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

LETTER III.

FROM G. R. TO THE E OF Y

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 E-

66

-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.
'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 cared not for Juries or Libels-no

Even for the threats of last Sunday's Examiner !

nor

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;

*This letter, as the reader will perceive, was written the day after a dinner given by the M- of H—

And the dish set before him-oh, dish well-devised!

Was what old Mother Glasse calls "a calf's-head surprised!" ; and once they'd been fine,

The brains were near

But of late they had lain so long soaking in wine,
That, however we still might in courtesy call
Them a fine dish of brains, they were no brains at all.

In short, not a soul till this morning would budge—
We were all fun and frolic!—and even the J-
Laid aside, for the time, his juridical fashion,

e

And through the whole night was not once in a passion!

I write this in bed, while my whiskers are airing,

And M-c has a sly dose of jalup preparing

For poor T-mmy T-rrh-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 !

LETTER IV.

FROM THE RIGHT HON. P-TR-CK D-G-N-N TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR J-HN N-CH-L.

LAST week, dear N-ch-1, 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 bespatter'd-hiccup-
With all the dirt even you can pick up-
But as the P- -e (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-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! +

Dublin.*

* 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.

In sending this sheet to the press, however, I learn that the "muzzle" has been taken off, and the right honourable doctor let loose again !

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 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 portfolio send?
Take it 'tis thine his learn'd portfolio,
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 shews 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 craps,

To prove (what we've long proved, perhaps)
That, mad as Christians used to be
About the thirteenth century,
There's lots of Christians to be had
In this, the nineteenth, just as mad!
Farewell!-I send with this, dear N-ch-1,
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.

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. Gallæum +-
i.e., you need not read, but see 'em ;)

* This is a bad name for poetry; but D-gan-n is worse.
"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 à Papistis profanari, et sputi usum in peccatorum expiatione à Paganis non à Christianis manasse."

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 baptized with spittle
Hath no truth in him-not a tittle!

LETTER V.

FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF C- TO LADY

My dear Lady

! I've been just sending out

Above five hundred cards for a snug little rout

(By the by, you've seen Rokeby ?-this moment got mineThe 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,
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, 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.
Is there no Algerine, no Kamschatkan arrived?
No Plenipo-Pacha, three-tail'd and ten-wived?
No Russian, whose dissonant consonant name
Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame?

* See Mr Murray's advertisement about the mail-coach copies of Rokeby.

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-n's, or Lord L-v-rp-l's!

But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschitstopschinzoudhoff

Are 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, indeed, 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 by, 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.

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

* Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin advertisement of a lusus naturæ in the newspapers lately.

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 is 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.