Part 6

I believe I forgot to say that we went one morning to an expedition of pictures at the Looksombre palace, so called from its dull situation. It was very fine: one particularly struck my fancy. It was Phœbe offering Hector to the Gods. There was another of Morpheus charming the Beasts, which was extremely moving; there was also a beautiful portrait of a lady, and Mr. Fulmer said she was in excellent keeping. I did not, of course, ask who she was, and I wonder how they can admit likenesses of that class of people into such a place. Mr. Fulmer shewed me a large picture, painted by David, which is wonderfully fresh, considering its vast age. I knew David was the greatest musician of his time, but I did not know that he was a painter into the bargain. These genuses are always gifted creturs.

We have been to the Jardin des Plantes, or place for wild beasts, where we saw some lepers and tygers--and two birds called carraways, from India; there is also an oliphant, which contradicts the absurd story that these animals carry their trunks about with them--this great creature had nothing but a long snout, which made him look to me as if his tail had been misplaced--it was intended by Bonypart to put the statute of one of these animals up, for a fountain on the Bullwards, indeed the impediment is already constructed.

I was very much delighted with the place Louis Quinzy--so called from his having died of a sore throat--the Admiralty is situated here, with a dollygraph on the top--Mr. Fulmer introduced me to one of the officers in the naval department, who was a very favourable specimen of the French moreen.

We went to the Odium, a favourite playhouse of Bonypart's, on purpose to see the Civil Barber, a play written by one Beau Marchy--but we were disappointed, for the house was not open, so by way of a pease-alley, as Mr. Fulmer calls it, we went to the Fait d'Eau, a kind of French uproar, where we paid very dear for tickets, and got no places after all. I was quite sick and tired of the affair altogether, and if Mr. Fulmer had not got me a caffé au lait to carry me home, I think I should have perspired from fatigue.

I had almost forgot to tell you that we went to the palace at Marselles, distant from this about ten miles--it is indeed a beautiful place. There we saw the great Owes playing, which is water-works, and represents water coming out of the tails of Lions, and out of the ears and noses of frogs and goddesses, as natural as the life. Here is a wonderful fine chapel, all of marvel, and a strait canal which has no end--I forget how much it cost the nation to make all this water, but I am sure it is cheap at the money whatever it may be--though by the name it seems to be still owing. Mr. Fulmer called such an expense an easy mode of liquidating a national debt--but really I don't know why.

I have little time for more at present, because two of the doctors from the Sore-bone are coming to see my daughter's sprained ancle to-night; but it is curious to remark how foolish the people are, when one has not a gentleman with one, for Mr. Fulmer being out to-day, I sent to the Traitors for the bill of fare, and the man talked of sending the dinner in a cart, which I thought was useless, it being only just over the way. So they sent the bill, and I not being particular, and not understanding the names of the things, ordered the first four dishes in the list, and they sent me four different sorts of soup, and when I complained of the cook, the garkon or waiter talked of quizzing and quizzing her, (doubtlessly meaning me) as if I had been a person of no consequence--indeed he once or twice went so far as to swear at me, and say dam when he spoke to me, but I had nobody at home to take my part, and therefore I eat the four soups and said nothing about it.

The daughter of Mr. Ratschild is going to be married--they call him Creases, but he is a Jew. He gives her a dot the day of her wedding, of five millions of franks; but for all he is so rich, they say he is quite circumsized in his affairs compared with his brother in London--his daughter will be made a barrenness when she is married.

Mr. Cambray Serres is more--which here means no more. I suppose, by his name, that he is related to our royal family at home.

Do you know, Mr. Bull, that I have found out one very surprising thing, the French ridicule the English in everything; they have got a farce which they call "Anglase poor rear," which is quite scandalous, and every thing they have, they nick-name after us; they call a note Billy, and a book Tom; a pie they have christened Patty; they call the mob a fool; any thing that is very shameful they call Hunt, but whether they mean John, Henry, Joseph, or Leigh, I cannot discover--they call the winter a heaver--the autumn Old Tom, and the summer they call Letty.

I think the French must have been originally Irish, for they say crame for cream, and suprame for supreme, and so on: but I will endeavour to find out more about this.

I went to see a vealyard (that is, an old man), who had been a sort of anchor-wright or hermit many years ago; he had been put into the dungeons of the Inquisition in furs, and suffered what they call the piano-forte and door of that terrible place--if we go to Room we shall see the buildings in which he was confined, and I dare say we shall go there, and from that to Naples, and into the Gulp of Venus, and so to Cecily, which I shall very much like whoever she may be, because I knew a namesake of her's down in Dorsetshire.

I must, however, conclude my letter, for I am hurried for Tim--Lavy begs her best love, and says in case she is married you must write her epitaph. Why do you not call upon Mr. R.? he will be very glad to see you, and now that he is alone he lives, in compliment to me, entirely upon turtle.

DOROTHEA J. RAMSBOTTOM.

VIII.

MRS. RAMSBOTTOM BACK IN LONDON.

TO JOHN BULL.

Montague Place, Friday, April 23, 1824.

MY DEAR MR. BULL,--I think you will be surprized at the prescription of this letter with the P.P. mark of the two-penny post; but poor Mr. Ramsbottom being seriously ill-disposed, we were off from Paris at a moment's notice, for as good fortune would have it, my embargo which I wrote about was quite removed by the use of Steers's hopalittledog and bang shows every night.

Mr. R. is a little better, and has lost a good deal of what the French call song; indeed our medical man relies very much on the use of his lancaulet. The fact is, that the turtles is come over from the West Hinges, and Mr. R. committed a fox paw at the King's Head, in the Poultry, which caused our doctor (who lives in this neighbourhood, and is lively as he is kind) to say that as Mr. Ramsbottom nearly died by Bleaden, so bleeding must restore him. Bleaden is the name of the gentleman who keeps the King's Head, and bleeding, as you know, is the vulgar term for flea-bottomizing.

I fear you have not received my journal regular, nor do I think I have told you of our seeing the Louver, which we did the very day before we left Paris. I own, amongst the statutes, the Fighting Alligator pleased me most. As for Rubens's pictures, I could not look at them; for though Mr. Fulmer kept talking of the drapery, I saw no drapery at all; and in one, which is of Adonass preventing Venice from being chaste, the lady is sitting on a gold striped jacket. Mr. Fulmer said she had got an enormous anacreonism, at which Lavy laughed; so I suppose it had some allusion to her favourite writer, Mr. Moore, who is called Anacreon--why, I never could understand, unless it refers to the fashionable Maladies which he has introduced into the best society.

A beautiful statute of Apollo with the Hypocrite pleased me very much, and a Fawn which looks like a woman done by Mons. Praxytail, a French stone-mason, is really curious.

A picture of The Bicknells is I suppose a family grope, but the young women appeared tipsy, which is an odd state to be drawn in--the statute of Manylaws is very fine, and so is Cupid and Physic, different from the one which I noticed before.

Mr. Fulmer shewed us some small old black pictures, which I did not look at much, because he told us they were Remnants, and of course very inferior. A fine painting by Carlo my Hearty pleased me, and we saw also something by Sall Vataraso, a lady who was somehow concerned with the little woman I have seen at Peckham Fair in former days, called Lady Morgan.

We had one dinner at Riches, a coffee-house on the Bullwards, and curious enough, it was the very day that poor Mr. Ram overeat himself in the City--we had some stewed Angles, and a couple of Pulls done up in a dish of Shoe; which is much of a muchness with English fowl and cabbage--we had afterwards an amulet of sulphur and some things done in crumbs of bread, which they wanted to pass off upon me as wheat-ears--but I had not lived at Brighton two seasons for nothing, and do happen to know the difference between wheat-ears and oysters; and so I told them.

Mr. Fulmer ordered a bottle of Oil of Purdry, which tasted a good deal like Champaigne, but he said it was mouse; the girls liked it, and Lavy laughed so loud that she quite astonished an officer of Chindammery who was drinking cafe at the next table.

I have left my third and fourth daughters in Paris, to finish their education--they will be taught every thing that girls can be taught, and are to be regularly boarded every day (without regard to its being Lent) for less than seventy pounds per ann.; and they learn so many more things in France than girls do in England, that when they return they might set up for mistresses themselves--what an advantage there must be to a young woman, who is likely to have occasion for it in her latter end, in a continent education--they call these schools puncheons.

I desired, of course, that the Popish Prater, or priest, might have no communication with my girls--I don't approve of what they call the horal confession--to be sure it is a mere matter of feeling--but I saw one young lady in Saint Surplice one day a confessing away to a fine handsome Prater, and I thought it would have been much better done in some more private place than a church. I understood afterwards she was a lady who had been long married, but her husband had no hair to his property, and she used to come every day and confess to the Prater, and pray for a child--poor thing, she seemed very much in earnest.

The onion of Lavy with Mr. Fulmer is postponed; his ant is dead, and it would not be respectful to be married while the dool (as the French call it) continues; I am driven to the last moment, as Lavy and her sister are analyzing themselves to go to see the great picture of Pompey, in the Strand--Lavy means to write to you next week herself. --Your's truly,

DOROTHEA J. RAMSBOTTOM.

IX.

MRS. RAMSBOTTOM ANNOUNCES THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND AND DESCRIBES HER VISIT TO ROME.

TO JOHN BULL.

Montague Place, Jan. 6, 1825.

DEAR MR. BULL,--Why don't you write to us--or call? We are all of us well, and none of us no more, as perhaps you may suppose, except poor Mr. Ram.--of course you know of his disease, it was quite unexpected, with a spoonful of turtle in his mouth--the real gallipot as they call it. However, I have no doubt he is gone to heaven, and my daughters are gone to Bath, except Lavy, who is my pet, and never quits me.

The physicians paid great attention to poor Mr. Ram., and he suffered nothing--at least that I know of. It was a very comfortable thing that I was at home shay new, as the French say, when he went, because it is a great pleasure to see the last of one's relations and friends.

You know we have been to Room since you heard from us--the infernal city as it is called--the seat of Poopery, and where the Poop himself lives. He was one of the Carnals, and was elected just before we was there: he has changed his name, not choosing to disgrace his family. He was formerly Doctor Dallyganger, but he now calls himself Leo, which the Papists reverse, and call him Ole or Oleness. He is a fine cretur, and was never married, but he has published a Bull in Room, which is to let people commit all kind of sin without impunity, which is different from your Bull, which shoes up them as does any crime. He is not Poop this year, for he has proclaimed Jew Billy in his place, which is very good, considering the latter gentleman is a general, and not of his way of thinking.

Oh, Mr. Bull, Room is raley a beautiful place.--We entered it by the Point of Molly, which is just like the Point and Sally at Porchmouth, only they call Sally there Port, which is not known in Room. The Tiber is not a nice river, it looks yellow; but it does the same there as the Tames does here. We hired a carry-letty and a cocky-olly, to take us to the Church of Salt Peter, which is prodigious big:--in the center of the pizarro there is a basilisk very high--on the right and left two handsome foundlings; and the farcy, as Mr. Fulmer called it, is ornamented with collateral statutes of some of the Apostates.

There is a great statute of Salt Peter himself, but Mr. Fulmer thinks it to be Jew Peter, which I think likely too--there were three brothers of the same name, as of course you know--Jew Peter the fortuitous, the capillary, and toenails; and it is curos that it must be him, for his toes are kissed away by the piety of the religious debauchees who visit his shin and shrine--Besides, I think it is Jew Peter, because why should not he be worshipped as well as Jew Billy?--Mr. Fulmer made a pun, Lavy told me, and said the difference between the two Jew Billies was, that one drew all the people to the _sinagog_, and the other set all the people _agog to sin_--I don't conceive his meaning, which I am afraid is a Dublin tender.

There was a large quire of singers, but they squeaked too much to please me--and played on fiddles, so I suppose they have no organs;--the priests pass all their time in dissolving sinners by oracular confusion, which, like transmogrification, is part of their doctoring--the mittens in the morning, and whispers at night, is just equally the same as at Paris.

Next to Salt Peter's Church is the Church of Saint John the Latter end, where the Poop always goes when he is first made--there is another basilisk here covered with highro-griffins.

I assure you the Colocynth is a beautiful ruin--it was built for fights, and Mr. Fulmer said that Hell of a gabbler, an Emperor, filled his theatre with wine--what a sight of marvels Mr. B. oh, so superb!--the carraway, and paring, and the jelly and tea-cup, which are all very fine indeed.

The Veteran[10] (which I used foolishly to call the Vacuum till I had been there), is also filled with statutes--one is the body of the angel Michael, which has been ripped to pieces, and is therefore said to be Tore-so--but I believe this to be a poetical fixture:--the statute of the Racoon is very moving, its tail is prodigious long, and goes round three on 'em--the Antipodes is also a fine piece of execution.

As for paintings there is no end to them in Room--Mr. Raffles's Transmigration is I think the finest--much better than his Harpoons:--there are several done by Hannah Bell Scratchy,[11] which are beautiful; I dare say she must be related to Lady Bell, who is a very clever painter, you know, in London. The Delapidation of St. John by George Honey[12] is very fine, besides several categorical paintings, which pleased me very much.

The shops abound with Cammyhoes and Tallyhoes--which last always reminded me of the sports of the field at home, and the cunning of sly Reynolds a getting away from the dogs. They also make Scally holies at Rome, and what they call obscure chairs--but, oh Mr. B. what a cemetry there is in the figure of Venus of Medicine, which belongs to the Duke of Tusk and eye--her contortions are perfect.

We walked about in the Viccissitude, and hired a maccaroni, or as the French, alluding to the difficulty of satisfying the English, call them, a "lucky to please," and, of course, exploded the Arch of Tightas and the Baths of Diapason. Every day exposes something new there, to the lovers of what they call the belly arty, who have made a great many evacuations in the Forum. Poor Lavy, whom I told you was fond of silly quizzing, fell down on the Tarpaulin Rock, in one of her revelries--Mr. Fulmer said it would make a capital story when she got home, but I never heard another syllabub about it.

One thing surprised me, the Poop (who wears three crowns together, which are so heavy that they call his cap, a tirer) is always talked of as Paw-paw, which seems very improper, his Oleness was ill the last day we went to the Chapel at the Choir and all, having taken something delirious the day before at dinner; he was afterwards confined with romantic gout; but we saw enough of him after, and it was curious to observe the Carnals prostituting themselves successfully before him--he is like the German corn plaster which Mr. Ram used to use--quite unavailable.

However, Mr. B., the best part of all, I think, was our coming home--I was so afraid of the pandittis, who were all in trimbush with arquebasades and Bagnets that I had no peace all the time we were on root--but I must say I liked Friskhearty; and Tiffaly pleased me, and so did Miss Senis's Villa and the Casket Alley; however home is home, be it never so homely, and here we are, thank our stars.

We have a great deal to tell you, if you will but call upon us--Lavy has not been at the halter yet, nor do I know when she will, because of the mourning for poor Mr. Ram--indeed I have suffered a great deal of shag green on account of his disease, and above all have not been able to have a party on Twelfth Night.

Yours truly, DOROTHEA RAMSBOTTOM.

Pray write, dear Mr. B.

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.