by Thomas Moore
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 a chauffe-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.
INTERCEPTED LETTERS, ETC.
LETTER I.
FROM THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES TO THE LADY BARBARA ASHLER.1
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Since the time of horse-consuls (now long out of date),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 he
To “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 tricks
That 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 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 sackt by a Horse,
“But for us to be ruined by Ponies still 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 stalls
Will 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 abominations
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 Harrowby 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.
“If the Princess will keep 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 new Veto snaffle4 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 applause
From the Statesmen around-and the neck-breaking clause
Had a vigor about it, which soon reconciled
Even Eldon himself to a measure so mild.
So the snaffles, my dear, were agreed to nem. con.,
And my Lord Castlereagh, having so often shone
In the fettering line, is to buckle them on.
I shall drive to your door in these Vetoes some day,
But, at present, adieu!-I must hurry away
To go see my Mamma, as I’m suffered to meet her
For just half an hour by the Queen’s best repeater.
CHARLOTTE.
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.
LETTER II.
FROM COLONEL M’MAHON TO GOULD FRANCIS LECKIE, 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 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 two
Of grave tonsorial preparation,
Which to a fond, admiring nation
Sends forth, announced by trump and drum,
The best-wigged Prince in Christendom.
He thinks with you, the 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 even 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, Castlereagh!”
Or, “Hang me up those Papists, Eldon,”
And ‘twill be done — ay, faith, and well done.
With view to which I’ve his command
To 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 uptu
rning, branch and root,
Lords, Commons, and Burdett to boot.
But, pray, whate’er you may impart, write
Somewhat 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 how
He scared the Chancellor just now,
When (on his Lordship’s entering puft) he
Slapt his back and called 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 Yarmouth’s sketching out a plan
Of new Moustaches à l’Ottomane)
And all things fitting and expedient
To turkify our gracious Regent!
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 missed ’em.
For instance — in Seraglio matters —
Your Turk whom girlish fondness flatters,
Would fill his Haram (tasteless fool!)
With tittering, red-cheekt things from school.
But here (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,)
Our Sultan has much riper notions —
So, let your list of she-promotions
Include those only plump and sage,
Who’ve reached the regulation-age;
That is, (as near as one can fix
From Peerage dates) full fifty-six.
This rule’s for favorites — nothing more —
For, as to wives, a Grand Signor,
Tho’ not decidedly without them,
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. p, 608.
LETTER III.
FROM GEORGE PRINCE REGENT TO THE EARL OF YARMOUTH.1
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 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 Ellenborough,
Who set to, to be sure, with miraculous force,
And exclaimed 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.
“’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 Hunt’s condemnation;
A compliment too to his Lordship the Judge
For his Speech to the Jury — and zounds! who would grudge
Turtle 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 Tokay
Travelled round till our heads travelled just the same way;
And we cared not for Juries or Libels — no — damme! nor
Even for the threats of last Sunday’s Examiner!
More good things were eaten than said — but Tom Tyrrhitt
In quoting Joe Miller you know has some merit;
And hearing the sturdy Judiciary Chief
Say — sated with turtle— “I’ll now try the beef” —
Tommy whispered him (giving his Lordship a sly hit)
“I fear ‘twill be hung-beef, my Lord, if you try it!”
And Camden was there, who that morning had gone
To 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!”
The brains were near Sherry and once had been fine,
But of late they had lain so long soaking in wine,
That tho’ 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.;”
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, and I gave your father.
In short, not a soul till this morning would budge —
We were all fun and frolic, and even the Judge
Laid aside for the time his juridical fashion,
And thro’ the whole night wasn’t once in a passion!
I write this in bed while my whiskers are airing,
And Mac2 has a sly dose of jalap preparing
For 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 close
To 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.
LETTER IV.
FROM THE RIGHT HON. PATRICK DUIGENAN TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN NICHOL.
Last week, dear Nichol, 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 bespattered — hiccup —
“With all the dirt even you can pick up.
“But, as the Prince (here’s to him — fill —
“Hip, hip, hurra!) — is trying still
“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 — hiccu
p — that’s flat.” —
Yes— “muzzled” was the word Sir John —
These fools have clapt a muzzle on
The boldest mouth that e’er run o’er
With slaver of the times of yore!1 —
Was it for this that back I went
As far as Lateran and Trent,
To prove that they who damned us then
Ought now in turn be damned again?
The silent victim still to sit
Of 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 be
The Nightman of No-Popery?
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 dubbed Right Hon.
Like me too art a Lawyer Civil
That wishes Papists at the devil.
To whom then but to thee, my friend,
Should Patrick2 his Port-folio send?
Take it— ’tis thine — his learned Port-folio,
With all its theologic olio
Of 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 creation
Your Priests, whate’er their gentle shamming,
Have always had a taste for damning,)
And many more such pious scraps,
To prove (what we’ve long proved, perhaps,)
That mad as Christians used 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 Nichol,
A rod or two I’ve had in pickle
Wherewith to trim old Grattan’s jacket. —
The rest shall go by Monday’s packet.
P. D.
Among the Enclosures in the foregoing Letter was the following “Unanswerable Argument against the Papists.”
We’re told the ancient Roman nation
Made use of spittle in lustration;
(Vide “Lactantium ap. Gallaeum”3 —
i. e. you need not read but see ’em;)
Now Irish Papists — fact surprising —
Make use of spittle in baptizing;