But anuff of this—rite me word what you think of the Hopra—I think Pisarowneye is a bootiful singer—I dont much like Specky, and as for Mountijelly she harn't got no vice—not what I call a sweet vice—Miss Blazes is harmonias, but I see by the bills that they have denounced an Angel and a Devil to act, which I do not think come il pho. I have not seen Suck Kelly, nor Bellygreeny, but I recleck Mollybrown Garshia quite well. The new ballad of Mass and Kneelo is quite splendead—there is a him to the Vergin, sung just like Tedium in a church, and Wesuewius in the rear is quite tremendos. Colonel O'Conner said he never saw a more beautiful crater in all his born days, and he is quite a jug of those matters.
Haprowpow dee Botts—Why do you satyreyes my friends Lethbridge and Fillpott—you give a whole chapter to the Dean every Sunday which is too much, and as for calling Sir Tomass a rat, I deny the fack—at least if he is a rat, the day I saw him at dinner with Lord Wenerables he must have twisted his tail into the bag behind him, for I saw none of it.
I have no noose, except that we all wish you would come and explode these parts—perhaps you will, after you have red the guide. The passage is short and iconumical, only two shillings by the steam bot, or as the French call it, the pack bot avec peur. Do come—we all unite in best regards.
Yours, truly,
Lavinia Dorothea Ramsbottom.
XXIII.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY.
May, 1829.
Dear B.,—As you haven't given any count of the Summerset House expedition, which opened as weasal, the fust Monday in May, I thoght perhaps a few loose remarks of mine and Lavy's would be exceptable, therefore I rite to give you an int of what we think.
Oh, that Precedent, Sir Tummas Larrence—I never seed such pitchers as his—but I need not talk of those, because you nose his merits—what I want is, to bring to your notice some of the young uns.
Well, B., away we went Wensday, and paid our munney at the dore, and the man gave us a chick, and we bought our catlog, and then another man tuck away my parisot, which never happened to me before, the many ears I have seen in that place—he told me if I gave him my one, he would give me a number—which deseived me, so I let him have it, and he gave me a curd—this was just at the bottom of the great Achilles with the fir knees wich is kept in a bird cage, to prevent the people hurting his back—well, up we went—such a stare case—so hot was I—however, at last up we got.
The fust pitcher I seed was Adam and Heve expulsed from Paradise, by Debuffe. In buff I think—I never seed such a thing in all my days, and no reason for it, because it was after the date of the fig leaves—no matter—I turned away my eyes to Doctor Gobbleston, the Bishop of Llandaff, and a plainer creatur I never set my eyes on—his face looks for all the world as if he had been a rat hunting up a chimley. I couldn't look at him long. The next I saw was "I. Strutt, Esqueer, and his sister." I'm sure that is a likeness; and the next is called "a Gentleman," which I am sure cannot be a likeness.
Lord Caravan, with a sword on, is a fine work, and so is a big picture of a Hero going to Philander in the Tower; and near that is one of a Gull with a Guttar, with sich funny pudsy fingers, which made Lavy laugh so as I was quite ashammed of her. Then there is one by Mr. Willes of a Dream, where "Puck takes away an asses head from bottom,"—it is so in the catlog, and I wonder at it—but no matter—I'm sure I felt quite in jeffery when I read such a thing in a book—and Mr. Newton, my favourite, what drawed the Disconsolate Lady in white satan, which hided her head in her hankycher, at the British Gallary, has got the pitcher of a Lady in a Coach-horse Dress, uncommon pretty; and Mr. Picksgill has got Sir Jeffery Dunstan with his gray locks a dangling just as I remember him when he was Mare of Garret, only bigger.
An artist of the name of Bedstead has a picture of two whole Snips, and also of two Jack Snips—which is meant for birds, but I never heard of sich afore. There is also Sir Roger de Coverlee and the Gypsums, and a picture of Lord Drum, (Lampton as was,) by Larrence, like as to phechurs, but not his compleckshun. I wish my Lord had sot to Turner, he would have done him betterer.
Mr. Barraud has a pitcher of his own painting, which he calls the Study of an Ass—how funny!—and there is Miss Phillips of Drury-lane, with a long waste, and no more like her pretty face than I am like her—instead of Dawe after this pitcher they should have put Dawb. Mr. Landseer has got a picture of a dead oh dear, and there is a pitcher of Colonel Johnson, who is called the Cove of Mustcat.
No. 241 is a pitcher of Zebuses and Quaggas, so like you cannot think; and another of the Bishop of Rochester—such a dandy—smirking and smooth faced, with a fancy wig—not a bit of the regelation cut about it—but no matter—he was only the Bishop of Soda the other day—Family made the Mann, and ratting made the Bishop.
There is a french pitcher of crowning a dead body, and a gentleman what is a King, with white stays and a blue walking-stick, a watching on it; and there is a Mr. Luck, secretairer to the London Institution, which is either a piece of bad luck or a bad likeness. In the Antick Acadamme there are two pitchers which are worth looking at—one, Baron Carl Ashating von Triggum, and the other Major Von de Roggery Sue Peppercorn. I loves 'em for their names. Mr. Smith exhibits some specie of Cactus from natur, which of course I did not look at—and No. 576 is the portrait of a Colonel, so like a horse, that if you was not told it was a military officer you never would find it out.
I cannot go all through the catlog—in the model-room, there is the head of a Rabbit, so like an old closeman that I never should have taken it for the little hannimal what hops about; and a buteful busk of Lady Elizabeth Gower, which was the only thing I saw I should like to have had—unless, indeed, it was the great Chanticleer which hangs in the top room, which the King gave the Acadammee; however, I should have staid longer, but a poor gentleman, a stout lustful man, slipped down the stares just as we was looking about, and broke his leg, so bad that we heard he suffered an imputation the same night—this quite shocked Lavy, who has a feline disposition, and can't bear to see any thing hurt—so we came home; but I shall go again, and perhaps rite you some more of my observashuns.—Yours ever,
D. L. Ramsbottom.
XXIV.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM AT THE "CHISWICK FÊTE."
To John Bull.
July, 1829.
My dear B.,—We was all at the wet feet at Chissick on Saturday; Lavy and Fulmer, and Mounsheer, my second, and the two "june dimiselles," as Mounsheer calls them; and sich a site as that for a breakfast, never did I clap my too eyes on—furst of all, we went off in Fulmer's broach and Mounsheer's brisket—all in the poring rein—two cargoes of us, and we was literally socked through and through afore we got there, and there was a great poodle under the place where I sot; however, we had paid our jennies, and we was determined to have a reseat in fool.
But now I must tell you before I begin, that when we got home, Fulmer sot down just like Swalter Scott, or Milton, or Pop, or any one of the potes, and rot a whole account of it in verse, every bit of it as true as if it warn't pottery at all, and then he sung it to us, Lavy playing the Pein forte accompaniment; and when I asked him to give it me for you, he tore it all to hattams. But I matched him there, as I had done afore. As soon as he was gone out of the room I picked up the pieces (which, if I had not a watched him, I think he would have gone and done himself); and so I stuck the paper together as well as I cood, but some of the virses is still missing: however, wherever there is a ole in the ballad I will supply the place with my pros, so as to make it a jint