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.
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.
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.
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,—
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.
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,)
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.
