When I got up stairs again, I was sick of the smoking, and so I went into the cabin, where there were more smokers—in short, dear B., whether I travels by land or by water, still I am smoked to death—it is a most horrid custom, and, perhaps, if you notice it, some on 'em will leave it off. I will rite again when we are settled.—Yours truly,
L. D. Ramsbottom.
XVI.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM'S CONUNDRUMS.
To John Bull.
Montague Place, Dec. 28, 1827.
Dear B.,—I never like to fail writing to you at this season, but I don't like puttin you to the expense of postage; and yet, when I hear of any thing peakant, I wish to send it you.
You must know that me and all the gulls have taken to making knundrums, as they call them, and what we can't make, we collex. We got the idear from having purchased some of the hannual perodicals. I boght the Omelet, and Lavinia boght the Bougie, and they set us upon putting knundrums into our Albions.
It being Christmas, and it coming but once a year, I have sent you some of ours, which perhaps you won't print, but may serve to make you laugh.
What three letters spell Archipelago—(what that is I don't know; but this is the answer)—E. G. and C.
Why is a man about to put his father in a sack like a traveller on his way to a city in Asia?—Because he is going to Bag Dad.
Why is a child with a cold in its head like a winter's night?—Because "it blows, it snows."—(nose, you know.)
Why is the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland like a man inquiring what o'clock it is?—Because he is as King for the time.
If a pair of spectacles could speak, what author would they name?—Eusebius—(You see by us.)
Why is a flourishing landlord sure to have plenty of relatives?—Because he must have Ten-ants.
What are the best shoes for wet weather?—Pumps.
Why is a sermon on board ship like Sir Edward Codrington's red ribband?—Because it is a deck oration.
Why is a very little devil sitting on the top of a cow-house like a man who has squandered all his property?—Because he is Imp over a shed.
What sea would one wish to be in on a rainy night?—A dry attic.
Why is a libeller in Newgate like a traveller who has caught a rheumatism at a bad inn?—Because he suffers for lying in damp sheets!
Why is a gentleman in a Calais packet on a stormy day, like a gentleman sailing in part of the Mediterranean?—Because he is amongst the Cyclades.
Why are glass coaches so plentiful in London?—Because they are without number.
When is a door not a door?—When it is a-jar.
When is it more than a door?—When 'tis to!
Why is the root of the tongue like a dejected man?—Because it is down in the mouth!
Why is a hired landau not a landau?—Because it is a landau let!
Why is a lean Monarch constantly worrying himself?—Because he is always a thin king!
Why is a Tragedy a more natural performance in a theatre than a Comedy?—Because the boxes are always in Tiers!
Why is Parliament-street like a compendium?—Because it goes to a bridge!
If all the alphabet were invited to dinner, why could they not all accept the invitation?—Because six of them come after T.
Why is a boy doing his first sums like a serpent erect?—Because he is an adder-up!
And last, dear Mr. B. (which I will not tell you),
Why am I like a sheep's tail?
Yours always,
Dorothea R.
Note.—Several of the above, with all respect to our dear friend Dorothea, are extracted from that excellent paper the Berkshire Chronicle, and others from a small book called "D'ye give it up?" sold at a Charitable Bazaar, established at Kensington.
J. B.
XVII.
A LETTER FROM CHELTENHAM.
To John Bull.
Cheltenham, April 11, 1828.
My dear B.,—I have been prevented writing you of late; two of my youngest daughters have had the mizzles, which has been succeeded by a cough and considerable expectation, but I have changed my doctor, and shall do uncommon well now. The last person, who fancies himself a second Hippocrite, had the impotence to say my girls had a low fever—girls brought up as they have been, like duchesses—so I said nothing; but when he called again, I was denied to him and sent for his arrival; and we are all going on well, and keep up our spirits accordingly.
A regiment is I believe the best thing after all; for I have just discovered that Shakspeare, the mortal bird, as my son calls him, died of indisgestion, which I did not know till my new doctor told me so; he said, that poor Shakspeare was quite destroyed by common tato's, which must have been some coarse sort of the root in use in his time; and the doctor also told me, that he was attended by a Doctor Johnson and a Mr. Stevens; but I thought to myself, too many cooks spoil the broth; and even my medical said he thought he would have done better if they had left him alone. What made us talk about the great swain of Avon was my saying I thought She Stoops to Conquer a very droll play.
My son-in-law has bought a beautiful picture, a Remnant undoubted; it is as black as your hat, and shines like a tea tray, and is considered, as indeed it is, what the French call, a shade over of that great master; he has also bought a jem of considerable vallew; he says it is an antic of a dancing fawn, but it looks to me like a man with a tail, a jumping. He has got several very curious things at shops here; but he goes poking his nose into all the oles and corners for curiosities, and sometimes gets into sad scrapes; he is a French Mounsheer, you recollect; and at one of the sails he scraped acquaintance with a young dandy-looking man with dark musquitos on his lips, which we had seen every morning a drinking the waters regularly, and so we let him walk and talk with us; and at last we was told that he was no better than he should be, and had been convicted of purgery, which I did not think so great a crime, considering where we was; however, he is gone away, which I am glad of.
I told you my son-in-law was a French Mounsheer, but I did not know till the other day that he was in the army, for he has been so sly as never to mention it; but I saw one of his letters from his elder brother, and in the direction he called him Cadet, which after all is no very high rank, you know. I should, however, have very much liked to have seen the boys from the Miliary Asslum march to the Surrey Theatre; it must have been a beautiful site; I suppose they got leave through the Egerton General's office.
Have you read Lord Normandy's Yes or No, or Mr. Liston's Herbert Lacy? I should think it must be very droll, he is such a droll cretur himself; and pray tell me if you have heard any news from Portingal of the Don. Major Macpherson calls him Don M'Gill, and Captain O'Dogherty calls him Don My jewel—how do