FROM G. R. TO THE E OF Y

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 E- —gh,

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 H-nt's condemnation

A compliment too to his Lordship the J-e

For his speech to the J-y,-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

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 ast Sunday's Examiner !

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 whispered 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;

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-- ; and once they'd been fine,
But of late they had lain so long soaking in wine,

1 This letter, as the reader will perceive, was written the day after a dinner given by the Mof H-d-t. 18

That, however we still might in courtesy call
Them a fine dish of brains, 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 H-d-t with warm reminiscences gloated,
And E-b'r-h 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 honoured by kissing their dears:
This museum of wittols was comical rather;
Old H-d-t gave M-y, and I gave

e

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,

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 jalap preparing

For poor T-mmy T-rr-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 be bespattered-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 profes-
sions,

Dublin.1

"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 clapped a muzzle on
The boldest mouth that e'er ran o'er
With slaver of the times of yore !a—
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

And as you deal in strong expressions-Of G-tt-n's fire and C-nn-g's wit,

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. See the Appendix.

2 In sending this sheet to the Press, however, I learn that the muzzle' has been taken off, and the Right Hon. Doctor let loose again.

To hear even noisy M-th-w gabble | That, mad as Christians used to be

LETTER V.

FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF C

! I've been just sending out

About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout-
(By-the-bye, you've seen Rokeby?-this moment got mine-
The 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 laughed to see Townsend, last night,
Escort to their chair, 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 remarked 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, the size of the two--
Makes a block that one's company cannot get through;
And a house such as mine is, 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 Kamchatkan arrived?
No Plenipo Pacha, three-tailed and ten-wived?
No Russian, whose dissonant consonant name
Almost 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 sight
That would people one's house for one, night after night,
But-whether the Ministers pawed them too much-
(And you know how they spoil whatever 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. Vn's or Lord L-v-rp-l's!

But in short, my dear, names like Wintztschitstopschinzoudhof

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-Lord! 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.