't go without—
Viz., a pair of gants gras, from old Houbigant's shop,
Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap.
Small presents for ladies,—and nothing so wheedles
The creatures abroad as your golden-ey'd needles.
A neat pocket Horace, by which folks are cozen'd
To think one knows Latin, when—one, perhaps, doesn't;
With some little book about heathen mythology,
Just large enough to refresh one's theology;
Nothing on earth being half such a bore as
Not knowing the diff'rence 'twixt Virgins and Floras.
Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls,
And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls.
Things a tourist in Italy can't go without—
Viz., a pair of gants gras, from old Houbigant's shop,
Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap.
Small presents for ladies,—and nothing so wheedles
The creatures abroad as your golden-ey'd needles.
A neat pocket Horace, by which folks are cozen'd
To think one knows Latin, when—one, perhaps, doesn't;
With some little book about heathen mythology,
Just large enough to refresh one's theology;
Nothing on earth being half such a bore as
Not knowing the diff'rence 'twixt Virgins and Floras.
Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls,
And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls.
Henry.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |