curious enough, it was the very day that poor Mr. Ram overeat himself
in the City--we had some stewed Angles, and a couple of Pulls done
up in a dish of Shoe; which is much of a muchness with English fowl
and cabbage--we had afterwards an amulet of sulphur and some things
done in crumbs of bread, which they wanted to pass off upon me as
wheat-ears--but I had not lived at Brighton two seasons for nothing,
and do happen to know the difference between wheat-ears and oysters;
and so I told them.
Mr. Fulmer ordered a bottle of Oil of Purdry, which tasted a good
deal like Champaigne, but he said it was mouse; the girls liked it,
and Lavy laughed so loud that she quite astonished an officer of
Chindammery who was drinking cafe at the next table.
I have left my third and fourth daughters in Paris, to finish their
education--they will be taught every thing that girls can be taught,
and are to be regularly boarded every day (without regard to its
being Lent) for less than seventy pounds per ann.; and they learn so
many more things in France than girls do in England, that when they
return they might set up for mistresses themselves--what an advantage
there must be to a young woman, who is likely to have occasion for it
in her latter end, in a continent education--they call these schools
puncheons.
I desired, of course, that the Popish Prater, or priest, might have
no communication with my girls--I don't approve of what they call
the horal confession--to be sure it is a mere matter of feeling--but
I saw one young lady in Saint Surplice one day a confessing away
to a fine handsome Prater, and I thought it would have been much
better done in some more private place than a church. I understood
afterwards she was a lady who had been long married, but her husband
had no hair to his property, and she used to come every day and
confess to the Prater, and pray for a child--poor thing, she seemed
very much in earnest.
The onion of Lavy with Mr. Fulmer is postponed; his ant is dead,
and it would not be respectful to be married while the dool (as
the French call it) continues; I am driven to the last moment, as
Lavy and her sister are analyzing themselves to go to see the great
picture of Pompey, in the Strand--Lavy means to write to you next
week herself. --Your's truly,
DOROTHEA J. RAMSBOTTOM.
IX.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM ANNOUNCES THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND AND DESCRIBES HER
VISIT TO ROME.
TO JOHN BULL.
Montague Place, Jan. 6, 1825.
DEAR MR. BULL,--Why don't you write to us--or call? We are all of
us well, and none of us no more, as perhaps you may suppose, except
poor Mr. Ram.--of course you know of his disease, it was quite
unexpected, with a spoonful of turtle in his mouth--the real gallipot
as they call it. However, I have no doubt he is gone to heaven, and
my daughters are gone to Bath, except Lavy, who is my pet, and never
quits me.
The physicians paid great attention to poor Mr. Ram., and he suffered
nothing--at least that I know of. It was a very comfortable thing
that I was at home shay new, as the French say, when he went, because
it is a great pleasure to see the last of one's relations and friends.
You know we have been to Room since you heard from us--the infernal
city as it is called--the seat of Poopery, and where the Poop himself
lives. He was one of the Carnals, and was elected just before we was
there: he has changed his name, not choosing to disgrace his family.
He was formerly Doctor Dallyganger, but he now calls himself Leo,
which the Papists reverse, and call him Ole or Oleness. He is a fine
cretur, and was never married, but he has published a Bull in Room,
which is to let people commit all kind of sin without impunity,
which is different from your Bull, which shoes up them as does any
crime. He is not Poop this year, for he has proclaimed Jew Billy in
his place, which is very good, considering the latter gentleman is a
general, and not of his way of thinking.
Oh, Mr. Bull, Room is raley a beautiful place.--We entered it by
the Point of Molly, which is just like the Point and Sally at
Porchmouth, only they call Sally there Port, which is not known in
Room. The Tiber is not a nice river, it looks yellow; but it does
the same there as the Tames does here. We hired a carry-letty and
a cocky-olly, to take us to the Church of Salt Peter, which is
prodigious big:--in the center of the pizarro there is a basilisk
very high--on the right and left two handsome foundlings; and the
farcy, as Mr. Fulmer called it, is ornamented with collateral
statutes of some of the Apostates.
There is a great statute of Salt Peter himself, but Mr. Fulmer thinks
it to be Jew Peter, which I think likely too--there were three
brothers of the same name, as of course you know--Jew Peter the
fortuitous, the capillary, and toenails; and it is curos that it must
be him, for his toes are kissed away by the piety of the religious
debauchees who visit his shin and shrine--Besides, I think it is
Jew Peter, because why should not he be worshipped as well as Jew
Billy?--Mr. Fulmer made a pun, Lavy told me, and said the difference
between the two Jew Billies was, that one drew all the people to the
_sinagog_, and the other set all the people _agog to sin_--I don't
conceive his meaning, which I am afraid is a Dublin tender.
There was a large quire of singers, but they squeaked too much
to please me--and played on fiddles, so I suppose they have no
organs;--the priests pass all their time in dissolving sinners by
oracular confusion, which, like transmogrification, is part of their
doctoring--the mittens in the morning, and whispers at night, is just
equally the same as at Paris.
Next to Salt Peter's Church is the Church of Saint John the Latter
end, where the Poop always goes when he is first made--there is
another basilisk here covered with highro-griffins.
I assure you the Colocynth is a beautiful ruin--it was built for
fights, and Mr. Fulmer said that Hell of a gabbler, an Emperor,
filled his theatre with wine--what a sight of marvels Mr. B. oh, so
superb!--the carraway, and paring, and the jelly and tea-cup, which
are all very fine indeed.
The Veteran[10] (which I used foolishly to call the Vacuum till I
had been there), is also filled with statutes--one is the body of
the angel Michael, which has been ripped to pieces, and is therefore
said to be Tore-so--but I believe this to be a poetical fixture:--the
statute of the Racoon is very moving, its tail is prodigious long,
and goes round three on 'em--the Antipodes is also a fine piece of
execution.
As for paintings there is no end to them in Room--Mr. Raffles's
Transmigration is I think the finest--much better than his
Harpoons:--there are several done by Hannah Bell Scratchy,[11] which
are beautiful; I dare say she must be related to Lady Bell, who is
a very clever painter, you know, in London. The Delapidation of St.
John by George Honey[12] is very fine, besides several categorical
paintings, which pleased me very much.
The shops abound with Cammyhoes and Tallyhoes--which last always
reminded me of the sports of the field at home, and the cunning of
sly Reynolds a getting away from the dogs. They also make Scally
holies at Rome, and what they call obscure chairs--but, oh Mr. B.
what a cemetry there is in the figure of Venus of Medicine, which
belongs to the Duke of Tusk and eye--her contortions are perfect.
We walked about in the Viccissitude, and hired a maccaroni, or as
the French, alluding to the difficulty of satisfying the English,
call them, a "lucky to please," and, of course, exploded the Arch of
Tightas and the Baths of Diapason. Every day exposes something new
there, to the lovers of what they call the belly arty, who have made
a great many evacuations in the Forum. Poor Lavy, whom I told you was
fond of silly quizzing, fell down on the Tarpaulin Rock, in one of
her revelries--Mr. Fulmer said it would make a capital story when
she got home, but I never heard another syllabub about it.
One thing surprised me, the Poop (who wears three crowns together,
which are so heavy that they call his cap, a tirer) is always talked
of as Paw-paw, which seems very improper, his Oleness was ill the
last day we went to the Chapel at the Choir and all, having taken
something delirious the day before at dinner; he was afterwards
confined with romantic gout; but we saw enough of him after, and
it was curious to observe the Carnals prostituting themselves
successfully before him--he is like the German corn plaster which Mr.
Ram used to use--quite unavailable.
However, Mr. B., the best part of all, I think, was our coming
home--I was so afraid of the pandittis, who were all in trimbush with
arquebasades and Bagnets that I had no peace all the time we were on
root--but I must say I liked Friskhearty; and Tiffaly pleased me, and
so did Miss Senis's Villa and the Casket Alley; however home is home,
be it never so homely, and here we are, thank our stars.
We have a great deal to tell you, if you will but call upon us--Lavy
has not been at the halter yet, nor do I know when she will, because
of the mourning for poor Mr. Ram--indeed I have suffered a great deal
of shag green on account of his disease, and above all have not been
able to have a party on Twelfth Night.
Yours truly,
DOROTHEA RAMSBOTTOM.
Pray write, dear Mr. B.
X.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM OBJECTS TO BEING PUT IN A PLAY.
Elysium Row, Fulham, July 8, 1825.
MY DEAR B.,--I am in a dreadful state--I see by the play ills, that a
Play about our family at Rhymes is in preparation at Common Garden.
When I saw the divertisement in the _Currier_, I thought I should
have perspired. I never was at Rhymes. I saw my own King, God bless
him, crowned--but I neither saw Lues de Sweet nor Charles Deece done
anything to, nor never meant to go. What is the Santampoole to me--I
don't like Poopery, nor ever did. Pray do you know Mr. Coleman (him
as I spoke of before) the itinerary surgeon at Pancras? I am told
he cuts out what he likes, of whatever appears at Common Garden,
ever since the horses was introduced--if you could contrive to get
us emitted, I should be much obligated. Lavy is in a perfect favour
about it; and if dear Mr. Ram was not diseased and in his grave, I
think he would have gone mad to see our names blackguarded against
the walls--besides, there's our cousins--them is more angry than we.
In short, I have no doubt but the Play has been caused by some little
peake against our family, and I trust to your goodness to get it
anniliated beforehand.--Your's, ever, dear B.,
DOROTHEA JULIA RAMSBOTTOM.
P.S. If any of your friends wants a house in a rural situation, our
house in Montague-place is still to let.
XI.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM WRITES FROM DIEPPE.
Dippe, January 1, 1826.
DEAR MR. B.,--You have not heard from any on us for a long
time--indeed I have no spirts to write to any body, for Lavy has been
very mal indeed--we are stopping at Dippe, so called as you know,
from being a bathing-place, for I am worried to death.
Our house in Montague-place, which since dear Mr. Ram's disease I
cannot think of stopping in, is still to let, which is so much waste
of money--it is a nice house, open behind to the Mewseum Jordans,
and in front all the way to Highgate; but I cannot get it off my
hands. As for Mr. Ram's little property in Gloucestershire, I never
can go there, for my lawyer tells me, although we might live there
if we like, that one of Mr. Ram's creditors has got a lion on the
estate, and I cannot think of going to expose myself to the mercy of
a wild cretur like that a running about--however, as the French says,
"_jamais esprit_,"--never mind--I cannot help it.
My son Tom, who is a groin up, is to be in the law himself, indeed I
have put him out to Grazing,[13] under a specious pleader--I should
like him to be apprenticed to the Lord Chancellor at once, and
brought up to the business regular, but I don't know how to get it
managed--do you think Mr. Harmer could put me in the way of it?
I only write to wish you the full complement of the season--we are a
good deal troubled with wind here, but otherwise we are very snug,
and there are several high-burning gentlemen of very large property
living in Dippe, who are kind enough to dine with us almost every
day. I like them--they have no pride at all about them, and, to look
at them, you would not think they was worth a Lewy.
I take the advantage of a currier, who is in the Bureau here, and is
going over with despatches, just to tell you we are alive--if you
know anybody as wants an agreeable Rusin-hurby, do recommend our
house in M. P. I have no noose, but am your's unhalterably,
L. D. RAMSBOTTOM.
If you would like to see my dairy continued, I will send you some
sheets, which you may print or not, as you choose. Write and say _we
oo nong--wooley woo_?
XII.
HASTINGS.
TO JOHN BULL.
Eastey's Hotel, Common Garden, Oct., 1826.
DEAR B.,--It will no doubt be a surprise to you to hear that we are
back in London; we landed from a French batow at Hastings the day
before yesterday, after a long stay upon the continent. We were very
much impeded on landing by some sailors belonging to what I think
is very properly called the Blockhead service, who would not let my
daughters pass without looking all over them. Two men said they were
the customs there, which I thought very odd--one of them told us he
was Count Roller, but I did not believe him.
My second daughter Amelrosa has at last got a swan of her own, to
whom she is about to be united in the silken banns of Highman. I have
but one objection--he is a French Mounsheer, and do what I can they
talk so fast I cannot understand them: however, she _will_ have him,
nolus bolus, as the man says; and when once her mind is made up, she
is as resolute as the laws of the Maids and Parsons.
Mr. Rogers, the banker, (I know you know him,) came over with us in
the batow, and made many very odd remarks--one thing he said, at
which every body laughed, I could not tell why. My French footer
son-in-law asked him what the shore was called, which was close to
Hastings. "Close to Hastings," said Mr. Rogers, "why, Jane Shore, I
suppose." He is a very old-looking genus for a whig wag--Mr. Fulmer
said he put him in mind of Confusion, the old Chinee philosopher, who
was a Mandolin in them parts a year or two ago.
Hastings is a beautiful place to my mind; there is a long parade
close to the water, where you may see all the company bathing in the
morning like so many dukes. At one end is the place for the ladies,
and at the other you see all the gentlemen's machines a standing,
which are very properly kept at a great distance from the female
parts. The houses by the side of this are very nice, and reminded me
very much of French houses, with shops under them, only there are no
portes cochons.
We met an old friend of ours at Hastings, who wanted us to stop a
few days, but she was very conspicious, for she wore a black whale,
by way of petticoat, and she and her two daughters was all painted
both red and white in the morning, which had a very bad look; so
we said we was engaged, and came on as fast as we could--for I was
glad enough to get away from all the scurf and billies, which was a
roaring upon the bitch.
Where we are living now is in Southampton-street, and was the
house of Mr. Garrick, the author of "The School for Scandal," and
all Shakspeare's plays. The waiter tells us that Mr. Johnston, of
Covent-garden, and an old Goldsmith, of the name of Oliver, used very
often to dine with him in the very room in which I write this, and
that that excellent and amiable man, Sir George Beaumont, who, as you
know, wrote half Mr. Fletcher's works, and who is alive and merry at
this moment, used to dine here too--but that, I think, is a little
trow four,[14] for Garrick, I believe, has been dead more than two
hundred and fifty years.
I cannot let my house in Montague Place, because of the new
Universality in Gore Street--however, if I go and live there,
they say there will be a great many Bachelors in the College,
and perhaps I may get off one or two of my girls. I write this
while my French footer son-in-law is playing Macarty with his
Dulcimer Amelrosa--Macarty is, to my mind, little better than a bad
translation of all-fours into French; but above all, I cannot bare
to hear Mounsheer while he is a playing, for whenever he has got the
ace of spades in his hand, he talks of a part of Derbyshire which is
never mentioned in decent society not by no means whatsoever.
In Paris we saw Mr. Cannon, the Secretary of State, but without any
state at all--he was just like any other man--and as for his foreign
affairs, I saw none that he had--he was quite without pride--not at
all like Count Potto o' de Boggo, who is a great Plenipo there, and
struts about just as grand as the Roman Consols did, when they used
to have their Feces tied up in bundles and carried before them by
their Lickturs. I have no notion of paying such reverence to officers
of humane institution for my part, and I quite love Mr. Cannon for
his want of ostensibility.
We met with an uncommon unpleasant accident coming to town--one of
the horses, which was seized with the staggers, a disorder very like
St. Witulus's dance in men, broke his breeches in going down an ill,
which very nearly overturned the carriage, which we had hired at
Hastings; for of course we had no coach in the batow, and were glad
enough to catch a couple of flies even in this cold season, to convey
us to Tunbridge Wells, a place I had never seen before, and which is
like Cranburn Alley put out to grass--there are various ills about
the neighbourhood, which are named after Scripture, why I cannot
tell--we did not drink any of the waters, none of us being in any way
deceased.
I think I have now taken leave of old Ossian for this season, at all
events; and as far as that goes, if I never see the briny dip again
I shall not fret, for though it is a very good thing to breed fish
in, I never want to be upon its billies any more. I hope to leave
this after Amelrosa is married, which will be soon, I suppose, and
the moment I do I will write again; meanwhile, if you like to drop in
to a tête-à-tête of six, we shall always be glad to see you; and so
believe me, dear B., yours very truly,
DOROTHEA L. RAMSBOTTOM.
P.S.--I have some notion of taking a country house near London, but
am divided at present between Acteon and Corydon.
XIII.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM ON THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.
TO JOHN BULL.
Montague Place, Russell Square, Feb. 1, 1827.
DEAR B.,--You will be surprized at finding me back at the old
house--but we have not been able to get rid of it, so we have
resolved upon living in it till we can.
My second daughter, which married Monsheer Delcroy, is _on saint_,
which pleases him very much--he is quite a gentleman, and has
travailed all over Europe, and has seen all our allies (which means
the friendly Courts) upon the Continent--he knows Lord Burgos, which
is one of the Henvoys of England, and was chosen to make overtures
to some foreign king--I think it was a very good choice, if _I_ may
judge; for I heard one of his overtures the other night at a consort
in town, which was beautiful. My son-in-law also knows the Admirable
Sir Sidney Smith, what made such a disturbance in Long Acre many
years since, of which I cannot say I know the rights.
I met your friend, Mr. Rogers, last week at a party, and he made what
the French call a tambourine (I think)--there was a supper, and the
lady of the house, whose husband is a See captain, had some of the
veal on table which had been preserved in a pot, and carried out on
a pole by Captain Parry in his last voyage to Ireland, and when Mr.
Rogers heard what it was, he congratulated the lady that her husband
was appointed to a ship, for, says he, "I see, ma'am, he has got the
_Veal de Parry_!"--at which every body laughed--but I don't know
why, because the _Veal de Parry_ is a French word, and means the
Mephistopholis of France.
My son-in-law (number one, as I call him) Fulmer, which married
Lavy, is a Member of Parliament--he is put in by a great man, whose
name I cannot mention; he tells us a good deal of what they do in the
house--he says there are two sets on 'em in there, one is called the
Eyes and the other the Nose--the Eyes is the government side, because
they watch over the people; and the Nose is them as tries to smell
out something wrong--Mr. Calcraft, Mr. Broom, and Mr. Denman, and
them belongs to the Nose party.
But what I never knew before is, that there is a coffee-house and
a bar there--the gentleman which keeps the coffee-house is called
_Belly-me_, and he gives them their dinner. Fulmer says you may see
many a man who has a stake in the country taking his chop there; and,
because sobriety is considered a pint of decency, they never drink
more than a pint of wine with their vitals, which is very proper
indeed. This place has been famous for its beef-steaks ever since the
_rump_ Parliament. I believe the House of Lords pays for the dinners
of the House of Commons, for I see they very often carry up their
bills to them.
There is another strange thing, which is, that the Speaker has no
voice, which I think very droll indeed--but what is more curious
still, is, that ladies are never admitted to see the representation,
as it is called; but sometimes they come and peep through the
venterlater, which is a hole in the top to let out the smell, and so
hears the speeches that way.
Talking of Mr. Broom; only think! our famous Hay-Tea Company being
resolved after all--I got some shares, because I saw Mr. Broom's name
to it, and because it was to do away with slavery in China, where
the present tea comes from. I have lost a lump of money by _that_,
and have been very unfortunate all through with these Joint Company
peculations. Lavy has got three Real del Monte shares worth 110
premiums--those _I_ had, I believe, were not _real_ ones at all, for
I never got anything whatsoever by them.
Only think, Sir, of poor Mr. Prince Tollyrang being knocked down
while he was attending as chambermaid to the King, at Sandennie.
They have got a joke now in France, my son-in-law (Number too,
as I calls him) told me yesterday--They say, "il a reprit ses
Culottes"--Culottes are things which the Popish Priests wear upon
their heads; and the joke turns upon the difference between the
culottes and soufflets, which are amulets of eggs, of which I once
before wrote to you, from the other side of Old Ossian.
I should tell you that my Bowfeeze (as he calls himself) Delcroy, is
learning English very fast, but he will not do it the wriggler way,
but gets his Dicks and Harries, and so puzzells out every word. We
had a great laugh against him the other day--
He was a coming home through St. Giles's (which is the only way to
this), and there was two women a fighting in the street, and Delcroy
he stood listening to hear what it was all about; but doose a word
could he make out, till at last one of the women gave the other,
what the fighters call a Flora, and she tumbled down, and then the
friends of her agonist called out "Well done Peg," which Delcroy
got into his head, and come home all the way, a saying to himself,
"Well--done--Peg;" quite dissolved to find out what it meant, in he
comes--up stairs he goes--down comes his Dicks and Harries, and out
he finds the words--
First, he finds "Well"--an evacuation made in the earth to find water;
Next he finds "Dun"--a colour betwixt black and brown;
And last he finds "Peg"--a wooden nail.
Oh! then to hear him rave and swear about our Lang Anglay--it was
quite orrible--for he knew well enough, with all his poking and
groping, that that could not be the meaning; so now, whenever he
begins to try his fine scheme, my girls (little toads) run after him
and cry out "Well done Peg!"
I wish you would drop in and see us--we are all in the family way
here; but my two youngest daughters play very pretty--one they say
has as much execution as Muscles on the piano-forte, or Key-sweater
on the fiddle; they play the late Mr. Weaver's overture to Obrien
uncommon well as a do-it; the Roundo is very difficult they tell
me--indeed I know it must be a beautiful piece of music, because they
have printed FINE in large letters at the end of it.
But I waist too much of your time--do come and take your tea with
us--we live a good deal out of the way, but when you get down to the
bottom of Oxford-street, ask anybody, and they will tell you which
road to take--it is all lighted at night here, and watched just like
London--do come.
Adoo, yours, truly,
LAVINIA D. RAMSBOTTOM.
XIV.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM ON THE CANNING ADMINISTRATION.
TO JOHN BULL.
Montague Place, Bedford Square,
May 18, 1827.