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.
We met with an uncommon unpleasant accident coming to town—one of the horses, which was seized with the staggers, a disorder very like St. Witulus's dance in men, broke his breeches in going down an ill, which very nearly overturned the carriage, which we had hired at Hastings; for of course we had no coach in the batow, and were glad enough to catch a couple of flies even in this cold season, to convey us to Tunbridge Wells, a place I had never seen before, and which is like Cranburn Alley put out to grass—there are various ills about the neighbourhood, which are named after Scripture, why I cannot tell—we did not drink any of the waters, none of us being in any way deceased.
I think I have now taken leave of old Ossian for this season, at all events; and as far as that goes, if I never see the briny dip again I shall not fret, for though it is a very good thing to breed fish in, I never want to be upon its billies any more. I hope to leave this after Amelrosa is married, which will be soon, I suppose, and the moment I do I will write again; meanwhile, if you like to drop in to a tête-à-tête of six, we shall always be glad to see you; and so believe me, dear B., yours very truly,
Dorothea L. Ramsbottom.
P.S.—I have some notion of taking a country house near London, but am divided at present between Acteon and Corydon.
XIII.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM ON THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.
To John Bull.
Montague Place, Russell Square, Feb. 1, 1827.
Dear B.,—You will be surprized at finding me back at the old house—but we have not been able to get rid of it, so we have resolved upon living in it till we can.
My second daughter, which married Monsheer Delcroy, is on saint, which pleases him very much—he is quite a gentleman, and has travailed all over Europe, and has seen all our allies (which means the friendly Courts) upon the Continent—he knows Lord Burgos, which is one of the Henvoys of England, and was chosen to make overtures to some foreign king—I think it was a very good choice, if I may judge; for I heard one of his overtures the other night at a consort in town, which was beautiful. My son-in-law also knows the Admirable Sir Sidney Smith, what made such a disturbance in Long Acre many years since, of which I cannot say I know the rights.
I met your friend, Mr. Rogers, last week at a party, and he made what the French call a tambourine (I think)—there was a supper, and the lady of the house, whose husband is a See captain, had some of the veal on table which had been preserved in a pot, and carried out on a pole by Captain Parry in his last voyage to Ireland, and when Mr. Rogers heard what it was, he congratulated the lady that her husband was appointed to a ship, for, says he, "I see, ma'am, he has got the Veal de Parry!"—at which every body laughed—but I don't know why, because the Veal de Parry is a French word, and means the Mephistopholis of France.
My son-in-law (number one, as I call him) Fulmer, which married Lavy, is a Member of Parliament—he is put in by a great man, whose name I cannot mention; he tells us a good deal of what they do in the house—he says there are two sets on 'em in there, one is called the Eyes and the other the Nose—the Eyes is the government side, because they watch over the people; and the Nose is them as tries to smell out something wrong—Mr. Calcraft, Mr. Broom, and Mr. Denman, and them belongs to the Nose party.
But what I never knew before is, that there is a coffee-house and a bar there—the gentleman which keeps the coffee-house is called Belly-me, and he gives them their dinner. Fulmer says you may see many a man who has a stake in the country taking his chop there; and, because sobriety is considered a pint of decency, they never drink more than a pint of wine with their vitals, which is very proper indeed. This place has been famous for its beef-steaks ever since the rump Parliament. I believe the House of Lords pays for the dinners of the House of Commons, for I see they very often carry up their bills to them.
There is another strange thing, which is, that the Speaker has no voice, which I think very droll indeed—but what is more curious still, is, that ladies are never admitted to see the representation, as it is called; but sometimes they come and peep through the venterlater, which is a hole in the top to let out the smell, and so hears the speeches that way.
Talking of Mr. Broom; only think! our famous Hay-Tea Company being resolved after all—I got some shares, because I saw Mr. Broom's name to it, and because it was to do away with slavery in China, where the present tea comes from. I have lost a lump of money by that, and have been very unfortunate all through with these Joint Company peculations. Lavy has got three Real del Monte shares worth 110 premiums—those I had, I believe, were not real ones at all, for I never got anything whatsoever by them.
Only think, Sir, of poor Mr. Prince Tollyrang being knocked down while he was attending as chambermaid to the King, at Sandennie. They have got a joke now in France, my son-in-law (Number too, as I calls him) told me yesterday—They say, "il a reprit ses Culottes"—Culottes are things which the Popish Priests wear upon their heads; and the joke turns upon the difference between the culottes and soufflets, which are amulets of eggs, of which I once before wrote to you, from the other side of Old Ossian.
I should tell you that my Bowfeeze (as he calls himself) Delcroy, is learning English very fast, but he will not do it the wriggler way, but gets his Dicks and Harries, and so puzzells out every word. We had a great laugh against him the other day—
He was a coming home through St. Giles's (which is the only way to this), and there was two women a fighting in the street, and Delcroy he stood listening to hear what it was all about; but doose a word could he make out, till at last one of the women gave the other, what the fighters call a Flora, and she tumbled down, and then the friends of her agonist called out "Well done Peg," which Delcroy got into his head, and come home all the way, a saying to himself, "Well—done—Peg;" quite dissolved to find out what it meant, in he comes—up stairs he goes—down comes his Dicks and Harries, and out he finds the words—
First, he finds "Well"—an evacuation made in the earth to find water;
Next he finds "Dun"—a colour betwixt black and brown;
And last he finds "Peg"—a wooden nail.
Oh! then to hear him rave and swear about our Lang Anglay—it was quite orrible—for he knew well enough, with all his poking and groping, that that could not be the meaning; so now, whenever he begins to try his fine scheme, my girls (little toads) run after him and cry out "Well done Peg!"
I wish you would drop in and see us—we are all in the family way here; but my two youngest daughters play very pretty—one they say has as much execution as Muscles on the piano-forte, or Key-sweater on the fiddle; they play the late Mr. Weaver's overture to Obrien uncommon well as a do-it; the Roundo is very difficult they tell me—indeed I know it must be a beautiful piece of music, because they have printed FINE in large letters at the end of it.
But I waist too much of your time—do come and take your tea with us—we live a good deal out of the way, but when you get down to the bottom of Oxford-street, ask anybody, and they will tell you which road to take—it is all lighted at night here, and watched just like London—do come.
Adoo, yours, truly,
Lavinia D. Ramsbottom.
XIV.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM ON THE CANNING
ADMINISTRATION.
To John Bull.
Montague Place, Bedford Square,
May 18, 1827.
Dear B.,—I am quite in a consternation—you are no longer a supporter of Government, and I am—indeed several ladies of my standing down in these parts have determined to stick to the Canine Administration, which you oppose. Mr. Fulmer takes in the Currier, and the Currier supports them—besides, he knows the Duke of Deafonshire, and so we cannot help being on their side.
You did not, perhaps, expect so soon to see Lord Doodley in place, nor fancy Mr. Turney would be Master of the Mint, or else you would not have been again Mr. Canine—for I know you like Lord Doodley, and you always praise Mr. Turney.
Between you and me, I do not quite understand why they should have so much Mint in the Cabinet as to want a man to look after it, when they have no Sage there, nor do I see how our Statesmen can get into a Cabinet to sit—to be sure, the French Minister sits in a bureau, and one is quite as easy to get into as the other. I see by Mr. Canine's speeches, that the King (God bless him!) sits in a closet, which is much more comfortable, I think.
Fulmer tells me that Mr. Broom's brother is the Devil, and gets six or seven hundred a year by it—I always understood he was related to the family, but never knew how, till Mr. Canine's people got him a place at Court, which I think very wrong, only I must not say so.
I was very near in a scrape on Monday. I went down to Common Garden to buy some buckets for my Popery jars, out of which I empty the Popery in summer, and put in fresh nosegays, being a great votery of Floorar—when who should be there but Mr. Hunt, and Mr. Cobbett, and Mr. Pitt, the last of which gentlemen I thought had been dead many years; indeed I should not have believed it was him, still alive, only I heard Mr. Hunt call for his Old Van, which I knew meant the President of our Anti-Comfortable Society in Tattenham-court-road, who is a Lord now, and was a friend of Mr. Pitt's before he retired from public life into the Haddlefy.
Mr. Hunt told us a thing which I never knew before, which is, that the pavement of Common-garden is made of blood and prespiration, which is so curious that my two little girls and I are going down Toosday to look at it—after hearing him say that, I got away, but had my pocket picked of some nice young inions, which I had just before bought.
Mr. Fulmer does not know I am riting to you, but I do rite because I think it rite to do so, to warn you not to say that Mr. Canine has gone away from what he was formerly—for I know as a fact that it was he which christened his present friends "all the talons," and rote a pome in praise of them, which he would not have done had he not thought eyely of them.
It is not true that he is going to make any new Pears, although his anymes says so. Mr. Russell, of Branspan, I have known all my life—he smokes more than his coles, and don't want to be a Lord at all; and as for Mr. Bearing, he is a transit land take man, and cannot be a Lord here—at least so F. tells me. However, I think Sir George Warrener will be a Barren something, let what will happen elsewhere. I see, however, Mr. Canine has made both Plunkett and Carlile Lords, and given all the woods and forests to the latter.
You see I begin to pick up the noose—awnter noo, as the French say, have you seen our village clock in St. Giles's—it is lited up by itself every heavening, at hate o'clock; and on account of its bright colour, may be red at any hour of the nite: it is, indeed, a striking object; if you should be able to get out of town, do drive down this way and look at it.
Only think of these Mr. Wakefields being put into gaol for three years for marrying a young woman—I suppose there is no chance of her being confined in consequence of her going with them. Have you heard Madame Toeso? is she any relation to Miss Foote? My papa is full, and so'il hold no more, so adeu.
Yours truly,
Dorothea L. Ramsbottom.
P.S.—Have you read Sir Ruffian Donkey's Pumpflet about Lord Somersetshire?
XV.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM ON SMOKING.
To John Bull.
August, 1827.
Dear B.,—I wish you would please to say something about them nasty men what smokes about. I took my daughter to Market last week in the Columbine packet, and there not only did the ship smoke, but almost every man had either a pipe or a seagar in his mouth.
I made a little fox pos on board, for I was so sick of the smoking that one of the men said I had better go and sit with the engineers, for let it be ever so hot they were used to it and never smoked. Now when we was living on Blackheath, poor Mr. Ram used to ask several of the engineers to dine with us, which always come in a pretty uniform of scarlet, with blue velvet facings, and which I knowed to be a genteel corpse, because there were not no men in it, but all officers. So I asked the gentlemen who talked of the engineers to show me the way to them, thinking perhaps I might see some of my old friends down there, but when I got into the place, which was like a firnest, what should I see but two or three men without their coats, with airy caps on their heads and dirty faces, a shovelling in coles like anything—and when I come down they laughed at me and asked if I wanted to be roasted. I soon found out they was different people from what I thought, and a gentleman who helped me up out of the hole were they was a grubbing, told me the difference was that the dirty men were civil engineers, which I could by no means agree to—for I thought them uncommon rude.
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 you pronounce it? I am told Lord Doodley used to call him, while he was in London, My gull.
There is not much stirring here; the good effect of the waters is quite aperient in our family; we are all mending, and exorcise ourselves for four hours at a time on what is called the well walk, which is a different place from the sick walk, which is entirely for the innphaleeds. Lavinia has got hold of a book called Bookarchy, containing the lives of a hundred Knights, she says; but she won't shew it to her sisters as is not yet marred; it is translated out of a foren tongue by a Mr. D. Cameron; all the Scotch is very clever.
Mr. Fulmer is going to Hauksvut next term, to be made a Doctor of Laws. He says he shall be away only two days, but I doubt its being over so soon, because he told me himself it must be done by degrees. After he is made a Doctor, he says he means to practise; but I told him I thought he had better practise first, in order to understand what he has to do afterwards. A friend of his came here to see him from Hauksvut College, who I thought was a clergyman by his dress; but I found out, by what Mr. Fulmer told me, that it was an old lady in disguise, for he said she was Margaret Professor, and he even went so far as to call her a Divinity, which to me did seem uncommon strange. However, there is no understanding these scholars; for it is not more than a fortnight since, that Fulmer told me he expected a brazen-nosed man to dinner, and when the gentleman came, his nose was just like other people's: so I suppose it was to surprise Lavinia, who was reading a work on Nosology at the very time.
You will be pleased to hear that I have let my house in Montague Place, unfurnished with conveniences, for three hundred and twenty pounds a-year, besides taxis; and I have skewered a very nice residence in the Regent's Park, within ten doors of the Call-and-see-um where the portrait of St. Paul is to be exhibited, and where I hope you will visit us; my two youngest, which is a-shooten up, is uncommon anxious to know you, now they have made their debutt into saucyity. The young one is a feline cretur as ever trod shoe leather. The other is more of an orty crackter, with very high spirts. They are indeed quite Theliar and Molpomona of the Ramsbottoms.
If you should run down here before we leave for town, pray come and take pot-luck, which is all we can offer you at Cheltenham. You must take us as you find us: we are all in the family way, and, as you know, delighted to see our friends, without any ceremony.
Do right, dear B., and send us the noose; for really the old Engines who are here for their health look so billyus, that without something to enliven us, we should get worse instead of better.
Ajew, ever yours,
D. L. Ramsbottom.
XVIII.
HASTINGS AGAIN.
To John Bull.
Hastings, July 8, 1828.
Dear B.,—Here we are, after a short tower to Dip in France, in the esteem packet the Tarbut—my fourth has been mylad, as the French say, and was recommended a little voyage, and she picked up an old bow, which talked to her in French, and called her a belley spree, which I thought was impotence, but Lavinia said no, and reminded me of judy spree, which is another gallowsism, as they style them—but why they call this place green and young Hastings, which is old and brown, I don't know—they are going, however, to move it about a mile nearer Bexhill, to the stone where William the Third landed when he had conquered the Normans—our old bow said it was a capital sight for a town; but as yet I couldn't see much, although everybody is taking the houses before they are built.
We was a-staying with a couzen of mine near Lewis, before we crossed the sea—he is married, and has a firm hornee, which his wife calls a Russen hurby, it is so close to the town, and yet so uncommon rural—the sheep he has, is called marinos, because it is near the sea; and their wool is so fine that they fold them up every night, which I had no notion of—they have two sorts of them, one, which they call the fine weather mutton, stays out all night, I believe, and the other doesn't. But the march of intellect is agoing on, for the dirty boys about the farm-yard, they told me, are sent to Harrow, and the sheep themselves have their pens found them every night; what to do I don't know, and I never like to ask—at Battle, where there is an old abbé living—we did not see him—they have built a large chapel for the Unicorns; I scarcely know what sex they are—I know the Whistling Methodists, because when Mr. Ram and I was young we used to go to the meetin, and hear them preach like anything—there's a great deal of religion in Sussex of one sort and another.
My eldest, Mrs. Fulmer, has come here for her a-coach-man—Fulmer wishes it may be a mail, because what they have already is all gurls; if it hadn't been for that, I should have gone to Mrs. Grimsditch's soreye at Hackney last week, when I was to have been done out as Alderman Wenables, but I was obliged to be stationary here. I was so sorry to see in the noosepapers that when the Lord High Admiral exhibited his feet on the 18th of June, Maria Wood was dressed up so strange; they said that after she had been painted, and some part of her scraped clean from duck weed, they tied flags to her stays, and put a Jack into her head, which I think quite wrong, because them Jacks is uncommon insinuating.
I see that in Portingal Don Myjewel has got three estates, but they cannot be very grand ones, if they produces only a crown; however, I don't know what they mean in that country, only as they call him real, I suppose he is the rightful king—I don't henvy him, Mr. B.—there's many happier than them as sets upon thorns, though they be gilded ones.
We met one of the Engines here from Cheltenham—he talks of returning to some friend of his in Hingy, I think he called him Ben Gall. I know he spoke very familiar of him. He has been at Stinkomalee, in Sealong, and at the Island of Malicious, where a gentleman of the name of Paul killed himself with Virginia. Our Engine said he was at Malicious and at Bonbon at the time of the Conquest, which my Trusler's Crononhotonthologos tells me was in the year 1072, which makes his old appearance not surprising—he is very antick indeed—he says he shall go out in a China ship, which sounds to me very venturesome, but I suppose he knows what he is about—he is going to Bombay, he tells us, to buy cotton, but that, between you and me, is nonsense, because if that was all, why could he not go to Flint's, in Newport-market, where they sells every sort of cotton, all done up in nice boxes ready for use?
One thing I heard about hunting while I was at the Firm Hornee which I thought shocking. There is a Squire Somebody which keeps a pack of beadles, and there is ever so many of them—and they sleep in the kennell every night, and a man is paid to whip them into it—but that is not the worst—they feed them upon humane flesh. You would not scarce credit this, but I heard my cousin say that he wondered this hot weather did not hurt the dogs, for that they had nothing to feed on but the Graves.—Do just touch them up for this—I am sure they deserve it.
That selection for member of Parliament in Clare is very strange, isn't it? Our old bow tells us that O'Connell can't take his place because he won't swear against transportation, for he says it is one thing for a Papist to stand and another for him to sit, which enter noo I could have told him—however, he says he thinks O'Connell will go to the Pigeon House strait from the selection. Of course I did not like to ask what he wanted to do in such a place as a Pigeon House, and so the conversation dropped; indeed, the bow (as we call him) told us such a strange story about Mr. O'Connell's getting to the top of a pole the first day, and keeping up there for four days afterwards, that I begin to think he tells tarrydiddles sometimes. He is very agreeable though, and I believe he is rich, which is the mane point when one has gurls to settle. He is always a making French puns, which he calls cannon balls,[15] but I never shall be much of a parley vous, I did not take to it early enough.
We expect the Duke of Clarence to review the Blockhead service on this coast, which will make us uncommon gay. He will visit the Ramlees, which Captain Piggut commands, at Deal, and the Epergne, Captain Maingay's ship, at New Haven. I should like to go to Brighton, but Fulmer is afraid of movin his better half while she is so illdisposed, and expectin every minute; however, when that is over we shall, I dare say, go to London, and hope to see you in our new house. If you come here we shall delight in seeing you; but I believe you like London, and never leaves the bills of morality, if you can help it. Adoo, dear B. They all sends their loves.
Yours,
Lavinia D. Ramsbottom.
P.S.—You write sometimes about the Niggers, and abuse them—depend upon it they are uncommon mischievous even here; for my couzen told me that the Blacks had got all his beans—I only gives this as an int.
XIX.
NEWS FROM HASTINGS.
To John Bull.
Hastings, Aug. 4, 1828.
Dear B.,—It is all over—Lavy is as well as can be expected—she was put to bed with a gull, which sadly disappointed Fulmer, who was very desirous of having a sun and air. We have had another burth in our family, of which I says nothing—the dennymang of that fox paw[16] has been uncommon unpleasant; however, when such things happen to females, they must grin and bear them, as the saying goes.
We have found out who our old bow is: he is the Count Narly, a French mounsheer of high rank, and acquainted with Prince Pickle and Mustard, the gentleman who was at the haughtycultural breakfast with Mrs. Wise, the day she was so silly as to try to drown herself in a bason—if it had not been that one of the Human Society had picked her up, she must have been a lost cretur—Fulmer calls her a diving bell, but I'm sure I don't know why.
Count Narly is very conversible, only he talks all in French—Fulmer says that he is too much of a hegoatist, and that all his nannygoats are about himself. He is acquainted with Mr. Brunel, who has put his toenail under the river Thames, who has asked him to visit him in London.
I was very glad to see some partitions in Parlyment against sutties—the sooner they does away with the poor little climbing boys the better—no wonder they burn themselves sometimes—and I see it is just the same in Hingy, although one wouldn't think they wanted fires there.
As soon as ever Lavy gets about we are going to Brighton to drink the water, which some gentlemen there makes for the use of inphalids—it is uncommon curious how they do it; but I'm told that you may get there the Side-shoots and the Side-lights, and the Carls bad water, (I don't know if they have any of that sort, good,) and the Spawn water, and the Arrowgate, and Matchlock, and Hems, and Gentleman salts; indeed, any sort you like to ask for—however, I don't think I shall like Brighton much in this summer wether, they tell me there are so many flies about. The 10th Huzzas are also there, which I want very much to see—the foot regimen is moved from there, in consequence, I suppose, of the quarrel between our King and Don M'cgill, and, from all I can make out of it, a very silly quarrel it is. Last year or so we were all going to loggerheads because one man liked Turkey better than Grease, and now we are to have a blow up because they cannot decide whether Port or Madeira should be opened first—I have no patience with such stuff. I think if folks are to quarrell, women is a better thing to quarrell about than wine, and so the Autograph of Russia and the Grand Senior think, for they, I see, are fighting about two of the fair secks, Bess Harabia, and Moll Davy.
There has been some dreadful wether here; the other evening, as I was sitting at my twilight, preparing to go to bed, the eclectic fluid looked quite awful, and the winds blowd tremendous; indeed the raging of the elephants was terrific; two gentlemen were upset in a boat, and obleeged to swim ashore in their He-meeses; at least that is what I supposes French for shirts, because what the ladies wear they call She-meeses; however, such has been the reign that it has come down in Torrens, and if our Bows had not provided themselves with Duck Trousers and Pumps, I don't know what they would have done.
The Secretairer of the Treasury is down here; he lives by Fire-light in this nayborhood—I suppose he come from the West Hinges, for they tell me he is a Planter as well as a Hempee, which Fulmer says he is.
I have heard a new comehumdrum, which is a very fashionable amusement here—"Why is the gravy of a leg of pork the best gravy in the world?"—"Because there's no Jews like it." I do not know where the joke is, only I spose there is one. I have hardly any thing to say, only I thought you would like to hear of Lavy's acoachman, and our prospect of removal from this place, which is not at all to my gout.
Yours always, dear B.,
Dorothea L. Ramsbottom.
XX.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM GIVES HER OPINION OF THE
RELATIVE MERITS OF MARGATE AND BRIGHTON.
To John Bull.
Oct. 1828.
My dear B.,—We are at length arrived in the subbubs of London. Since crowds of people have been collected at the Traitor's and Restorers in Regent-street, I am afraid to date this, lest the folks should come to look at us—but you can easily find out the redress at Fulmer's hothell.
We came last from Margate, which to my mind is far prefferible to Briton. At Briton you have always the great bright sparkling Ossian surfeiting the jingle from morning till night, enough to put one's eyes out, and drive one deaf—at Margate there is a beautiful arbour, in which there is no water whatsomever for twelve hours out of every twenty-four, which affords the curos observer a full view of Ossian's bottom: besides, instead of nasty hard jingle and stones, it is all beautiful blue mud, the sight of which, added to the smell of the juice from the gash works above, reminds one of the dear Mephistopholis, to the neighbourhood of which we have returned.
Then the Peer at Margate is quite a different thing from the jigumaree, swing swang, jinkum linkum thing at Briton. At Margate it is all fixed—built of white stone, and painted pee-green on the inside, which makes it look quite beautiful; besides, at Briton you see nothing partiklur on the Chain-peer but the sea, and the company, and the clifts, and the vessels; but at Margate, besides all the predestinarians a walking, you have stage coaches, flies, waggons, cars, and sociables, ready to take you all over the country, not to speak of carts a fetching coals out of the arbour, and men at the Jetty a bringing in fish alive out of the sea.
The Marine Libray, at Margate, is a beautiful building, with two windows in front, and a wooden gallery at the back of the shop, over the mud—there's nothing in Briton to equal that—and as to the King's statute, by Shantry, what is it to the beautiful image of Nipchune, the great sea god, in black, nailed up again the gable end of the marine, just a going to spear an eel as natural as life. Then the streets—snug and comfortable—none of your great straggling prades or esplanades—no—pleasant retreats, where opposite neighbours can shake hands without leaving their rooms—this is quite agreeable; it is always shady, and besides, it creates an intrust, as Mr. Fulmer says, when strolling along a street not to know on which side of the way one is walking.
The church here is beautiful—not like Briton, stuck down in a vally; it is up on the top of the hil, so that one is half way to heaven before one is a quarter of the way to the church; howsumever, the Galls can see it from Callous if they look sharp, that's one thing. The stone it is made of, is got out of the bath.
The great hotel at Margate is called House, and is situated in Chisel-square—a most splendid hairy, something like Salsbury-square in Fleet-street, only not quite so munificent; here they have luckily succeeded in getting rid of the sea altogether; indeed they have been very fortunate in their attempts in many other places. One of my neices is agoing to open a semenary here, in which I hope she will suckseed; at present she has several pupils in her eye—at least she tells me so, but Mr. Fulmer says she can have but one—so I suppose she phibbs.
The baths here are uncommon agreeable; they are not like the baths at Briton, great staring houses, but nice little low rooms, like the cabins of packets, with a railed place behind where you wait till the water comes in to the arbour, of which I spoke before; but it is not there always punctual at the same time, which is a grate boar; to be sure the ships does lie nice and easy with their bottoms in the mud, and the sailors quite quiet aboard, with all their cabals on the shore. Some very spirted gentleman has dug some baths out of the cliff, with a music room under ground quite subtraining, with a way for the donkies to go down to it, without stares; the view of Ossian from a hole cut in the chork is very rheumatic: Fulmer says the digging them holes is a very wise way of sinking a capital. I hope it will anser.
At Briton the grate libray used to be kept by Donald's son, whoever he was; the grate libray at Margate is kept by Betty's son, whoever she is, for they dont tell us their sirnames; it is a large room, quite snug and away from the sea, in a square called Horley—very different from Hawley on the way to Briton. At that Hawley Mr. Pickhisnails keeps the hin, has a fine booshy head of air, sleeps in top boots, and paints the stems of his trees sky blew for huniformity's sake. In the Horley-square at Margate, there are, besides Betty's sons, some uncommon nice boring houses, where a lady can live genteel and comfortable, without washing, for a jenny and a half a week.
Onion Crescent is near this, and is reckoned very pleasant, and so it is. There is no glare in Margate, to hurt the eyes. The houses look always upon the bax of others, which keeps away the son in summer, and the wind in winter. I know at Briton we was very much troubled with the wind when we lived on the Marrying Prade—at Margate it is quite different.
Fulmer, who is what is called a geehologist, says there is much amusement to be found amongst the Clifts. He talks of finding his sisters and taking his quarts, of which I never heard him speak afore, and he told us the other day that he had dug up some bedlamites. What he has done with them I dont know. The things he shewed me were, I believe, only their finger nails—they looked just like it.
With respect to the bathing, it is much more descent than at Briton, for the machines here have yawnings over them, by which means nobody can see one, however much they looks. We went to visit Dandelion, once a public garden. They say the place took its name from a lion's tooth; I'm sure I have heard something very unlike that, if it is what I mean.
We came away from this trestial parodice in the Harlequin steamer, and a large party we was: it was uncommon agreeable, only there was what is called a swell, which did not agree with the buttered toast, red herrings, honey, eggs, and tea, which we tuck as a remedy agin sickness. Mr. Fulmer said we had rolls as well as tost for breakfast, which made a thin gentleman in a white hat, which sot oposite us, laugh very much.
I did not go upon dick after heaten, but I heard them talk of seeing a great many boys about in the water; one was a boy with a horse, and another a boy with the bacon on his head. One of the first they saw, they said was the last, which seemed nonsense to me. However, they said there was several Spaniards a swimming near the pacquet, so I would not let my young ones go up.
To be sure, what phibbs travellers do tell—we was a talking of the great exhibition of the gurney to London by steam, when a gentleman told us, looking as grave as a gudge, that he and his father had made the Rickulvers in an hour and a quarter, after leaving the Noah light that day week: of course I said nothing—but I was certain as I was of being alive and living, that neither the gentleman nor his father had anything to do with making the Rickulvers, which I myself saw three and twenty years ago—and to make them in an hour and a quarter! However, everybody seemed to believe him—I only asked what profession he was of, and they told me he was imminent in the Tayloring line. That settled it—"Two tailors," as the French says—the very highdea of their talking of making the Rickulvers just as they would a pair of pantaloons—and them they could not make in an hour and a quarter, binding, button-holes and all, I'm sure.
When we got into smooth water, I went upstairs to see Noah's light, and there I saw the ark, with the lantern, and I believe Noah himself a walking up and down the dick. I asked one of the sailors if the men which was walking was never changed, and he said, every four hours; but that the man we saw, had been there ever since the flood—which convinced me. We saw from this, Sheerness with a river, which is Midway between Margate and town, and is called so.
I was very glad when the water was smooth, for I hate the big bellows a rolin, and so I told the gentleman in the airy cap which turns the wheel about—and he said we should have found it much ruffer if we had not come overland. This puzzled me, because I thought we was coming by sea all the time I was below, it bumped me about so—but he persisted in what he said, and moreover said something very disrespectful of the people of the place we had left, which he called the Margate flats. Everything seemed to clear up as we proceeded; we had Lee church on our wether bow, as the gentleman told me—the waters were called Hopes, and the sands were blithe—and we was all golly and uncommon hungary—so down we went to wait till the dinner came, which was some nice bile mutton and turnips with caper sauce, which occupied me all the way from a little above Tilbury Furt to Erin, which looks just as green as Mr. More, the pote, says it is.
At Gravesend we took in a gentleman, who gave us an account of the Grand Signior having sent out a fireman against the Roosians, which was a gettin beat by the Turkeys—however, as we was to go ashore at Grinnage, we had no time for pollyticks, having in course to look up the bundles and ban-boxes. Lavy went by land, on account of her child, and her misfortunes was greater than ores, for she left her black silk riddykel in the coch, containing the best part of a bottle of O de Goalong, a salmon-coloured neck handkycher, and a pair of nice yellow tan gloves—her brother went all the way to the Bare coach office in Pickadilly the next morning, but could hear no tidings on 'em.
When we come opposite the Horsespittle at Grinnage, we got into a boat and landed just by the Ship, which smelt of frying fish as ousel. I think if I had not committed an indiscretion with the bile leg of mutton, we should have been tempted to stop and have some stoodells and whatasujet—as it was, we got into our domstic, a carriage so called, and proceeded by Peckham and Cammerwell home.
I shall write again soon.—I am to be presented to the Quin of Portingal—the Countess of Itabagpipes was known to some of Fulmer's cousins in the brass heel country, which is the reason she wishes me to lend her my counting-house and purtection; so, one day next week I shall go in by the Stockwell stage, and visit the Court in Arlington-street. As for Jennyfluxion, I hope her Majesty will excuse me, for though poor Chunee, I remember, used to do it at Exeter Change, if I was once to get down upon my kneeses I am quite sure I never could git up again—but I shall communicate in a private billy with Lady Bagpipes on the subject.
Lavy desires her best love—Fulmer is as proud as a Pig-hog of his little gull, and my unmarried ones quite as unspohastickated as ever—there was a gentleman at Margate did give the youngest a sort of tittilation of the heart, and she had only two helps of beef and one plate of soup at dinner for three days in consequence of her tinder felings, but he went off in the Ramona the morning it carried passengers greatass, and so did my girl's infection for him, and the next day she sung "I've been roaming," and took to her vitals just as if nothing had happened.—Adjou.
Dorothea L. Ramsbottom.
XXI.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM CONTEMPLATES THE COLLECTION
OF HER LETTERS INTO A VOLUME.
To John Bull.
January 25, 1829.
Dear B.,—I write to you on a bizziness of some consequence to me—I have been applied to by some of the first jenny asses of the day to colic my lettuce into one volume, and publish them: so I spoke to my sun in law Fulmer, who has offered to hedit them, and put notes to them, which I at first thought meant setting them to mewsick, which I by no means wanted, although he offered to do it grateass. He has now explained his meanun, and I am going to get Mr. Golburn to print them in a doodecimus book, with a prefass and portrait, to be done from a Minotaur by Causeway, which is reckoned the himmige of me when I was a gull, and for wich Mr. Ram. paid Mr. Causeway, (quite a Minotaur of a man himself,) fifty jinnies.
You know I never rot to anybody but you, although some impotent parsons have dared to call themselves the hawthurs of my lettus. There is one of them squarecap fellows belonging to the Magdalen at Hauksfut—which they say lives upon Ices—he says he rot some of them, and one at Eating College says he helped me, and another, a bare blockhead whose name I never heard afore, goes about and says he rot 'em for me. He had better mind his tye pigs, and adjustments, and dews and surplices, I can tell him, for all his tong runs so glebe; for I never sot eye on him, nor he on me, as I nose of—however, I am dissolved upon publishing them out and out. Mr. Golburn wants them to come out in sheets, but I dont think that quite come ill fo.
There is a moneyment of two old gentlemen who were my Aunt's sisters, in a church in Lincumshire, done by Mr. Ruebellyache the great Sculpture, which was admired by the late Mr. Noddlecums, whose life has been published by his Taylor, and which cuts him up, sure enough—I should like to have the view of this family Muzzleheum in the book, if I could get it done in the new fashioned style of Lithotomy, because it shoes all the harms of our family, Lions sergeants, and the Lions parsons, and the Lions ramping, with the shiverings and mullets, and argents, and oars, and sables, and gulls, and all that, which we bore ever since William the Conqueror came over with Quin Mary, of hoom, no doubt, you have read.
My Mr. Ramsbottom's family, although very good, is not connected with that of the Hempee for Winsor, which family is eyely respectable in their whey, and quite sillybratted for bruin the bear, wich is so patternized in the neighbrood. Mr. Fulmer says, my dear Mr. Ram is quite a different ramification, but he thinks if you would just reckumend us to the Biblepole (I think he calls Mr. Goulburn) he could make three volums out of my letters, what letters I have received, his own notes, and all the notes the gals has got by way of orthographs, and a dairy, which my dear Mr. Ram kept till the day before he did.
I took my two eldest unmarried, the other day, to Mr. Devil's in the Strand, to be felt—they call him Mr. De Feel, but he spells it Deville, and calls himself Mr. De Huile—he is a Hoyl-man and a great proffessor of what is called Free-knowledgey[17]—he shewed us the head of Sterne, which wrote many books, and also that of Sir Eyes-ache Newton, the great astrologer—he says I have the largest number one he ever saw, and when I cum away he sneered, and bid me take care of number one, as if everybody didn't do that without his telling.—He wanted to put a plaster on my head, and smear my face with some of his lampile, and stick squills up my nose, and take what he called a cast of my Hosfrontis—but I would not have none of his manoovers with me, and I was very well pleased when I found myself out of the shop.
Only think, Mr. B., of Lord Angelseye coming home—he is left tenant of the castle no longer. Mr. Fulmer says he is like a hair which gives up doubling when it takes to turning. I am quite sorry to think what a state he must be in. Miss Biffin, or Billy Bowldish, the corpulent gentleman who used to bump himself along the streets in a band-box, an't nothing to compare with him. His Lordship told the people of Ireland that he had left his heart with them. Fulmer says, before he said that, he must have lost his head, and I seed one of his legs buried at Whataloo—of course, after that, the only thing left for him was to pack up his trunk, and come home; but pollyticks I seldom tuches, only I does like plain dealing.
Will you please to let me here from you, for you are a sad idol corryspondent—you promises to rite, and never dus, which is very disapinting. However, you must rite to give us leaf to print the Ramsbottom Papers, which has been redressed to you—give me your opinion about the minotaur and the muzzleum, and believe me, dear B.,
Your's, truly and sincere,
Lavinia D. Ramsbottom.
All our curcle join in kind regards—we have all got colds, and guittars, and quinces, and roomatez—but we can expectorate nothing less this cold wether.
XXII.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM'S OPINIONS ON POPERY.
To John Bull.
Gravesend, April 2, 1829.
My dear B.,—I have taken a trumpery residence hear for the seeson for the health of my therd gull, which is frequently effected with a goose. I send you up a copy of the Gravesend Guide, which will explain all the booty of the place, and all its convenences; the passage in the steemboat is cheap and agreble, and we run up and down every two or three tims in the weak.
Oh, B. B., I have got a krow to plock with you—I cannot make out what makes you such a stench Protestant; poor dear Mr. Ram never could bear Poppery, but I am afraid he was a biggoat at bottom, for the mounsheer which marred my second, tells me that it is a sweat religion, and that you can always get ablution for paying for it—which is very pleasant.
I remember the riots of Hayti, when they burnt old Newgate and got to all the goals; they raised several houses to the groand, and burned Lord Mansfield's house in Bloomsbury-square, which was of brick and stone; what would they have done with his Willy up at Highgate, which is all made of Cane-wood; yet after all these I see he goes on in the Hose of Pears a speeking agin the Roming Catlicks just as if nothin had happened to him; he must be very antickated now I shoud think.
You have heard, in course, that the new Pop is erected. Mounsheer tells me that Ginger was a very good Pop as ever was—he died notwithstanding his infallowbility—all Pops go off—and that's as it should be, for as they lives infallowbill so they infallowbelly dies. Mounsheer told me that it was thought that either Carnal Fetch or Carnal Comealongo would have been erected Pop, but that Charles Deece would have put his Feeto upon Fetch, so they have erected Castellioneye—they put poor Ginger after his deth into a cistern, with his holy toes a protruding out of a grating for the people to kiss.
I should have liked to be in Room when the concave was held. Oh Mr. B. you very much mistake the Catlick Priesthood. All the stories you hear of the Carnals keeping columbines is entirely calomel—they nose better than to do such things as those—for my part, I hop to see the day when all extinction of religion is forgot, and we shall see all our halters occupied by Popish Priests. What does Mr. More, the allmyknack maker, say on this toepick—