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A much more independent trade-
In short, until the House of Guelph
Lays Lords and Commons on the shelf,
And boldly sets up for itself!

All, that can well be understood
In this said Book, is vastly good;
And, as to what's incomprehensible,
I dare be sworn 'tis full as sensible.

But-to

your work's immortal credit

The P- -e, good Sir, the P-e has read it; (The only Book, himself remarks,

Which he has read since Mrs. Clarke's).

Last Levee-moru he look'd it through,
During that awful hour or two
Of grave tonsorial preparation,
Which, to a fond, admiring nation,

Sends forth, announc'd by trump and drum,
The best-wigg'd Pe in Christendom!
He thinks with you, th' imagination
Of partnership in legislation
Could only enter into the noddles
Of dull and ledger-keeping twaddles,
Whose heads on firms are running so,
They ev'n must have a King and Co.
And hence, too, eloquently show forth
On checks and balances and so forth.

But now, he trusts, we're coming near a
Better and more royal era;

When England's monarch need but say
"Whip me those scoundrels, C-stl-r-gh!"
Or-" Hang me up those Papists, Eld—n,"
And 'twill be done-aye, faith, and well done.

With view to which, I've his command
To beg, Sir, from your travell'd hand,
(Round which the foreign graces swarm)
A Plan of radical Reform;

Compil'd and chos'n as best you can,
In Turkey or at Ispahan,

And quite upturning, branch and root,
Lords, Commons, and Burdett to boot!
But, pray, whate'er you may impart, write
Somewhat more brief than Major C-rtwr-ght;
Else, though the P- -e be long in rigging,
'Twould take, at least, a fortnight's wigging,-
Two wigs to every paragraph—

Before he well could get through half.

You'll send it also speedily-
As, truth to say, 'twixt you
and me,
His Highness, heated by your work,
Already thinks himself Grand Turk !
And you'd have laugh'd, had you seen how
He scar'd the Ch-nc-ll-r just now,
When (ou his Lordship's entering puff'd) he
Slapp'd his back and call'd him " Mufti!"

The tailors too have got commands,
To put directly into hands

All sorts of Dulimans and Pouches,
With Sashes, Turbans, and Paboutches,

(While Y-rm-th's sketching out a plan
Of new Moustaches a l'Ottomane)
And all things fitting and expedient
To turkify our gracious R―g―nt!

You, therefore, have no time to waste-
So, send your System.-

Your's, in haste.

POSTSCRIPT.

Before I send this scrawl away,

I seize a moment, just to say,

There's some parts of the Turkish system
So vulgar, 'twere as well you miss'd 'em.
For instance-in Seraglio matters-

Your Turk, whom girlish fondness flatters,
Would fill his Haram (tasteless fool!)

With tittering, red-cheek'd things from school--
But here (as in that fairy land,

Where Love and Age went hand in hand;

Where lips, till sixty, shed no honey,
And Grandams were worth any money)
Our Sultan has much riper notions-
So, let your list of she-promotions
Include those only, plump and sage,
Who've reach'd the regulation-age;
That is as near as one can fix
From Peerage dates-full fifty-six.

This rule's for fav'rites-nothing more-
For, as to wives, a Grand Signor,
Though not decidedly without them,
Need never care one curse about them!

LETTER V.

FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF C

My dear Lady

LADY

TO

! I've been just sending out About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout(By the bye, you've seen Rokeby?—this moment got mine

The Mail-Coach Edition-prodigiously fine!) But I can't conceive how, in this very cold weather, I'm ever to bring my five hundred together; As, unless the thermometer's near boiling heat, One can never get half of one's hundreds to meet— (Apropos-you'd have laugh'd to see Townsend last night,

Escort to their chairs, with his staff so polite, The three maiden Miseries," all in a fright! Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts, Supervisor of thieves, and chief-usher of ghosts!)

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Makes a block that one's company cannot get through; And a house such as mine is, with door-ways so small,

Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all!— (Apropos, though, of love-work-you've heard it, I hope,

That Napoleon's old Mother's to marry the Pope,-
What a comical pair!)—but to stick to my Rout,
'Twill be hard if some novelty can't be struck out.
Is there no Algerine, no Kamchatkan arriv'd?
No Plenipo Pacha, three-tail'd and ten-wiv'd?
No Russian, whose dissonant consonant name
Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame?

I remember the time, three or four winters back,
When provided their wigs were but decently

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black

A few Patriot monsters, from Spain, were a sight That would people one's house for one, night after night.

But whether the Ministers paw'd them too much(And you know how they spoil whatsoever they touch)

[town)

Or, whether Lord G-rge (the young man about
Has, by dint of bad poetry, written them down-
One has certainly lost one's peninsular rage,
And the only stray Patriot seen for an age
Has been at such places (think, how the fit cools)
As old Mrs. V---n's or Lord L-v-rp-l's!

But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschit-
stopschinzoudhoff
[off-
Are the only things now make an ev'ning go smooth
So, get me a Russian-till death I'm your debtor-
If he brings the whole Alphabet, so much the better.
And-Lord! if he would but, in character, sup
Off his fish-oil and candles, he'd quite set me up!

Au revoir, my sweet girl-I must leave you in haste-
Little Gunter has brought me the Liqueurs to taste.

POSTSCRIPT.

By the bye, have you found any friend that can

conster

That Latin account, t'other day, of a Monster?
If we can't get a Russian, and that thing in Latin
Be not too improper, I think I'll bring that in.

LETTER VI.

FROM ABDALLAH, IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN
ISPAHAN.

Whilst thou, Mohassan (happy thou!)
Dost daily bend thy loyal brow
Before our King-our Asia's treasure!
Nutmeg of Comfort! Rose of Pleasure!—
And bear'st as many kicks and bruises
As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses ;-
Thy head still near the bowstring's borders,
And but left on till further orders!-
Through London streets, with turban fair,
And caftan, floating to the air,
I saunter on-the admiration

Of this short-coated population

This sew'd-up race-this button'd nationWho, while they boast their laws so free, Leave not one limb at liberty,

But live, with all their lordly speeches, The slaves of buttons and tight breeches!

Yet, though they thus their knee-pans fetter,
(They're Christians, and they know no better)
In some things they're a thinking nation-
And, on Religious Toleration,

I own I like their notions quite,
They are so Persian and so right!
You know our Sunnites, hateful dogs!
Whom every pious Shiite flogs

Or longs to flog-'tis true, they pray
To God, but in an ill-bred way;
With neither arms, nor legs, nor faces
Stuck in their right, canonic places!
'Tis true, they worship Ali's name―
Their Heav'n and ours are just the same-
(A Persian's Heav'n is eas'ly made,
'Tis but-black eyes and lemonade)—

Yet-though we've tried for centuries back-
We can't persuade the stubborn pack,
By bastinadoes, screws, or nippers,
To wear th' establish'd pea-green slippers!
Then-only think-the libertines!
They wash their toes-they comb their chins,
With many more such deadly sins!

And (what's the worst, though last I rank it)
Believe the Chapter of the Blanket!

Yet, spite of tenets so flagitious,
(Which must, at bottom, be seditious;
As no man living would refuse
Green slippers, but from treasonous views;
Nor wash his toes, but with intent
To overturn the government!)
Such is our mild and tolerant way,
We only curse them twice a day,
(According to a Form that's set)
And, far from torturing, only let
All orthodox believers beat 'em,

And twitch their beards, where'er they meet 'em.

As to the rest, they're free to do
Whate'er their fancy prompts them to,
Provided they make nothing of it

Tow'rds rank or honour, power or profit;
Which things, we nat'rally expect,
Belong to us, the Establish'd sect,
Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked!)
Th' aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket.

The same mild views of Toleration Inspire, I find, this button'd nation, Whose Papists (full as giv'n to rogue, And only Sunnites with a brogue) Fare just as well, with all their fuss, As rascal Sunnites do with us.

The tender Gazel I inclose
Is for my love, my Syrian Rose-
Take it, when night begins to fall,
And throw it o'er her mother's wall.

GAZEL.

Rememberest thou the hour we past,
That hour, the happiest and the last!—
Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn
To summer bees, at break of morn,

Not half so sweet, through dale and dell,
To Camels' ears the tinkling bell,
As is the soothing memory

Of that one precious hour to me!

How can we live, so far apart?
Oh! why not rather heart to heart,
United live and die---

Like those sweet birds, that fly together,
With feather always touching feather,
Link'd by a hook and eye!

LETTER VIII.

FROM COLONEL TH-M-S TO
, ESQ.

Come to our Fête, and bring with thee
Thy newest, best embroidery!
Come to our Fête, and show again
That pea-green coat, thou pink of men!

Which charm'd all eyes, that last survey'd it;
When B-l's self inquir'd "who made it?"
When Cits came wond'ring, from the East,
And thought thee Poet Pye at least!

Oh! come---(

--(if haply 'tis thy week For looking pale)---with paly cheek; Though more we love thy roseate days, When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze Full o'er thy face, and, amply spread, Tips ev'n thy whisker-tops with red--Like the last tints of dying Day That o'er some darkling grove delay!

Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander! (That lace, like H-rry Al-x-nd—r, Too precious to be wash'd)---thy rings, Thy seals-in short, thy prettiest things! Put all thy wardrobe's glories on, And yield, in frogs and fringe, to none But the great R-g-t's self alone! Who---by particular desire--For that night only, means to hire A dress from Romeo C-tes, Esquire--Something between ('twere sin to hack it) The Romeo robe and Hobby jacket! Hail, first of Actors! best of R-g-ts! Born for each other's fond allegiance! Both gay Lotharios---both good dressersOf Serious Farce both learn'd Professors--Both circled round, for use or show, With cock's-combs, wheresoe'er they go!

Thou know'st the time, thou man of lore!
It takes to chalk a ball-room floor---
Thou know'st the time too, well-a-day!
It takes to dance that chalk away.
The Ball-room opens---far and nigh
Comets and suns beneath us lie;
O'er snowy moons and stars we walk,
And the floor seems a sky of chalk!
But soon shall fade the bright deceit,
When many a maid, with busy feet
That sparkle in the Lustre's ray,
O'er the white path shall bound and play
Like Nymphs along the Milky Way !---
At every step a star is fled,

And suns grow dim beneath their tread!
So passeth life---(thus Sc-tt would write,
And spinsters read him with delight)---
Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on,
Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone!

But, hang this long digressive flight!
I meant to say, thou'lt see, that night,
What falsehood rankles in their hearts,
Who say the Pe neglects the arts---
Neglects the arts!--no, St-g! no;
Thy Cupids answer " 'tis not so;"
And every floor, that night, shall tell
How quick thou daubest, and how well!
Shine as thou may'st in French vermillion,
Thou'rt best---beneath a French cotillion;
And still com'st off, whate'er thy faults,
With flying colours in a Waltz!

Nor need'st thou mourn the transient date
To thy best works assign'd by fate---
While some chef-d'œuvres live to weary one,
Thine boast a short life and a merry one;
Their hour of glory past and gone
With "Molly, put the kettle on!"

But, bless my soul! I've scarce a leaf
Of paper left---so, must be brief.

This festive Fête, in fact will be
The former Fête's fac-simile;
The same long Masquerade of Rooms,
Trick'd in such different, quaint costumes,
(These, P―rt-r, are thy glorious works!)
You'd swear Egyptians, Moors, and Turks,
Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice,
Had clubb'd to raise a Pic-Nic Palace;
And each to make the oglio pleasant,
Had sent a State-Room as a present!---
The same fauteuils and girandoles---
The same gold Asses, pretty souls!
That, in this rich and classic dome,
Appear so perfectly at home!

The same bright river 'mongst the dishes,
But not---ah! not the same dear fishes---
Late hours and claret kill'd the old ones!
So, 'stead of silver and of gold ones,
(It being rather hard to raise

Fish of that specie now-a-days)

Some Sprats have been, by Y-rm-th's wish,

E

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KING CRACK AND HIS IDOLS. WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOCIATION FOR A NEW M-N-STRY.

King Crack was the best of all possible Kings (At least so his Courtiers would swear to you gladly,)

But Crack now and then would do het'rodox things, And, at last, took to worshipping Images sadly.

Some broken-down Idols, that long had been plac'd In his Father's old Cabinet, pleas'd him so much, That he knelt down and worshipp'd, though---such was his taste !--

They were monstrous to look at and rotten to touch!

And these were the beautiful Gods of King Crack!--Till his People, disdaining to worship such things, Cried aloud, one and all," Come, your Godships must pack--[Kings."

"You will not do for us, though you may do for

Then, trampling the gross Idols under their feet,

= They sent Crack a petition, beginning "Great Cæsar!

3

We are willing to worship; but only entreat

That you'll find us some decenter Godheads than these are."

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And then people get fat,

And infirm, and---all that,

And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits,
That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits.

Thy whiskers, too, Y-rm-th!---alas, even they,
Though so rosy they burn,
[to grey.

Too quickly must turn

(What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!)

Then why, my Lord Warden! oh! why should you fidget

Your mind about matters you don't understand? Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot, Because "you," forsooth, "have the pen in your hand!"

Think, think how much better
Than scribbling a letter,
(Which both you and I

Should avoid, by the bye,)

How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust
Of old Charley, my friend here, and drink like a

new one;

While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan!

To crown us, Lord Warden! In C-mb-rl-nd's garden Grows plenty of monk's hood in venomous sprigs; While Otto of Roses, Refreshing all noses,

Shall sweetly exhale from our whiskers and wigs.

What youth of the Household will cool our Noyau
In that streamlet delicious,
That down midst the dishes,
All full of good fishes
Romantic doth flow?---
Or who will repair
Unto M

Sq-e

And see if the gentle Marchesa be there?

Go---bid her haste hither,
And let her bring with her

The newest No-Popery Sermon that's going---
Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing,
All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay,
In the manner of---Ackerinann's Dresses for May!

THE SALE OF THE TOOLS.
Instrumenta regni.-TACITUS.

Here's a choice set of Tools for you, Ge'mmen and
Ladies,

They'll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is; (Except it be Cabinet-making---I doubt

In that delicate service they're rather worn out; Though their owner, bright youth! if he'd had his own will,

Would have bungled away with them joyously still.) You can see they've been pretty well hack'd---and alack!

What tool is there job after job will not hack?

Their edge is but dullish, it must be confess'd, And their temper, like Enb'r-h's, none of the best, [upon trying,

But you'll find them good hard-working Tools Wer't but for their brass, they are well worth the buying; [screens, They're famous for making blinds, sliders, and And they're, some of them, excellent turning machines!

The first Tool I'll put up (they call it a Chancellor) Heavy concern to both purchaser and seller--Though made of pig iron, yet worthy of note 'tis, 'Tis ready to melt at a half minute's notice. Who bids? Gentle buyer! 'twill turn as thou shapest--

"Twill make a good thumb-screw to torture a Papist ; Or else a cramp-iron, to stick in the wall

Of some church that old women are fearful will fall;
Or better, perhaps, (for I'm guessing at random,)
A heavy drag-chain for some Lawyer's old Tandem!
Will nobody bid? It is cheap, I am sure, Sir---
Once, twice, going, going, thrice, gone!---it is
your's, Sir.

To pay ready money you sha'n't be distrest.
As a bill at long date suits the Chancellor best.

Come, where's the next Tool?---Oh! 'tis here in a trice--

This implement, Ge'mmen! at first was a Vice; (A tenacious and close sort of tool, that will let Nothing out of its grasp it once happens to get,) But it since has received a new coating of Tin, Bright enough for a Prince to behold himself in! Come, what shall we say for it? briskly! bid on, We'll the sooner get rid of it---going---quite gone! God be with it, such tools, if not quickly knock'd down, [Crown!

Might at last cost their owner---how much? why, a

The next Tool I'll set up has hardly had hansel or
Trial as yet, and is also a Chancellor---

Such dull things as these should be sold by the gross;
Yet, dull as it is, 'twould be found to shave close,
And like other close shavers, some courage to gather,
This blade first began by a flourish on leather!
You shall have it for nothing---then,marvel with me
At the terrible tinkering work there must be, [it)
Where a Tool such as this is (I'll leave you to judge
Is placed by ill luck at the top of the Budget!

AZIM VISITS THE HARAM OF
MOKANNA.

Now, through the Haram chambers, moving lights
And busy shapes proclaim the toilet's rites ;-
From room to room the ready handmaids hie,
Some skill'd to wreath the turban tastefully,
Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade,
O'er the warm blushes of the youthful maid,
Who, if between the folds but one eye shone,
Like Seba's queen could vanquish with that one :-
While some bring leaves of Henna, to imbue

The fingers' ends with a bright roseate hue,
So bright, that in the mirror's depth they seem
Like tips of coral branches in the stream;
And others mix the Kohol's jetty dye,

To give that long, dark languish to the eye, [cull
Which makes the maids, whom kings are proud to
From fair Circassia's vales, so beautiful!

All is in motion; rings and plumes and pearls Are shining every where:-some younger girls Are gone by moonlight to the garden beds, To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads; Gay creatures! sweet, though mournful 'tis to see How each prefers a garland from that tree Which brings to mind her childhood's innocent day, And the dear fields and friendships far away. The maid of India, blest again to hold In her full lap the Champac's leaves of gold, Thinks of the time when, by the Ganges' flood, Her little play-mates scatter'd many a bud Upon her long black hair, with glossy gleam Just dripping from the consecrated stream; While the young Arab, haunted by the smell Of her own mountain flowers, as by a spell,— The sweet Elcaya, and that courteous tree Which bows to all who seek its canopySees, call'd up round her by these magic scents, The well, the camels, and her father's tents; Sighs for the home she left with little pain, And wishes ev'n its sorrows back again!

Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls, Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound From many a jasper fount, is heard around, Young Azim roams bewilder'd,-nor can guess What means this maze of light and loneliness. Here, the way leads, o'er tesselated floors Or mats of Cairo, through long corridors, Where, rang'd in cassolets and silver urns, Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns; And spicy rods, such as illume at night The bowers of Tibet, send forth odorous light, Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the road For some pure spirit to its blest abode !— And here, at once, the glittering saloon Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon; Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays High as th' enamell'd cupola, which towers All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers: And the mosaic floor beneath shines through The sprinkling of that fountain's silvery dew, Like the wet, glistening shells, of every dye, That on the margin of the Red Sea lie.

Here too he traces the kind visitings Of woman's love in those fair, living things Of land and wave, whose fate,-in bondage thrown For their weak loveliness-is like her own! On one side gleaming with a sudden grace Through water, brilliant as the crystal vase In which it undulates, small fishes shine, Like golden ingots from a fairy mine;

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