The Choice Humorous Works, Ludicrous Adventures 14

The Choice Humorous Works, Ludicrous Adventures 14

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.