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.