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.