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At which H-d-t with warm reminiscences gloated,
And Ellenborough 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-ss—y, 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 through the whole night was not once in a passion!
I write this in bed, while my whiskers are airing,
And Mac has a sly dose of jalap preparing
For poor Tommy Tyrrhit 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 !
FROM THE RIGHT HON. PATRICK D-GEN-N, TO THE RIGHT HON. BIR
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 e'en 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—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 !
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 aud Canning's wit,
To hear e'en 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 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 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's lots of 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 inclosures 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 t-
i.e. you need not read but see 'em)
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 CORK TO LADY My dear Lady ! 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 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 Regent, that show is gone byBesides, 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 twoMakes 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 blackA few patriot monsters from Spain were a sight
That would people one's house for one, night after night. * See Mr. Murray's advertisement about the Mal-Coach copies of Rokpl
But-whether the Ministers pawed them too much-
(And you know how they spoil whatsoever they touch)
Or whether Lord George (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. Vaughan's or Lord Liverpool'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-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.
By the bye, 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.
FROM ABDALLAH, IX 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 ;-
Thy head still near the bowstring's borders,
And but left on till further orders !-
Through London streets, with turban fair,
And caftan floating to the air,
I saunter on-the admiration
Of this short-coated population-
This sewed-up race--this buttoned nation-
Who, while they boast their laws so free,
Leave not one limb at liberty,
But live, with all their lordly speeches,
The slaves of buttons and tight breeches !
Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin advertisement of a Lusus Naturæ in the newspapers lately.
t 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 Pe and Mr. Lack-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
Yet, though they thus their knee-pans fetter
(They're Christians, and they know no better), *
In some things they're a thinking nation-
And; on Religious Toleration,
I own I like their notions quite,
They are so Persian and so right!
You know our Sunnites, + hateful dogs!
Whom every pious Shiite flogs
Or longs to flog I-'tis true, they pray
To God, but in an ill-bred way;
With neither arms, nor legs, nor faces
Stuck in their right, canonic places ! S
'Tis true they worship Ali's namell-
Their heaven and ours are just the same
(A Persian's heaven is easily made,
Tis but-black eyes and lemonade).
Yet—though we've tried for centuries back-
We can't persuade the stubborn pack,
By bastinadoes, screws, or nippers,
To wear the established pea-green slippers !
Then-only think-the libertines !
They wash their toes—they comb their chins-
With many more such deadly sins !
And (what's the worst, though last I rank it)
Believe the Chapter of the Blanket !
Yet, spite of tenets so flagitious,
(Which must, at bottom, be seditious;
As no man living would refuse
Green slippers, but from treasonous views;
Nor wash his toes, but with intent
To overturn the Government !)
Such is our mild and tolerant way,
We only curse them twice a-day
(According to a form that's set),
And, far from torturing, only let
*"C'est un honnête homme," said a Turkish governor, of De Ruyter, "c'est grand dommage qu'il soit Chrétien."
Sunnites and Shiites are the two leading sects into which the Mahometan world is divided ; and they have gone on cursing and persecuting each other, without any intermission, for about eleven hundred years.
The Sunni is the established sect in Turkey, and the Shia in Persia ; and the differences between them turn chiefly upon those important points which our pious friend Abdallah in the true spirit of Shiite ascendancy, reprobates in this letter.
"Les Sunnites, qui étoient comme les Catholiques de Musulmanisme." D'Herbelot.
§ “ In contradistinction to the Sounis, who in their prayers cross their hands on the lower part of the breast, the Schiahs drop their arms in straight lines; and as the Sounis, at certain periods of the prayer, press
their foreheads on the ' ground or carpet, the Schiahs," &c., &c.-Forster's Voyage.
# "Les Turcs ne détestent pas Ali réciproquement'; au contraire, ils le reconnoissent,” &c., &c.-Chardin.
1 "The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sunnites consider as a great abomination." -Mariti.