elapsae manibus secidere tabellae.—OVID.
It is now about seven years since I promised (and I grieve to think it is almost as long since we met) to dedicate to you the very first Book, of whatever size or kind I should publish. Who could have thought that so many years would elapse, without my giving the least signs of life upon the subject of this important promise? Who could have imagined that a volume of doggerel, after all, would be the first offering that Gratitude would lay upon the shrine of Friendship?
If you continue, however, to be as much interested about me and my pursuits as formerly, you will be happy to hear that doggerel is not myonlyoccupation; but that I am preparing to throw my name to the Swans of the Temple of Immortality, leaving it of course to the said Swans to determine whether they ever will take the trouble of picking it from the stream.
In the meantime, my dear Woolriche, like an orthodox Lutheran, you must judge of me rather by myfaiththan myworks; and however trifling the tribute which I here offer, never doubt the fidelity with which I am and always shall be
Your sincere and attached friend,
March 4, 1813.
The Bag, from which the following Letters are selected, was dropped by a Twopenny Postman about two months since, and picked up by an emissary of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, who supposing it might materially assist the private researches of that Institution, immediately took it to his employers and was rewarded handsomely for his trouble. Such a treasury of secrets was worth a whole host of informers; and, accordingly, like the Cupids of the poet (if I may use so profane a simile) who "fell at odds about the sweet-bag of a bee,"[1] those venerable Suppressors almost fought with each other for the honor and delight of first ransacking the Post-Bag. Unluckily, however, it turned out upon examination that the discoveries of profligacy which it enabled them to make, lay chiefly in those upper regions of society which their well-bred regulations forbid them to molest or meddle with.—In consequence they gained but very few victims by their prize, and after lying for a week or two under Mr. Hatchard's counter the Bag with its violated contents was sold for a trifle to a friend of mine.
It happened that I had been just then seized with an ambition (having never tried the strength of my wing but in a Newspaper) to publish something or other in the shape of a Book; and it occurred to me that, the present being such a letter-writing era, a few of these Twopenny-Post Epistles turned into easy verse would be as light and popular a task as I could possibly select for a commencement. I did not, however, think it prudent to give too many Letters at first and accordingly have been obliged (in order to eke out a sufficient number of pages) to reprint some of those trifles, which had already appeared in the public journals. As in the battles of ancient times, the shades of the departed were sometimes seen among the combatants, so I thought I might manage to remedy the thinness of my ranks, by conjuring up a few dead and forgotten ephemerons to fill them.
Such are the motives and accidents that led to the present publication; and as this is the first time my Muse has ever ventured out of the go-cart of a Newspaper, though I feel all a parent's delight at seeing little Miss go alone, I am also not without a parent's anxiety lest an unlucky fall should be the consequence of the experiment; and I need not point out how many living instances might be found of Muses that have suffered very severely in their heads from taking rather too early and rashly to their feet. Besides, a Book is so very different a thing from a Newspaper!—in the former, your doggerel without either company or shelter must stand shivering in the middle of a bleak page by itself; whereas in the latter it is comfortably backed by advertisements and has sometimes even a Speech of Mr. Stephen's, or something equally warm, for achauffe-pieds—so that, in general, the very reverse of "laudatur et alget" is its destiny.
Ambition, however, must run some risks and I shall be very well satisfied if the reception of these few Letters should have the effect of sending me to the Post-Bag for more.
[1] Herrick.
My dear Lady Bab, you'll be shockt 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 Eldon first heard—and as instantly prayed heTo "God and his King"—that a Popish young Lady(For tho' 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 tricksThat the dome of St. Paul was scarce safe from their kicks.
Off at once to Papa in a flurry he flies—For Papa always does what these statesmen adviseOn condition that they'll be in turn so politeAs in no case whate'er to advise himtoo 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 yourmostRoyal Highness roughshod—"Excuse, Sir, my tears—they're from loyalty's source-"Bad enough 'twas for Troy to be sackt by aHorse,"But for us to be ruined byPoniesstill worse!"Quick a Council is called—the whole Cabinet sits—The Archbishops declare, frightened 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 stallsWill suit their proud stomachs but those at St. Paul's.
The Doctor,[2] and he, the devout man of Leather,[3]Vansittart, now laying their Saint-heads together,Declare that these skittish young abominationsAre clearly foretold in Chap. vi. Revelations—Nay, they verily think they could point out the oneWhich the Doctor's friend Death was to canter upon.
Lord Harrowby hoping that no one imputesTo the Court any fancy to persecute brutes,Protests on the word of himself and his croniesThat 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.
"If the Princesswillkeep them (says Lord Castlereagh),"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 newVetosnaffle[4] 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 received pretty general applauseFrom the Statesmen around-and the neck-breaking clauseHad a vigor about it, which soon reconciledEven Eldon himself to a measure so mild.So the snaffles, my dear, were agreed tonem. con.,And my Lord Castlereagh, having so often shoneIn thefettering line, is to buckle them on.I shall drive to your door in theseVetoessome day,But, at present, adieu!-I must hurry awayTo go see my Mamma, as I'm suffered to meet herFor just half an hour by the Queen's best repeater.
[1] This young Lady, who is a Roman Catholic, had lately made a present of some beautiful Ponies to the Princess.
[2] Mr. Addington, so nicknamed.
[3] Alluding to a tax lately laid upon leather.
[4] 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.
DEAR SIR—I've just had time to lookInto your very learned Book,Wherein—as plain as man can speak.Whose English is half modern Greek—You prove that we can ne'er intrenchOur happy isles against the French,Till Royalty in England's madeA much more independent trade;—In short until the House of GuelphLays Lords and Commons on the shelf,And boldly sets up for itself.
All that can well be understoodIn 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 creditThe Prince, good Sir, the Prince has read it(The only Book, himself remarks,Which he has read since Mrs. Clarke's).Last levee-morn he lookt it thro',During that awful hour or twoOf grave tonsorial preparation,Which to a fond, admiring nationSends forth, announced by trump and drum,The best-wigged Prince in Christendom.
He thinks with you, the imaginationOfpartnershipin legislationCould only enter in the noddlesOf dull and ledger-keeping twaddles,Whose heads onfirmsare running so,They even must have a King and Co.,And hence most eloquently show forthOnchecksandbalancesand so forth.
But now, he trusts, we're coming near aFar more royal, loyal era;When England's monarch need but say,"Whip me those scoundrels, Castlereagh!"Or, "Hang me up those Papists, Eldon,"And 'twill be done—ay, faith, and well done.
With view to which I've his commandTo beg, Sir, from your travelled hand,(Round which the foreign graces swarm)[1]A Plan of radical Reform;Compiled and chosen as best you can,In Turkey or at Ispahan,And quite upturning, branch and root,Lords, Commons, and Burdett to boot.
But, pray, whate'er you may impart, writeSomewhat more brief than Major Cartwright:Else, tho' the Prince be long in rigging,'Twould take at least a fortnight's wigging,—Two wigs to every paragraph—Before he well could get thro' 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 laught, had you seen howHe scared the Chancellor just now,When (on his Lordship's entering puft) heSlapt his back and called him "Mufti!"
The tailors too have got commandsTo put directly into handsAll sorts of Dulimans and Pouches,With Sashes, Turbans and Paboutches,(While Yarmouth's sketching out a planOf newMoustaches à l'Ottomane)And all things fitting and expedientToturkifyour gracious Regent!
You therefore have no time to waste—So, send your System.—Yours in haste.
Before I send this scrawl away,I seize a moment just to sayThere's some parts of the Turkish systemSo vulgar 'twere as well you missed 'em.For instance—inSeragliomatters—Your Turk whom girlish fondness flatters,Would fill his Haram (tasteless fool!)With tittering, red-cheekt things from school.Buthere(as in that fairy land,Where Love and Age went hand in hand;[2]Where lips, till sixty, shed no honey,And Grandams were worth any money,)OurSultan has much riper notions—So, let your list ofshe-promotionsInclude those only plump and sage,Who've reached theregulation-age;That is, (as near as one can fixFrom Peerage dates) full fifty-six.
This rule's forfavorites—nothing more—For, as towives, a Grand Signor,Tho' not decidedlywithoutthem,Need never care one curse about them.
[1] "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.
[2] 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."—See "Tales of the East," vol. iii. pp. 607, 608.
We missed you last night at the "hoary old sinner's,"Who gave us as usual the cream of good dinners;His soups scientific, his fishes quiteprime—Hispâtéssuperb, and his cutlets sublime!In short, 'twas the snug sort of dinner to stir aStomachic orgasm in my Lord Ellenborough,Whoset to, to be sure, with miraculous force,And exclaimed between mouthfuls, "aHe-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."'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 celebrationOfmybrilliant triumph and Hunt's condemnation;A compliment too to his Lordship the JudgeFor his Speech to the Jury—and zounds! who would grudgeTurtle soup tho' it came to five guineas a bowl,To reward such a loyal and complaisant soul?We were all in high gig—Roman Punch and TokayTravelled round till our heads travelled just the same way;And we cared not for Juries or Libels—no—damme! norEven for the threats of last Sunday's Examiner!
More good things were eaten than said—but Tom TyrrhittIn quoting Joe Miller you know has some merit;And hearing the sturdy Judiciary ChiefSay—sated with turtle—"I'll now try the beef"—Tommy whispered him (giving his Lordship a sly hit)"I fear 'twill behung-beef, my Lord, if youtryit!"
And Camden was there, who that morning had goneTo fit his new Marquis's coronet on;And the dish set before him—oh! dish well-devised!—Was what old Mother Glasse calls, "a calf's head surprised!"Thebrainswere near Sherry andoncehad been fine,But of late they had lain so long soaking in wine,That tho' we from courtesy still chose to callThese brains very fine they were no brains at all.
When the dinner was over, we drank, every oneIn a bumper, "the venial delights of Crim. Con.;"At which Headfort with warm reminiscences gloated,And Ellenb'rough 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 honored by courting their dears:This museum of wittols was comical rather;Old Headfort gave Massey, andIgave your father.In short, not a soul till this morning would budge—We were all fun and frolic, and even the JudgeLaid aside for the time his juridical fashion,And thro' the whole night wasn'toncein a passion!
I write this in bed while my whiskers are airing,And Mac[2] has a sly dose of jalap preparingFor poor Tommy Tyrrhitt at breakfast to quaff—As I feel I want something to give me a laugh,And there's nothing so good as old Tommy kept closeTo his Cornwall accounts after taking a dose.
[1] This letter, as the reader will perceive, was written the day after a dinner given by the Marquis of Headfort.
[2] Colonel M'Mahon.
Last week, dear Nichol, making merryAt 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 bespattered—hiccup—"With all the dirt evenyoucan pick up."But, as the Prince (here's to him—fill—"Hip, hip, hurra!)—is trying still"To humbug them with kind professions,"And asyoudeal instrongexpressions—"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 clapt a muzzle onThe boldest mouth that e'er run o'erWith slaver of the times of yore![1]—Was it for this that back I wentAs far as Lateran and Trent,To prove that they who damned us thenOught now in turn be damned again?The silent victim still to sitOf Grattan's fire and Canning's wit,To hear even noisy Mathew gabble on,Nor mention once the Whore of Babylon!Oh! 'tis too much—who now will beThe Nightman of No-Popery?What Courtier, Saint or even BishopSuch learned filth will ever fish up?If there among our ranks be oneTo take my place, 'tisthou, Sir John;Thou who like me art dubbed Right Hon.Like me too art a Lawyer CivilThat wishes Papists at the devil.
To whom then but to thee, my friend,Should Patrick[2] his Port-folio send?Take it—'tis thine—his learned Port-folio,With all its theologic olioOf Bulls, half Irish and half Roman—Of Doctrines now believed by no man—Of Councils held for men's salvation,Yet always ending in damnation—(Which shows that since the world's creationYour Priests, whate'er their gentle shamming,Have always had a taste for damning,)And many more such pious scraps,To prove (whatwe'velong proved, perhaps,)That mad as Christians used to beAbout the Thirteenth Century,There still are Christians to be hadIn this, the Nineteenth, just as mad!
Farewell—I send with this, dear Nichol,A rod or two I've had in pickleWherewith to trim old Grattan's jacket.—The rest shall go by Monday's packet.
Among the Enclosures in the foregoing Letter was the following "Unanswerable Argument against the Papists."
We're told the ancient Roman nationMade use of spittle in lustration;(Vide "Lactantium ap. Gallaeum"[3]—i. e. you need notreadbutsee'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 usTo free such sad,salivousfellows.—No, no—the man, baptized with spittle,Hath no truth in him—not a tittle!
[1] 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!
[2] A bad name for poetry; but Duigenan is still worse.
[3] I have taken the trouble of examining the Doctor's reference here, and find him for once correct.
My dear Lady—-! I've been just sending outAbout five hundred cards for a snug little Rout—(By the by, you've seen "Rokeby"?—this moment got mine—The "Mail-Coach Edition"—prodigiously fine!)But I can't conceive how in this very cold weatherI'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 thought to see Townsend last night,Escort to their chairs, with his staff, so polite,The "three maiden Miseries," all in a fright;Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts,Supervisor ofthievesand chief-usher ofghosts!)
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 Regent,thatshow is gone by—Besides, I've remarkt that (between you and I)The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more ways,Have taken much lately to whispering in doorways;Which—considering, you know, dear, thesizeof the two—Makes a block that one's companycannotget thro';And a house such as mine is, with door-ways so small,Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all.—(Apropos, tho', 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.Is there no Algerine, no Kamchatkan arrived?No Plenipo Pacha, three-tailed and ten-wived?No Russian whose dissonant consonant nameAlmost 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 sightThat would people one's house for one, night after night.But—whether the Ministerspawedthem too much—(And you—know how they spoil whatsoever they touch)Or, whether Lord George (the young man about town)Has by dint of bad poetry written them down.One has certainly lost one'speninsularrage;And the only stray Patriot seen for an ageHas been at such places (think, how the fit cools!)As old Mrs. Vaughan's or Lord Liverpool's.
But, in short, my dear, names like WintztschitstopschinzoudhoffAre the only things now make an evening 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, supOff 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.
By the by, have you found any friend that can consterThat Latin account, t'other day, of a Monster?[1]If we can't get a Russian, andthat thinkin LatinBe nottooimproper, I think I'll bring that in.
[1] Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin Advertisement of alusus Naturaein the Newspapers lately.
Whilst thou, Mohassan, (happy thou!)Dost daily bend thy loyal browBefore our King—our Asia's treasure!Nutmeg of Comfort: Rose of Pleasure!—And bearest as many kicks and bruisesAs the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses;Thy head still near the bowstring's borders.And but left on till further orders—Thro' London streets with turban fair,And caftan floating to the air,I saunter on, the admirationOf this short-coated population—This sewed-up race—this buttoned nation—Who while they boast their laws so freeLeave not one limb at liberty,But live with all their lordly speechesThe slaves of buttons and tight breeches.
Yet tho' they thus their knee-pans fetter(They're Christians and they know no better)Insomethings they're a thinking nation;And on Religious Toleration.I own I like their notionsquite,They are so Persian and so right!You know our Sunnites,[2] hateful dogs!Whom every pious Shiite flogsOr longs to flog—'tis true, they prayTo God, but in an ill-bred way;With neither arms nor legs nor facesStuck in their right, canonic places.[3]'Tis true, they worship Ali's name—Theirheaven andoursare just the same—(A Persian's Heaven is easily made,'Tis but black eyes and lemonade.)Yet tho' we've tried for centuries back—We can't persuade this stubborn pack,By bastinadoes, screws or nippers,To wear the establisht pea-green slippers.[4]Then, only think, the libertines!They wash their toes—they comb their chins,With many more such deadly sins;And what's the worst, (tho' last I rank it)Believe the Chapter of the Blanket!
Yet spite of tenets so flagitious,(Whichmustat bottom be seditious;Since no man living would refuseGreen slippers but from treasonous views;Nor wash his toes but with intentTo 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 letAll orthodox believers beat 'em,And twitch their beards where'er they meet 'em.
As to the rest, they're free to doWhate'er their fancy prompts them to,Provided they make nothing of itTowards rank or honor, power or profit;Which things we naturally expect,Belong to US, the Establisht sect,Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked!)The aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket.The same mild views of TolerationInspire, I find, this buttoned nation,Whose Papists (full as given 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 encloseIs for my love, my Syrian Rose—Take it when night begins to fall,And throw it o'er her mother's wall.
Rememberest thou the hour we past,—That hour the happiest and the last?Oh! not so sweet the Siha thornTo summer bees at break of morn,Not half so sweet, thro' dale and dell,To Camels' ears the tinkling bell,As is the soothing memoryOf 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,Linkt by a hook and eye![5]
[1] 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 Prince and Mr. Leckie 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.
[2] 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. TheSunniis the established sect in Turkey, and theShiain Persia; and the differences between them turn chiefly upon those important points, which our pious friend Abdallah, is the true spirit of Shiite Ascendency, reprobates in this Letter.
[3] "In contradistinction to the Sounis, who in their prayers cross their hands on the lower part of the breasts, 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," etc.—Forster's Voyage.
[4] "The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sunnites consider as a great abomination."—Mariti.
[5] 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 theJuftak, 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."
Per Post, Sir, we send your MS.—look it thro'—Very sorry—but can't undertake—'twouldn't do.Clever work, Sir!—wouldget upprodigiously well—Its only defect is—it never would sell.And tho'Statesmenmay glory in beingunbought,In anAuthor'tis not so desirable thought.
Hard times, Sir, most books are too dear to be read—Tho' thegoldof Good-sense and Wit'ssmall-changeare 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 Fitzgerald's can sink it!
However, Sir—if you're for trying again,And at somewhat that's vendible—we are your men.
Since the Chevalier Carr[1] took to marrying lately,The Trade is in want of aTravellergreatly—No job, Sir, more easy—yourCountryonce planned,A month aboard ship and a fortnight on landPuts 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 issureto sell well.Or—supposing you've nothingoriginalin you—Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you,You'll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of AlbiniaOr—in case nothing else in this world you can do—The deuce is in't, Sir, if you can notreview!
Should you feel any touch ofpoeticalglow,We've a Scheme to suggest—Mr. Scott, you must know,(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works forthe Row.[3])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 todoall the Gentlemen's Seats on the way.Now, the Scheme is (tho' none of our hackneys can beat him)To start a fresh Poet thro' Highgate tomeethim;Who by means of quick proofs—no revises—long coaches—May do a few Villas before Scott approaches.Indeed if our Pegasus be not curst shabby,He'll reach, without foundering, at least Woburn Abbey.Such, Sir, is our plan—if you're up to the freak,'Tis a match! and we'll put youin trainingnext week.At present, no more—in reply to this Letter,A line will oblige very muchYours,et cetera.
Temple of the Muses.
[1] Sir John Carr, the author of "Tours in Ireland, Holland. Sweden," etc.
[2] This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence, which is said to have passed lately between Albina, Countess of Buckinghamshire, and a certain ingenious Parodist.
[3] Paternoster Row.
Come to our Fête and bring with theeThy newest, best embroidery.Come to our Fête and show againThat pea-green coat, thou pink of men,Which charmed all eyes that last surveyed it;When Brummel's self inquired "who made it?"—When Cits came wondering from the EastAnd thought thee Poet Pyeat least!
Oh! come, (if haply 'tis thy weekFor looking pale,) with paly cheek;Tho' more we love thy roseate days,When the rich rouge-pot pours its blazeFull o'er thy face and amply spread,Tips even thy whisker-tops with red—Like the last tints of dying DayThat o'er some darkling grove delay.
Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander,(That lace, like Harry Alexander,Too precious to be washt,) thyrings,Thy seals—in short, thy prettiest things!Put all thy wardrobe's glories on,And yield in frogs and fringe to noneBut the great Regent's self alone;Who—by particular desire—For that night only, means to hireA dress from, Romeo Coates, Esquire.[1]Hail, first of Actors! best of Regents!Born for each other's fond allegiance!Bothgay Lotharios—both good dressers—Of serious Farcebothlearned Professors—Bothcircled round, for use or show,With cock's combs, wheresoe'er they go![2]
Thou knowest the time, thou man of lore!It takes to chalk a ball-room floor—Thou knowest the time, too, well-a-day!It takes to dance that chalk away.[3]The Ball-room opens—far and nighComets 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 feetThat sparkle in the lustre's ray,O'er the white path shall bound and playLike Nymphs along the Milky Way:—With every step a star hath fled,And suns grow dim beneath their tread,So passeth life—(thus Scott 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 nightWhat falsehood rankles in their hearts,Who say the Prince neglects the arts—Neglects the arts?—no, Strahlweg,[4] no;ThyCupids answer "'tis not so;"And every floor that night shall tellHow quick thou daubest and how well.Shine as thou mayst in French vermilion,Thou'rtbestbeneath a French cotillion;And still comest off, whate'er thy faults,Withflying colorsin a Waltz.Nor needest thou mourn the transient dateTo thy best works assigned by fate.Whilesome chef-d'oeuvreslive to weary one,Thineboast a short life and a merry one;Their hour of glory past and goneWith "Molly put the kettle on!"[5]
But, bless my soul! I've scarce a leafOf paper left—so must be brief.This festive Fête, in fact, will beThe former Fête'sfacsimile;[6]The same long Masquerade of Rooms,All trickt up in such odd costumes,(These, Porter,[7] are thy glorious works!)You'd swear Egyptians, Moors and Turks,Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice,Had clubbed to raise a Pic-Nic Palace;And each to make the olio pleasantHad sent a State-Room as a present.The samefauteuilsand girondoles—The same gold Asses,[8]pretty souls!That in this rich and classic domeAppear so perfectly at home.The same bright river 'mong the dishes,Butnot—ah! not the same dear fishes—Late hours and claret killed the old ones—So 'stead of silver and of gold ones,(It being rather hard to raiseFish of thatspecienow-a-days)Some sprats have been by Yarmouth's wish,Promoted intoSilverFish,And Gudgeons (so Vansittart toldThe Regent) are as good asGold!
So, prithee, come—our Fête will beBut half a Fête if wanting thee.
[1] An amateur actor of much risible renown.
[2] The crest of Mr. Coates, the very amusing amateur tragedian here alluded to, was a cock; and most profusely were his liveries, harness, etc. covered wit this ornament.
[3] To those who neither go to balls nor readThe Morning Post, it may be necessary to mention, that the floors of Ballrooms, in general, are chalked for safety and for ornament with various fanciful devices.
[4] A foreign artist much patronized by the Prince Regent.
[5] The name of a popular country-dance.
[6] "Carleton House will exhibit a completefacsimilein respect to interior ornament, to what it did at the last Fête. The same splendid draperies," etc.—Morning Post.
[7] Mr. Walsh Porter, to whose taste was left the furnishing of the rooms of Carletone House.
[8] The salt-cellars on the Prince'sowntable were in the form of an Ass with panniers.
* * * * *
Among the papers, enclosed in Dr. Duigenan'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 fatalaccouchement, by which her Fallibility was betrayed.
She begins by reminding him tenderly of the time, when they were together at Athens—when, as she says,
—"by Ilissus' stream"We whispering walkt along, and learned 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![1]"That I, the humble Joan, whose housewife art"Seemed 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 alittle Popepop out before 'em—"PopeInnocent! alas, the only one"That name could e'er be justly fixt upon."
She then very pathetically laments the downfall of her greatness, and enumerates the various treasures to which she is doomed to bid farewell forever:—
"But oh, more dear, more precious ten times over—"Farewell my Lord, my Cardinal, my Lover!"I madetheeCardinal—thou madestme—ah!"Thou madest 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 Emancipationnow, 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 FOEMINAEfert vallum!
[1] 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.
The Manuscript, found enclosed in the Bookseller's Letter, turns out to be a Melo-Drama, in two Acts, entitled "The Book,"[1] of which the Theatres, of course, had had the refusal, before it was presented to Messrs. Lackington 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 Bourbon Chamber[2] in Carleton House— Enter the Prince Regentsolus—After a few broken sentences, he thus exclaims:—
Away—Away—Thou haunt'st my fancy so, thou devilish Book,I meet thee—trace thee, whereso'er I look.I see thy damnedinkin Eldon's brows—I see thyfoolscapon my Hertford's Spouse—Vansittart's head recalls thyleatherncase,And all thyblank-leavesstare from R—d—r's face!While, turning here (laying his hand on his heart,)I find, ah wretched elf,ThyListof direErratain myself.(Walks the stage in considerable agitation.)Oh Roman Punch! oh potent Curaçoa!Oh Mareschino! Mareschino oh!Delicious drams! why have you not the artTo kill this gnawingBook-wormin my heart?
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 Regent."
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 Lord Chancellor, the Duke of Cumberland, etc. The intermediate time is filled up by another Soliloquy, at the conclusion of which the aforesaid Personages rush on alarmed; the Duke with his stays only half-laced, and the Chancellor with his wig thrown hastily over an old red night-cap, "to maintain the becoming splendor of his office."[3] The Regent produces the appalling fragments, upon which the Chancellor breaks out into exclamations of loyalty and tenderness, and relates the following portentous dream:
'Tis scarcely two hours sinceI had a fearful dream of thee, my Prince!—Methought I heard thee midst a courtly crowdSay from thy throne of gold, in mandate loud,"Worship my whiskers!"—(weeps) not a knee was thereBut bent and worshipt the Illustrious Pair,Which curled in conscious majesty! (pulls out his handkerchief)—while criesOf "Whiskers; whiskers!" shook the echoing skies.—Just in that glorious hour, me-thought, there came,With looks of injured pride, a Princely DameAnd a young maiden, clinging by her side,As if she feared some tyrant would divideTwo hearts that nature and affection tied!The Matron came—within herrighthand glowedA radiant torch; while from herlefta loadOf Papers hung—(wipes his eyes) collected in her veil—The venal evidence, the slanderous tale,The wounding hint, the current lies that passFromPosttoCourier, formed the motley mass;Which with disdain before the Throne she throws,And lights the Pile beneath thy princely nose.
(Weeps.)
Heavens, how it blazed!—I'd ask no livelier fire,(With animation) To roast a Papist by, my gracious Sire!—But ah! the Evidence—(weeps again)I mourned to see—Cast as it burned, a deadly light on thee:And Tales and Hints their random sparkles flung,And hissed and crackled, like an old maid's tongue;WhilePostandCourier, faithful to their fame,Made up in stink for what they lackt in flame.When, lo, ye Gods! the fire ascending brisker,Now singesonenow lights theotherwhisker.Ah! where was then the Sylphid that unfurlsHer fairy standard in defence of curls?Throne, Whiskers, Wig soon vanisht into smoke,The watchman cried "Past One," and—I awoke.
Here his Lordship weeps more profusely than ever, and the Regents (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, etc. are examined, and it appears that a Tailor, who had come to measure the Regent for a Dress (which takes three whole pages of the best superfineclinquantin 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.
The commencement of the Second Act turns chiefly upon the Trial and Imprisonment of two Brothers[4]—but as this forms theunderplot of the Drama, I shall content myself with extracting from it the following speech, which is addressed to the two Brothers, as they "exeuntseverally" to Prison:—
Go to your prisons—tho' the air of SpringNo mountain coolness to your cheeks shall bring;Tho' Summer flowers shall pass unseen away,And all your portion of the glorious dayMay be some solitary beam that fallsAt morn or eve upon your dreary walls—Some beam that enters, trembling as if awed,To tell how gay the young world laughs abroad!Yet go—for thoughts as blessed as the airOf Spring or Summer flowers await you there;Thoughts such as He who feasts his courtly crewIn rich conservatoriesneverknew;Pure self-esteem—the smiles that light within—The Zeal, whose circling charities beginWith the few loved-ones Heaven has placed 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 freeThro' prison-bars its hymn to Liberty!
The Scene next changes to a Tailor's Workshop, and a fancifully-arranged group of these Artists is discovered upon the Shop-board—Their task evidently of aroyalnature, from the profusion of gold-lace, frogs, etc., 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 Prince (and a fig for his railers),The Shop-board's delight! the Maecenas of Tailors!Derry down, down, downderry down.
Some monarchs take roundabout ways into note,WhileHisshort cut to fame is—the cut of his coat;Philip's Son thought the World was too small for his Soul,But our Regent's finds room in a laced button-hole.Derry down, etc.
Look thro' 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 Prince about town!Derry down, etc.
During the "Derry down" of this last verse, a messenger from the Secretary of State'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 development—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 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'Mahon upon subjects purely professional, and the corresponding bits (which still lie luckily in his pocket) being produced and skilfully laid beside the others, the followingbillet-douxis the satisfactory result of their juxtaposition,
Honored 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 used for poor Mr. Lambert, when young;But, bless you! they wouldnt go half round the Regent—So, hope you'll excuse yours till death, most obedient.
This fully explains the whole mystery—the Regent resumes his wonted smiles, and the Drama terminates as usual to the satisfaction of all parties.
[1] 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 anybody 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.")
[2] 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") withfleurs de-lys.
[3] "To enable the individual who holds the office of Chancellor to maintain it in becoming splendor." (A loud laugh.)—Lord CASTLEREAGH'SSpeech upon the Vice Chancellor's Bill.
[4] Mr. Leigh Hunt and his brother.