The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 190

LETTER IV.

FROM THE RIGHT HON. PATRICK DUIGENAN TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN NICHOL.

Last week, dear Nichol, making merry At dinner with our Secretary, When all were drunk or pretty near (The time for doing business here), Says he to me, "Sweet Bully Bottom!

"These Papist dogs--hiccup--'od rot 'em!-- "Deserve to be bespattered--hiccup-- "With all the dirt even _you_ can pick up.

"But, as the Prince (here's to him--fill-- "Hip, hip, hurra!)--is trying still "To humbug them with kind professions, "And as _you_ deal in _strong_ expressions-- "_Rogue"--"traitor_"--hiccup--and all that-- "You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat!-- "You must indeed--hiccup--that's flat."--

Yes--"muzzled" was the word Sir John-- These fools have clapt a muzzle on The boldest mouth that e'er run o'er With slaver of the times of yore![1]-- Was it for this that back I went As far as Lateran and Trent, To prove that they who d.a.m.ned us then Ought now in turn be d.a.m.ned again?

The silent victim still to sit Of Grattan's fire and Canning's wit, To hear even noisy Mathew gabble on, Nor mention once the Wh.o.r.e of Babylon!

Oh! 'tis too much--who now will be The Nightman of No-Popery?

What Courtier, Saint or even Bishop Such learned filth will ever fish up?

If there among our ranks be one To take my place, 'tis _thou_, Sir John; Thou who like me art dubbed Right Hon.

Like me too art a Lawyer Civil That wishes Papists at the devil.

To whom then but to thee, my friend, Should Patrick[2] his Port-folio send?

Take it--'tis thine--his learned Port-folio, With all its theologic olio Of Bulls, half Irish and half Roman-- Of Doctrines now believed by no man-- Of Councils held for men's salvation, Yet always ending in d.a.m.nation-- (Which shows that since the world's creation Your Priests, whate'er their gentle shamming, Have always had a taste for d.a.m.ning,) And many more such pious sc.r.a.ps, To prove (what _we've_ long proved, perhaps,) That mad as Christians used to be About the Thirteenth Century, There still are Christians to be had In this, the Nineteenth, just as mad!

Farewell--I send with this, dear Nichol, A rod or two I've had in pickle Wherewith to trim old Grattan's jacket.-- The rest shall go by Monday's packet.

P. D.

_Among the Enclosures in the foregoing Letter was the following "Unanswerable Argument against the Papists_."

We're told the ancient Roman nation Made use of spittle in l.u.s.tration; (_Vide "Lactantium ap. Gallaeum"_[3]-- _i. e_. you need not _read_ but _see_ 'em;) Now Irish Papists--fact surprising-- Make use of spittle in baptizing; Which proves them all, O'Finns, O'f.a.gans, Connors and Tooles all downright Pagans.

This fact's enough; let no one tell us To free such sad, _salivous_ fellows.-- No, no--the man, baptized with spittle, Hath no truth in him--not a t.i.ttle!

[1] In sending this sheet to the Press, however, I learn that the "muzzle"

has been taken off, and the Right Hon. Doctor again let loose!

[2] A bad name for poetry; but Duigenan is still worse.

[3] I have taken the trouble of examining the Doctor's reference here, and find him for once correct.

LETTER V.

FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF CORK TO LADY---.

My dear Lady---! I've been just sending out About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout-- (By the by, 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 thought 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_!)

But, my dear Lady----, can't you hit on some notion, At least for one night to set London in motion?-- As to having the Regent, _that_ show is gone by-- Besides, I've remarkt that (between you and I) The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more ways, Have taken much lately to whispering in doorways; Which--considering, you know, dear, the _size_ of the two-- Makes a block that one's company _cannot_ get thro'; And a house such as mine is, with door-ways so small, Has no room for such c.u.mbersome love-work at all.-- (Apropos, tho', 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 arrived?

No Plenipo Pacha, three-tailed and ten-wived?

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 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 _pawed_ them too much-- (And you--know how they spoil whatsoever they touch) Or, whether Lord George (the young man about town) 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. Vaughan's or Lord Liverpool's.

But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschitstopschinzoudhoff Are the only things now make an evening go smooth off: 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 by, have you found any friend that can conster That Latin account, t'other day, of a Monster?[1]

If we can't get a Russian, and _that think_ in Latin Be not _too_ improper, I think I'll bring that in.

[1] Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin Advertis.e.m.e.nt of a _lusus Naturae_ in the Newspapers lately.

LETTER VI.

FROM ABDALLAH,[1] IN LONDON, TO MOHa.s.sAN, IN ISPAHAN.

Whilst thou, Moha.s.san, (happy thou!) Dost daily bend thy loyal brow Before our King--our Asia's treasure!

Nutmeg of Comfort: Rose of Pleasure!-- And bearest 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-- Thro' London streets with turban fair, And caftan floating to the air, I saunter on, the admiration Of this short-coated population-- This sewed-up race--this b.u.t.toned nation-- Who while they boast their laws so free Leave not one limb at liberty, But live with all their lordly speeches The slaves of b.u.t.tons and tight breeches.

Yet tho' 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,[2] hateful dogs!

Whom every pious Shiite flogs Or longs to flog--'tis true, they pray To G.o.d, but in an ill-bred way; With neither arms nor legs nor faces Stuck in their right, canonic places.[3]

'Tis true, they worship Ali's name-- _Their_ heaven and _ours_ are just the same-- (A Persian's Heaven is easily made, 'Tis but black eyes and lemonade.) Yet tho' we've tried for centuries back-- We can't persuade this stubborn pack, By bastinadoes, screws or nippers, To wear the establisht pea-green slippers.[4]

Then, only think, the libertines!

They wash their toes--they comb their chins, With many more such deadly sins; And what's the worst, (tho' last I rank it) Believe the Chapter of the Blanket!

Yet spite of tenets so flagitious, (Which _must_ at bottom be seditious; Since 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.