I says ditto, ditto, to Mister More; why should we Hairyticks stick up for our authordoxies, or any other sich, or despise the Roming Catlicks—why, we are decanters from the holy church ourselves, just as much as the Sauceinions and the Hairyuns,[18] and the Whistlings, or any others, are from hours—can't we wusship, every one after his own fashion—look at the Quackers—there's a sex, so pyehouse, and demure, and desunt, in everything good and propper.

Why, do you know, Mr. B., the Quacker ladies goes down to Grinnage, and Woolidge, and Popular, and the Isle of Docks, and all them parts, to phissit the poor feemale convix, which is about to be transpirted to Von Demons Land and Bottomy bay, where the illustrus Cook first found out the Cangarews—poor gulls, I think it a pitty to send out the pretty Lassenies, they are some on 'em so juvenal. Oh, Muster B., what must their Rum and essences be when they reclects Tim past—some on 'em if they are hard working meretricious gulls, get marred as soon as they gets to the Coloony, and when they does, Mr. Fulmer tells me they play the very dooce with the Malt house system, which I spose means that they drink too much hail, and bear in proporshun.

A navel sergeant goes to take care on 'em, and see as they wants for no thing—he locks them up every night, and never suffers no Foxes paws, but keeps them quite creckt, and they are in sich order that he has only just to talk of the lock and the key to subdoo e'm in a minuet—poor creturs, them as I seed where chairful, and not one of them was wiping, they had plenty of vitals, and spoke of the Coloony as a nice place, and called the Guvenor a Darling—but it seems wretched work—to hope for happiness there, is to follow an English Fattyus, which you know is a Will of the Whips, which is seed in the mashes.

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 produxion just like Bowman and Flesher, or Merton and Reinholds, or Mathews and Yates.

Fulmer begins thus, to your favourite toon of "Hunting the Hair:"—

Then there's a verse wanton, which of course I can't remember; but the Bow-street officers were all round the dore, and they looked to me as little like Bows as they did like officers; however, there was a large poodle to get over, and I heard them bid me wait till they sent for a Plank, which turned out to be a humane cretur, the head of the Pelisse. We had no umberellars, only our parisoles; but we got into a long tent, and there Fulmer told me I had better make my election to stay, because I was favoured both by the canvas and the pole; which I do not understand, but he put it all in rhyme about a "hujus encampment," something you know, I don't quite remember, to "keep off the damp meant;" and then he praised the bootiful cretures what was a setting in the mud under the yawning, which cood not get out, and called them the most elegant flowers and fruits of the day.

It was no good a stopping ther however, for we was a mile a'most from the feeding place which Mr. Grunter had prepared for his fellow-creturs; so I determined wet or dry, nolus bolus, over I would go—it was uncommon squashy, and poor Lavy had a touch of the Room attics in her head before we come out, however it warnt no use complaining, so the two Hauls, which was phissitors of ours, and I, ondertook to cross over the plot—of that, Fulmer says—

Here there is another ole, and I think it must be a herror of the arthurs, because "cold meat and dripping" is nonsense; however, no matter, we got over, and there, if you'll believe me, was a matter of a kipple of thousand humane creturs, just like pigs with their noses in the troffs, agin the wall, a heating and a heating, and a grunting and a grumbling, over their uncles in gravelly mud.

I heard one man ask for a kennel of chicken, and another wanted a blanket of veel; but the master cock pot his head out of a French marqui, and said there warnt nothing shew (which, as you know, means hot, in the language of the Galls); so I squeedged out three young youths and two gulls which was a making themselves sick with eating isis, and made rheum for myself, and sot too to make up my jennys worth; but if you'll believe me, dear B. (I didn't care for the muck I was a standing in, for I had a cork soul,) but presently I felt drip, drip, drip, something a dripping into my neck behind, which I was so ot a crossing the grace plot I didn't feel at first, but which was the rein a coming through the callyko top of the yawning; and what was uncommon surprising to me, although the clouts above were so black, yet the rein which fell, cum down quite blue. I had a glass of Bucephalus, three big glasses of celery Shimpain (which shews the advantage of the garden, for it was just as good as any made from grapes) and a small glass of O. D. V., which the master cock in his white nite cap sent out to me. Fulmer called the people who got under cover, the con-tents, and them as could not, the non con-tents.

But if you had seen the way in which the genteelmen run about to fetch vitals for the ladies—it was quite charming. "I want a wing for a lady," says one—"I want a couple of legs for my ant, who can't walk," says another—"A thick slice of beef for Miss Angelina," and so on. Oh! it was quite delightful, only I don't think so double refined as I expected for a jenny. Fulmer says, in a verse about the company—

However one accident happened—somethink always does happen wherever we go. My second was beautifully dressed—all after one of the Magaseens, and quite unlike any body else—and somehow or other—I dont know whether it was the whet or what—but part of her close tumbled off; however the Bows which was about thought it was one of her sleeves, and nobody cared except her husband Mounsheer, who was quite in a bustle at loosing anything, and would make her tell him all about it, because he was terrified at seeing her so very much reduced in figger in so short a space of time—Mounsheer got it back from one of the Artillery Bumbardeers which was in the garden to watch the river for fear it should get dry—howsoever there was plenty of water this time.

Well, B., after we had eat in four places, and tried for the fifth, but could get nothing but the bottoms of Hams, which Fulmer twisted into "Hamsbottoms," and made it rhyme to my name, we went out just for a minuet, thinking the rein had sopsided; but we had scarce got out of the heating place when down it come agin, and we was obliged to run for it—(I don't run very expedishus at any time, much less after what I had eat)—and got into what is called the committee-room, a place as dark as pitch, and smelling like a seed shop; indeed I never seed such a place in my life; and there was the Tyrrelease Pheasants, and sich a silly gull a asking them all manner of foolish questions about their singeing their Tyrrellease kitches or whatever they are. This warn't lost upon Fulmer—and I have preserved that virse—

Well, B., and after that, I am sorry to say when it got to hold up for a minuet again, the Bows, which I thought had been a carrion the Shimpain and the vitals to the ladies, shewed by their conduct that they had only got the things in the names of the fair sects, and as Fulmer said had added to the frauds of the neutral flags, by taking to themselves, under false pretences, what was shipped for other people—they was quite inhebriated, and played very improper pranks—Fulmer said, that he himself saw one lady play Merry tricks, but if so, I dare say she'll try new tricks before she comes there again—however, the conduct of the men was quite obstropolous, and one of them spoke to my seckond as if he had been introdeuced, and when he asked her name, and she said Ramsbottom, he behaved more imperently than he had done before, and said that he had noed us all long ago. I'm sure he never noed me, nor none of my daughters, and so I told him, and I begged Mr. Fulmer to find out the Secrethairy, Mr. Sabine, to come and speak to the imperent poppy; but Fulmer told me that we had better go away as fast as we could, for that when men were in that state none of the Sabines would be safe; so of course I would not go to hinger a respectable family, and we got over our uncles to the gate, where we found our servant Jenkins in the custardy of the offisers, for nocking down a beetle belonging to the gardner, which would not let him poke his knows in to look for us. So Fulmer did, (what, considering the weather, was quite necessary,) gave his curd to the pelisseman, and baled out the footman.

But I must say a Jew, and I cannot help thinkin how surprized Fulmer will be when he sees your pepper in the mornun. Lavy has been in bed ever since the Feet; our cousin Kate has got a swelled face; the Hauls have both got bad coughs, and Mounsheer and his wife have been takin teasannes every nite and morning; however, I hope we shall soon get about, and if what I have saved out of the phier is of any use, you are welkum.—Yours, dear B., always,

Dorothea L. Ramsbottom.

XXV.
A LETTER FROM WALMER

To John Bull.

Warmer, near Deal, Oct. 13, 1829.

My dear B.,—I only right you a short Billy do, to tell you we are all combing to the Mephistophiles on Twosday. Some of us travails by the Dover onion, an uncommon good stag, and Lavy and her spouse in their broach.

What I have cheefly to say is, that I have been purveiled upon to publish my Original Letters to you in a serious—Fulmer is kind enuff to say he will do notes to them, and write a biggraphical scratch of my life, and have my head in a plate for a fruntispece—I beleive I am to be lithotomized, which is cheaper than copper.

You have my premishon to hannounce my work, which I should like to call the Book of the Breakfast Parlor, but Fulmer thinks the "Ramsbottom Papers" better.

Yours ever,

D. L. Ramsbottom.

L.S.—What do you think of poor Mam Hood, the Great Signior of the Turkies—he is humbled—and to an Irish usurper; for so I conclood Nicholas the Autograph of the Rushes to be, seeing that his name of Nick is only a nick name, and that he calls himself Paddy Shaw—surely he ought to know beast.

L.S. (2)—I comb to town with an Aikin art; the wotchmen are beat off their beats, and we shall never see their lantarns nor heer their "agreable rattles," as the play-book says, henny more. I wish Muster Peel had not ordered his new blue pelisse till the Spring, for in the dark nights, when the Fox of Lunnun is in the streets, I do love to lisson to the our a bean cried, while we are all coucheying in our lees.

Adoo, wunsmore.

We submit this letter as we have received it; and our readers will, like ourselves, gather from it, that our esteemed correspondent, like other great ladies, has resolved to appear in print. We have since ascertained that the work will appear shortly, in one volume, with the promised notes and illustrations.

XXVI.
A PECK OF TROUBLES.

To John Bull.

March, 1830.

Dear B.,—It is a long while since I wrote to you, but I have been in a pick of trubbles about my famlie. Lavv's youngest has been vascillated, and the various matter did not take a feckt—so that she tuck the small pock natrally, and I fear will be very much pitied when she comes to grow up—however, I must right you a short letter.

You remember my lemontations about the removal of the Wochmen—I have quite changed my mind, and am all for the new blue Pelesse. More specially since what I see they are going to do, to keep them always ready to put out fires—they rehearsed their revolutions one day last week, and, according to the noosepapers, beat Mounsheer Shabby out and out—but they does it by wearing Ass-beastos jackets,—by which means they minds fires no more than that young woman we read of, who lived a hundred years in a Fir-nest—I mean Sally Mander.

What a nice man Mr. Main must be, who is one of the heads of the Pelisse, to take such care to distinguish the fires—I have often seen his name up agin the walls, and never knew what it meant, with F. P. before it—where it says "Westminster Main—always charged." I am sure we hoe a grate deal to Mr. Peal—Sir Richard Burney never put out no fires that I ever heard of, nor any body, except the Fire Indians, who do it with a wetness to it.

My poor grand-child has been so bad, that I have not been able to see our new Moll Pomona at Common Garden, but I hear she overflows the house with people and with tiers—I could not stir out and leave little Jacinta, she has had nothing to eat or drink for these three weeks, but some tappyochre and a glass of white wine delighted with water.

Only think of the Argand Rooms being burned down, and the English Uproar House in the Strand—I hope this last will be bult up agin, for I think English talons should be encurridged, and I do love our native wobblers, they are so much more tuching than the Hightalians—as for the French hactors, Potter and Clup and those, they are very funey in their whey, but not to compare with our hone Thisbeans in Common Garden or Dreary Lane.

Oh, Law! what do you think of Lady Edinborough? is not her's a curous tail, to think of leaving such a handsome man as her husband for a foraying prince? I suppose my Lord will get marred again, to keep the title in the right line—he has no hair apparent now, I believe.

I can add no moor at present, for the Physicking is come; and as I must give him his phee, I may as well insult him, and get all I can out of him, for now that Jacinta is better, I pomps him for the noose off the Bo mond, which these Dogturs know more off than most peepil. I will wright soon agen, and give you a hysterical account of all our proceeduns. Adoo, chair B.,

Yours, D. Ramsbottom.

XXVII.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM'S OPINIONS ON PUBLIC EVENTS.

To John Bull.

Kaduggan Place, Sloane Street, Nov. 20, 1830.

Dear B.,—Here we are, once more in the capitol—Fulmer has hops in the Wigs to give him a plaice—he has been a fishing a long time, and has cocht nothing yet; and I fear now they have got in, the old tale of more pigs than tits will be new revived.

What do you think of Hairy Broom as Chancesellor?—Lord Crows-nest on the Wulsack—or a half-pay Captun (brevet Lefttenant Kernel) as Master of the Ordinance—or my friend Lord Drum, the coal-merchant, as Lord Privy; not to speak of Nero Denman as Attorny-General, or Newark Wilde as Solissiter—Why is all this?—Just because a parsel of lazy fellers did not like to go out in a wet night to vote for the Civil List—I'm sure the names of them as did not go to support the King, should be published, and called the uncivil list, as a disttinkshun.

Well, never was I more surprized. Here, says I, after the Revelation in France is ended, after settling the affairs of the Ditch and the Belchians, to think of a two do in London. Poor Charles Deece is almost forgotten. It is true his fort was firing his ordnance among the people, and my French sun-in-law cries "Baa les Tyriens" whenever we spike of him. He says, says he, "I don't mean nobody in party-colour, but (he rot this bit himself) Qui capit ille facit," to which my other sun-in-law, Fulmer, says, "that Charles Deece might have overcome the danger, but that he was the Capet who would not face it."

Fulmer has sent a long pistol to the Primer to ask for something; but he says of course the Greys will be beset by the Duns, and that all the hungry ones can't expect to be felled at once; besides, he doesn't expect this set to last. I'm sure such a parcel of things never was put into a Cabinet before, except to be looked at, as curosittes.

We was a rustycatting at Warmer, near Deel, on Lord Mayor's Day, but the weather has grown so much colder, I was glad to git away from old Ossian; they was all on the Key weave, in the City, that day. Sir Clod is a great genus, and always was—he was much above his calling when he was a Hatturney—he was made to ride on a wite oss afore the King.

I see somebody has sent his Majesty a pair of boots, and somebody else has sent the King and Queen a cake, which, the Lord Chambermaid rites word, was uncommon nice—is it because the Wigs won't let the Royal Family have enuff munny to live upon, that their subjex send them such things?

I wonder that Lord Angelseye should go to Hireland agin; he was a Poplar ruler when he was last there, but the case is haltered now; if he should be hill when he is out at Doubling, with the Tig Dollyroo, I suppose Sir Francis Birdhit will go to Mr. Singeing Long, and be robbed for him. Only think of that Long; I'm sewer if the New Jewry find such a Furdickt as the Old Jewry did, the Gudge ought not to suffer him to be Long in this country. I think it would be better to let him be tried by the Old Bayley, rather than by either of the Parks—only he is all for the west end of the Mephistophiles, and is supported by the Hairystockcrazy.

Your friend Fillpot is maid a Bishop, although you said he never woud be. What do you say to that? The dear Duck of Wellington thought as Fillypotty had ratified his part of the agreement he would ratify his—Filly will be near Cardinal Weld at Exeter, and his Imminence perhaps will bring Toby quite round, and get him made Pop of Rheum one of these days. It is quite rite, however, that when he gets his mitered coach he shoud give up his Stanhope—he can't want both, and at such a distance, too, from itch other.

Do you think Sir Scarlet will be Lord Chief Jester in the room of Lord Tenderdone? Fulmer tells me that Hairy Broom says he won't be Lord Chancesellor, which makes me think the thing is quite curtain that he will; he wants to be Master of the Roles he says, so has to have his fling in the House of Cummons; but the Master wont go—he likes a quiet life and no nonsense—no cabnets and wulsack wurk, but soshability and a leetel haycarty in the evenings. I honner his honner for his taste and his furmness; a good Leach always sticks fastest—besides, it spits Broom, and that is just "cum il fot," as the French says.

I dont see that Mr. A. B. C.-rombie has got anything in this scrimble-scramble. I am glad Lord Goodyrich is cum back, for a kinder-arted, more hamiable man there is not in all the whirld. Sir James Graham, as Fust Lord of the Admirability is curous, but Mr. Spring Tide as the Secretairer seems an uncommon proper apintment.

Fulmer tells me that Lord Hill has got the Blues—I am sorry his Lordship takes the change of Minsters so much to heart. I hope he will keep up his spirts, for every body has nose him, loves him.

There is a very scandallous report going about, that Lord Holland is going to keep the Duchess of Lancaster—I dont believe it for many reasons—one is, I never heard of the Lady before, unless it is your friend the Princess of Olive Serres, who has got her rites at last; but then Lord Holland would not do sich a thing as that; at least I conseeve not.

Perhaps, dear B., you will send me a billey in the coarse of the weak, and if anything good should turnip for Fulmer I will let you no—he is by no means partycolour—any place, from a Lord Precedents down to a porters, would suit him—he is equally fit for all; besides, in a squabble like this, nobody sticks at fitness.

Yours ever, dear B.,

D. L. Ramsbottom.

P.S. You never tells us nothing about the Theaters now; is your cricket dead? if he is, why don't you git anuther? Adoo! B.

XXVIII.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM DECLARES HERSELF A CONVERT TO "REFORM."

To John Bull.

Turnham Green, April 4, 1831.

Dear B.,—It is a long time since you have heard from me,—and now I do write, you will find me somewhat haltered in my principles. I have been one over by my sun-in-law to the great caws of Reform. He talks of not stopping till we have got the Ballad and General Sufferance—as to the first, I am all for the song; but with regard to the General, I cannot say I ever heard of him before; but if he is a friend of Lord John Rustles, that is efficient—the very site of Lord John is enuff—his name is a corjil, and his figger is comefort.

I recklect the day when I satanized Lord Drum, the Lord Privy, and so did you, B.—you now you did—chiefly, as I think, because he was yellow. Did you ever read Foot, B.?—Muster Foot says, in one of his Farcies, that a good candidate, like a good oss, cannot be of a bad culler—so I say—besides, what's yellower than a jinny? I think I see you, when you read my lines, and find me alturd as I am—but I am enlightened—the peeple must have refurm—my shoemaker says so, and I know it must be so; and as Lord Drum is at the bottom of the Refurm Bile, I love him—he looks as if he had been making the bile for some time. Oh, B., he is an intersting crechur, and so good natured, it is quite unpossible to void having a puncheon for him.

I admit at first the Cabnet was in a quandary—that Polly Thomson isn't poplar amongst them. I think they are jellies of Polly, for he most certainly has talons—Fulmer says he nose he has—he is a great ventriloquist (I think they call it), which speaks many forin tongs—indeed, Fulmer sometimes calls him Pollyglot as well as Polly Thomson, and he told me the other day that the King was going to create him Barren Barilla, and sent him out Protector of Grease, instead of Prince Loophole, who, as they call it, bagged out.

Then Lord Althrop—what a deal of good he has dun since he has bein in Hoffys. Look at his entrenchments—he has cut down the odd eater of the Civil List, and tuck off the dooty on koles—and wot a deal more he would have dun if the axe of parlymen of hother dace had not perwented him. And as for Lord Grey himself, I do say sich a kind-arted man as not been seen for ears and ears—not a sun, nor a cussin, nor a nevy, nor a sun-in-law, nor a wife's cussin, nor one hingyvigyal belonging to him, but wot he has perwided for, somehow or another. Shew me a Prim Minster as hever hacted in sich a generous way afore—Why the Duck of Wellington, with all his fine toe doos, when he was in place, never guv nothing vhatsoever to any of his relations as ever I heard of—ard-arted Duck.

And then that sweet Muster Cullcraft—a dear gentleman, full of Janus, and as neat and as nice as a nine-pin—he is the Ugh!-nit which guv the majority, and all by thinking twice, which is a wise thing in a man—I was not at all surprized when I heard that the nice crechur voted with the eyes—for, says I to my Lavy, he has very little to say to the nose, anyhow. But he was always a favourite with the ladies—a regalar Feel-hander amongst them. And then his pore sun Granny too, to have lost his Love—more's the petty, for they are a nice fam'ly take 'em all to gather—

I hope Lord Bruffham and Fox comes up with your expectorations—he certainly does with his hone—I went, the other night, into "Tommy's box;" I don't know why they called the place so—it was like a vaper bath, with certains all round it; and there I seed the Chanceseller lying full-length on the Wulsack—(which I thought a hod thing to have in sich a place)—and I am told he may be seen lying there every night—when I say lying, I mean stretching,—and poor nobleman, no wonder, for he must be a most tired out—wot with the intrests of the nayshun, and the cawses in his Court, and the trouble he is at to keep silence there—and carrion the bag—and riting leaden articles in the noos-peppers, and his repeals, and one thing and the other. Have you seen his pitcher in the Suffocating gallery of Artists?—there he is, as like as like can be, but only carycachurd, which is not to be wundered at, for the pitcher is panted by Lord Lonsdale—(so the cattle-hog says)—and as his Lordship always made him look blue on the pole, its no wunder he has made him look yellow on the canvas—for blue and yellow is Bruffham's cullers. The pictcher, however, is in the best place in the room, in complement to the Lord Chanceseller—so that them as was ordered to hang his Lordship, have done him only justass.

Then there is Lord Pummicestone—he is another of my feverits— where did you ivir see such a Foraying Minster as he—so genteel—so haymable—and with sich nice wiskers and white linen—never interfeering the least with any nonsense about polyticks—never sayin a word about his hoffice, either in Parlyment or out of it, as I hears on; he troubles his head no more about the Belchians and the Ditch, or the Roosians, or the Proossians, or hany of the oosians, than I do. I'm told (by Parr and Tess) that there are no hops for the Poles—their caws is desprut—at least so the Old Engine we met last season at the sea side told me the day before yesterday, as I seed him cumming out of the Horizontal Club in Handover-square;—nevertheless, I think Lord Pummicestone is quite wyse for not talkin—when one nose littel, it is the safest way to say nothink. However, I may be preggudiced in his fever, for his Lordship has promised to do the jalap wuth me, at an opp wich a frend of ours in Taffystalk-square is to give next munth—I thoft my duncing days was gun, but woo can resist Lord Pummicestone—that would be a task.

Pursenal felines, however, shud not halways way with us, but since Fulmer as taken this turn towards refurm, all the Minsters have been so servile to us, that we are quite churmed. Lord Hockland, though no grate things in the Guvment, is sich a haffable, warm arted cretur—sich an insinivating Pier—and Sir Jims Graham, so hunassuming, and at the same time such a fine man—how he turrified that Ogreman Mahoon—did you see how the pore fellur was put to a nonplush; and how he croed over O'Konnell like a kok—Grame kim out of that, splendid—there is'nt nothink but that to be sed about it; so did Lord Althrop with Mr. Plummet Wad—a very hominous name for a querrel—he that he cocht in his entrenchment at St. Jimses—Oh! it makes one prowd to see such Neros as these.

But nothink will do—everybody wich wares shurts and has munney in their pokets abuses this bill of Lord Drums; they say the bill may parse, but nobody can conster it; and they tells us that the honly claws they can understand in the bill is the Divil's claws, which has set his foot in it. To be sure, B., I must say, looking at things as they stand, cutting off sixty-two members at a blow is a serous hopperation—I hone it is very like a Revelation. Old Tim with the firelock, however, will shoe the effex; and (as I says to Lavy, whenever I have a fit of coffin) wen we are in our graves, what will it signify to hus?

I am for Reform—and I hone it. The King, they say, is for it—at wich I wunder; and the Queen is agin it—at wich I do not wunder. But Mr. Christopher Stubbs, our hopposite neighbore, is for it; and that has decided me—for he hadmires Lord Pummicestone, and Mister Cullcraft, and Mr. Singeing Long—so I think he has had some new lights lately. Singeing Long, after having stood twice at the Hold Bayley, and having been only returned once, is going to hoffer himself for the parish of Marrowbone, as what Fulmer calls the "knee plus ultra."

And now, B., let us snitch a minuet from Pollyticks, and Pollygots, and Polly Thomsons, for a moral inflexion or two; here is Hester come agin—Puck, as the Galls call it—the trees is begining to shoot, just as the bows is ceesing to unt; the sweet Buds (I ope you like Hornithology) are commencing their wobblings on the branches, and are hable to do wot is wise as well as pleasant—turn over a new leaf every day of their lives. Hadam and Heve did so before them, wich is a good President.

Wot a splundid site it is to behold the wurks of natur—the great Halps—Strumbolli—Hetna—the sparrowgrass piping out of the beds at Battersea—Burnells funnell under the Thames—and the Cosmorammy in Regent Street—but one has no time for these thinks at present. I ham absobbed with the grate question, and I culd not rest till I opened myself to yew—you will call me a rat—but I'll trust you, even though I begun our corryspundence; for we are safe from your Harrows, if we don't expose ourselves, and however I may cry out for refurm, enter noo; I shall never be hass enough to be a bartizan of it before the public.

Yours truly, dear B.,

Dorothea L. Ramsbottom.

XXIX.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM ON THE HOUSE OF LORDS.

To John Bull.

Clappem Kommon, Hoct. 14, 1831.

Dear B.,—What will you Aunty-reformers say now. The parlyment is to be berogued, and your hopes are all blyted—now my expectorations are answerd—this is a nice two do—Fulmer, who is on your side, sings what he calls his High Ho Pea hens, but I cant agree with him, because Mr. Ram was a wriggler radical, and so am I, because I do not know no better, and theerfor I redes the Tims, and am quite agreable to the pinions of the Head-eater of that pepper.

I have bin to hear the debretts of the peerage—we had seets in the House of Lauds. What a man that Hairy Broom is—what a spich he made, and how thrusty he got—I askd what it was he was a drinking, and they told me a Bishop—he seemd as if he could have swallowed the See. He had the tumblers hin, ot and ot, like the stakes at his Club—but when he went down upon his Marybones, I was quite resolved into tiers, for feer he never coud git up agin.

Lord Grey is a fine cretur, but very grey indeed; I remember him as Lord Howweak many years ago. I saw Lord Monster too, and the Kernel which has the Kopper minds, who is called Lord Dinnerbell, because of his feedin a great Duck at his ouse in Whales.

I had a not from Lord Pummicestone, to tell me he was not gone to resign—he poots hup with a grate deal from Lord Grey and Broom, and even from Lord Drum, when he is well enough to go to the Cabinet—that was a purty scrap he got into about Ninnyveal, the Ditchman; and now I heer he is another two do about the Emperor of the Brass-heels—Lewey Flip does not like given up the Portingal ships, and as we does everything Tallyrong thinks right, why we must not grumble—this is Pummicestone's noose to me. If the King of Spain helps Don M'Gill they say he will suckseed in keeping his hone—the Spanish is all he wants to put him to rites. As for Rooshy and Prooshy, P. says he can't say much about them, only I see that Leaving has not left, and that Bowlow is halso here—but else foraying affairs seems below pa.

The Bishop of Lundun did not vote agin the Bile—I herd why—his first start in life was hoeing to a translation—he wants to try another—this is Greek to me, Mr. B.

I think the people are just shewing their spirt—Honly think of Lord Lunnunderry pooling out a pistole, and fritening such a manny men as he did. They are rong to set phire to houses, and as for the Hayfair at Knottingham Castle, it was absird hin the hextream, for to my mind the surest way of raising the New Castles, is burning down the old ones.

Our friend P. applyed to me to see and ask Fulmer to be made a pier this time; and Lavy would like to be a Vice-countess she says—a Barreness she would not listen to; but I did not like to say anything to F., because Lord P. said "He was wanted to carry the Bill through the House of Lords;"—these are P.'s hone words out of his leather to me, and I do think Fulmer was born and bred to better things than to do porter's work at his time of life—Hif they wants "the Bill carried through the House," why dont they imploy survunts of their hone, without trying to disgrace onest people witch is as good as themselves?

Pray what do they mean by sayin "whipster of a fraction," wenever they talk of Lord John Rustle? I think it is in allusion to some of his impotence in the Ouse of Kommons. Fulmer says that his Ludship can't bear ironing—he sims to me to have been mangled last Wensday—however, I'm all for Refurm, and Lord Grey, and Universal Suffering, and Vote by Ballad. And now the Bill has been rejected, I am ready for another hole Bill, and nothing but the Bill—and you mark my words, Mr. B., you will be hobliged to pool in your orns afore you have dun.

The King must be a good deal wurried, wot with wun thing and hanuther. If I was he, I never would let Minsters hoverrule me—I would have my own whey, and hif I could not master them piecably, I wood do as Fulmer says, "cut the Jordan knot at once, and resolve the Parlyment."

Say somethink in your pepper, that may show me you have got this.—Yours, still in frenchship,

D. L. Ramsbottom.

P.S.—I forgot to tell you my fourth gull, Addlehead, is going to be marred next week to Dr. Pillycooshy, of Peckham.