The Choice Humorous Works, Ludicrous Adventures, Bons Mots, Puns, and Hoaxes of Theodore Hook

by Theodore Edward Hook

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—

"From grave to gay, from lively to Sevier."

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.