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The end of Mr. Deuceace’s history is going to be the end of my corrispondince.  I wish the public was as sory to part with me as I am with the public; becaws I fansy reely that we’ve become frends, and feal for my part a becoming greaf at saying ajew.

It’s imposbill for me to continyow, however, a-writin, as I have done ­violetting the rules of authography, and trampling upon the fust princepills of English grammar.  When I began, I knew no better:  when I’d carrid on these papers a little further, and grew accustmd to writin, I began to smel out somethink quear in my style.  Within the last sex weaks I have been learning to spell:  and when all the world was rejoicing at the festivvaties of our youthful Quean ­when all i’s were fixed upon her long sweet of ambasdors and princes, following the splendid carridge of Marshle the Duke of Damlatiar, and blinking at the pearls and dimince of Prince Oystereasy ­Yellowplush was in his loanly pantry ­HIS eyes were fixt upon the spelling-book ­his heart was bent upon mastring the diffickleties of the littery professhn.  I have been, in fact, CONVERTID.

This was written in 1838.

You shall here how.  Ours, you know, is a Wig house; and ever sins his third son has got a place in the Treasury, his secknd a captingsy in the Guards, his fust, the secretary of embasy at Pekin, with a prospick of being appinted ambasdor at Loo Choo ­ever sins master’s sons have reseaved these attentions, and master himself has had the promis of a pearitch, he has been the most reglar, consistnt, honrabble Libbaral, in or out of the House of Commins.

Well, being a Whig, it’s the fashn, as you know, to reseave littery pipple; and accordingly, at dinner, tother day, whose name do you think I had to hollar out on the fust landing-place about a wick ago?  After several dukes and markises had been enounced, a very gentell fly drives up to our doar, and out steps two gentlemen.  One was pail, and wor spektickles, a wig, and a white neckcloth.  The other was slim with a hook nose, a pail fase, a small waist, a pare of falling shoulders, a tight coat, and a catarack of black satting tumbling out of his busm, and falling into a gilt velvet weskit.  The little genlmn settled his wigg, and pulled out his ribbins; the younger one fluffed the dust of his shoes, looked at his whiskers in a little pockit-glas, settled his crevatt; and they both mounted upstairs.

“What name, sir?” says I, to the old genlmn.

“Name! ­a! now, you thief o’ the wurrld,” says he, “do you pretind nat to know me?  Say it’s the Cabinet Cyclopa ­no, I mane the Litherary Chran ­psha! ­bluthanowns! ­say it’s docthor DIOCLESIAN Larner ­I think he’ll know me now ­ay, Nid?” But the genlmn called Nid was at the botm of the stare, and pretended to be very busy with his shoo-string.  So the little genlmn went upstares alone.

Doctor DIOLESIUS Larner!” says I.

Doctor athanasius Lardner!” says Greville Fitz-Roy, our secknd footman, on the fust landing-place.

Doctor Ignatius Loyola!” says the groom of the chambers, who pretends to be a scholar; and in the little genlmn went.  When safely housed, the other chap came; and when I asked him his name, said, in a thick, gobbling kind of voice: 


“Sir what?” says I, quite agast at the name.

“Sawedwad ­no, I mean MISTAWedwad Lyttn Bulwig.”

My neas trembled under me, my i’s fild with tiers, my voice shook, as
I past up the venrabble name to the other footman, and saw this fust of
English writers go up to the drawing-room!

It’s needless to mention the names of the rest of the compny, or to dixcribe the suckmstansies of the dinner.  Suffiz to say that the two littery genlmn behaved very well, and seamed to have good appytights; igspecially the little Irishman in the whig, who et, drunk, and talked as much as a duzn.  He told how he’d been presented at cort by his friend, Mr. Bulwig, and how the Quean had received ’em both, with a dignity undigscribable; and how her blessid Majisty asked what was the bony fidy sale of the Cabinit Cyclopaedy, and how be (Doctor Larner) told her that, on his honner, it was under ten thowsnd.

You may guess that the Doctor, when he made this speach, was pretty far gone.  The fact is, that whether it was the coronation, or the goodness of the wine (cappitle it is in our house, I can tell you), or the natral propensaties of the gests assembled, which made them so igspecially jolly, I don’t know; but they had kep up the meating pretty late, and our poar butler was quite tired with the perpechual baskits of clarrit which he’d been called upon to bring up.  So that about 11 o’clock, if I were to say they were merry, I should use a mild term; if I wer to say they were intawsicated, I should use a nigspresshn more near to the truth, but less rispeckful in one of my situashn.

The cumpany reseaved this annountsmint with mute extonishment.

“Pray, Doctor Larnder,” says a spiteful genlmn, willing to keep up the littery conversation, “what is the Cabinet Cyclopaedia?”

“It’s the littherary wontherr of the wurrld,” says he; “and sure your lordship must have seen it; the latther numbers ispicially ­cheap as durrt, bound in gleezed calico, six shillings a vollum.  The illusthrious neems of Walther Scott, Thomas Moore, Docther Southey, Sir James Mackintosh, Docther Donovan, and meself, are to be found in the list of conthributors.  It’s the Phaynix of Cyclopajies ­a litherary Bacon.”

“A what?” says the genlmn nex to him.

“A Bacon, shining in the darkness of our age; fild wid the pure end lambent flame of science, burning with the gorrgeous scintillations of divine litherature ­a monumintum, in fact, are perinnius, bound in pink calico, six shillings a vollum.”

“This wigmawole,” said Mr. Bulwig (who seemed rather disgusted that his friend should take up so much of the convassation), “this wigmawole is all vewy well; but it’s cuwious that you don’t wemember, in chawactewising the litewawy mewits of the vawious magazines, cwonicles, weviews, and encyclopaedias, the existence of a cwitical weview and litewary chwonicle, which, though the aewa of its appeawance is dated only at a vewy few months pwevious to the pwesent pewiod, is, nevertheless, so wemarkable for its intwinsic mewits as to be wead, not in the metwopolis alone, but in the countwy ­not in Fwance merely, but in the west of Euwope ­whewever our pure Wenglish is spoken, it stwetches its peaceful sceptre ­pewused in Amewica, fwom New York to Ningawa ­wepwinted in Canada, from Montweal to Towonto ­and, as I am gwatified to hear fwom my fwend the governor of Cape Coast Castle, wegularly weceived in Afwica, and twanslated into the Mandingo language by the missionawies and the bushwangers.  I need not say, gentlemen ­sir ­that is, Mr. Speaker ­I mean, Sir John ­that I allude to the Litewary Chwonicle, of which I have the honor to be pwincipal contwibutor.”

“Very true; my dear Mr. Bullwig,” says my master:  “you and I being Whigs, must of course stand by our own friends; and I will agree, without a moment’s hesitation, that the Literary what-d’ye-call’em is the prince of periodicals.”

“The pwince of pewiodicals?” says Bullwig; “my dear Sir John, it’s the empewow of the pwess.”

“Soit, ­let it be the emperor of the press, as you poetically call it:  but, between ourselves, confess it, ­Do not the Tory writers beat your Whigs hollow?  You talk about magazines.  Look at ­”

“Look at hwat?” shouts out Larder.  “There’s none, Sir Jan, compared to ourrs.”

“Pardon me, I think that ­”

“It is ‘Bentley’s Mislany’ you mane?” says Ignatius, as sharp as a niddle.

“Why, no; but ­”

“O thin, it’s Co’burn, sure! and that divvle Thayodor ­a pretty paper, sir, but light ­thrashy, milk-and-wathery ­not sthrong, like the Litherary Chran ­good luck to it.”

“Why, Doctor Lander, I was going to tell at once the name of the periodical, it’s Fraser’s magazine.”

“FRESER!” says the Doctor.  “O thunder and turf!”

“FWASER!” says Bullwig.  “O ­ah ­hum ­haw ­yes ­no ­why, ­that is weally ­no, weally, upon my weputation, I never before heard the name of the pewiodical.  By the by, Sir John, what wemarkable good clawet this is; is it Lawose or Laff ?”

Laff, indeed! he cooden git beyond laff; and I’m blest if I could kip it neither, ­for hearing him pretend ignurnts, and being behind the skreend, settlin somethink for the genlmn, I bust into such a raw of laffing as never was igseeded.

“Hullo!” says Bullwig, turning red.  “Have I said anything impwobable, aw widiculous? for, weally, I never befaw wecollect to have heard in society such a twemendous peal of cachinnation ­that which the twagic bard who fought at Mawathon has called an anewithmon gelasma.”

“Why, be the holy piper,” says Larder, “I think you are dthrawing a little on your imagination.  Not read Fraser!  Don’t believe him, my lord duke; he reads every word of it, the rogue!  The boys about that magazine baste him as if he was a sack of oatmale.  My reason for crying out, Sir Jan, was because you mintioned Fraser at all.  Bullwig has every syllable of it be heart ­from the pailitix down to the ’Yellowplush Correspondence.’”

“Ha, ha!” says Bullwig, affecting to laff (you may be sure my ears prickt up when I heard the name of the “Yellowplush Correspondence").  “Ha, ha! why, to tell truth, I have wead the cowespondence to which you allude:  it’s a gweat favowite at court.  I was talking with Spwing Wice and John Wussell about it the other day.”

“Well, and what do you think of it?” says Sir John, looking mity waggish ­for he knew it was me who roat it.

“Why, weally and twuly, there’s considewable cleverness about the cweature; but it’s low, disgustingly low:  it violates pwabability, and the orthogwaphy is so carefully inaccuwate, that it requires a positive study to compwehend it.”

“Yes, faith,” says Larner; “the arthagraphy is detestible; it’s as bad for a man to write bad spillin as it is for ’em to speak wid a brrogue.  Iducation furst, and ganius afterwards.  Your health, my lord, and good luck to you.”

“Yaw wemark,” says Bullwig, “is vewy appwopwiate.  You will wecollect, Sir John, in Hewodotus (as for you, Doctor, you know more about Iwish than about Gweek), ­you will wecollect, without doubt, a stowy nawwated by that cwedulous though fascinating chwonicler, of a certain kind of sheep which is known only in a certain distwict of Awabia, and of which the tail is so enormous, that it either dwaggles on the gwound, or is bound up by the shepherds of the country into a small wheelbawwow, or cart, which makes the chwonicler sneewingly wemark that thus ’the sheep of Awabia have their own chawiots.’  I have often thought, sir (this clawet is weally nectaweous) ­I have often, I say, thought that the wace of man may be compawed to these Awabian sheep ­genius is our tail, education our wheelbawwow.  Without art and education to pwop it, this genius dwops on the gwound, and is polluted by the mud, or injured by the wocks upon the way:  with the wheelbawwow it is stwengthened, incweased, and supported ­a pwide to the owner, a blessing to mankind.”

“A very appropriate simile,” says Sir John; “and I am afraid that the genius of our friend Yellowplush has need of some such support.”

“Apropos,” said Bullwig, “who is Yellowplush?  I was given to understand that the name was only a fictitious one, and that the papers were written by the author of the ‘Diary of a Physician;’ if so, the man has wonderfully improved in style, and there is some hope of him.”

“Bah!” says the Duke of Doublejowl; “everybody knows it’s Barnard, the celebrated author of ‘Sam Slick.’”

“Pardon, my dear duke,” says Lord Bagwig; “it’s the authoress of ’High Life,’ ‘Almack’s,’ and other fashionable novels.”

“Fiddlestick’s end!” says Doctor Larner; “don’t be blushing and pretinding to ask questions; don’t we know you, Bullwig?  It’s you yourself, you thief of the world:  we smoked you from the very beginning.”

Bullwig was about indignantly to reply, when Sir John interrupted them, and said, ­“I must correct you all, gentlemen; Mr. Yellowplush is no other than Mr. Yellowplush:  he gave you, my dear Bullwig, your last glass of champagne at dinner, and is now an inmate of my house, and an ornament of my kitchen!”

“Gad!” says Doublejowl, “let’s have him up.”

“Hear, hear!” says Bagwig.

“Ah, now,” says Larner, “your grace is not going to call up and talk to a footman, sure?  Is it gintale?”

“To say the least of it,” says Bullwig, “the pwactice is iwwegular, and indecowous; and I weally don’t see how the interview can be in any way pwofitable.”

But the vices of the company went against the two littery men, and everybody excep them was for having up poor me.  The bell was wrung; butler came.  “Send up Charles,” says master; and Charles, who was standing behind the skreand, was persnly abliged to come in.

“Charles,” says master, “I have been telling these gentlemen who is the author of the ‘Yellowplush Correspondence’ in Fraser’s Magazine.”

“It’s the best magazine in Europe,” says the duke.

“And no mistake,” says my lord.

“Hwhat!” says Larner; “and where’s the Litherary Chran?”

I said myself nothink, but made a bough, and blusht like pickle-cabbitch.

“Mr. Yellowplush,” says his grace, “will you, in the first place, drink a glass of wine?”

I boughed agin.

“And what wine do you prefer, sir? humble port or imperial burgundy?”

“Why, your grace,” says I, “I know my place, and ain’t above kitchin wines.  I will take a glass of port, and drink it to the health of this honrabble compny.”

When I’d swigged off the bumper, which his grace himself did me the honor to pour out for me, there was a silints for a minnit; when my master said: ­

“Charles Yellowplush, I have perused your memoirs in Fraser’s Magazine with so much curiosity, and have so high an opinion of your talents as a writer, that I really cannot keep you as a footman any longer, or allow you to discharge duties for which you are now quite unfit.  With all my admiration for your talents, Mr. Yellowplush, I still am confident that many of your friends in the servants’-hall will clean my boots a great deal better than a gentleman of your genius can ever be expected to do ­it is for this purpose I employ footmen, and not that they may be writing articles in magazines.  But ­you need not look so red, my good fellow, and had better take another glass of port ­I don’t wish to throw you upon the wide world without the means of a livelihood, and have made interest for a little place which you will have under government, and which will give you an income of eighty pounds per annum; which you can double, I presume, by your literary labors.”

“Sir,” says I, clasping my hands, and busting into tears, “do not ­for heaven’s sake, do not! ­think of any such think, or drive me from your suvvice, because I have been fool enough to write in magaseens.  Glans but one moment at your honor’s plate ­every spoon is as bright as a mirror; condysend to igsamine your shoes ­your honor may see reflected in them the fases of every one in the company.  I blacked them shoes, I cleaned that there plate.  If occasionally I’ve forgot the footman in the litterary man, and committed to paper my remindicences of fashnabble life, it was from a sincere desire to do good, and promote nollitch:  and I appeal to your honor, ­I lay my hand on my busm, and in the fase of this noble company beg you to say, When you rung your bell, who came to you fust?  When you stopt out at Brooke’s till morning, who sat up for you?  When you was ill, who forgot the natral dignities of his station, and answered the two-pair bell?  Oh, sir,” says I, “I know what’s what; don’t send me away.  I know them littery chaps, and, beleave me, I’d rather be a footman.  The work’s not so hard ­the pay is better:  the vittels incompyrably supearor.  I have but to clean my things, and run my errints, and you put clothes on my back, and meat in my mouth.  Sir!  Mr. Bullwig! an’t I right? shall I quit my station and sink ­that is to say, rise ­to yours?”

Bullwig was violently affected; a tear stood in his glistening i.  “Yellowplush,” says he, seizing my hand, “you are right.  Quit not your present occupation; black boots, clean knives, wear plush, all your life, but don’t turn literary man.  Look at me.  I am the first novelist in Europe.  I have ranged with eagle wing over the wide regions of literature, and perched on every eminence in its turn.  I have gazed with eagle eyes on the sun of philosophy, and fathomed the mysterious depths of the human mind.  All languages are familiar to me, all thoughts are known to me, all men understood by me.  I have gathered wisdom from the honeyed lips of Plato, as we wandered in the gardens of Acadames ­wisdom, too, from the mouth of Job Johnson, as we smoked our ’backy in Seven Dials.  Such must be the studies, and such is the mission, in this world, of the Poet-Philosopher.  But the knowledge is only emptiness; the initiation is but misery; the initiated, a man shunned and bann’d by his fellows.  Oh,” said Bullwig, clasping his hands, and throwing his fine i’s up to the chandelier, “the curse of Pwometheus descends upon his wace.  Wath and punishment pursue them from genewation to genewation!  Wo to genius, the heaven-scaler, the fire-stealer!  Wo and thrice bitter desolation!  Earth is the wock on which Zeus, wemorseless, stwetches his withing victim ­men, the vultures that feed and fatten on him.  Ai, ! it is agony eternal ­gwoaning and solitawy despair!  And you, Yellowplush, would penetwate these mystewies:  you would waise the awful veil, and stand in the twemendous Pwesence.  Beware; as you value your peace, beware!  Withdwaw, wash Neophyte!  For heaven’s sake ­O for heaven’s sake!” ­here he looked round with agony ­“give me a glass of bwandy-and-water, for this clawet is beginning to disagwee with me.”

Bullwig having concluded this spitch, very much to his own sattasfackshn, looked round to the compny for aplaws, and then swigged off the glass of brandy-and-water, giving a sollum sigh as he took the last gulph; and then Doctor Ignatius, who longed for a chans, and, in order to show his independence, began flatly contradicting his friend, addressed me, and the rest of the genlmn present, in the following manner: ­

“Hark ye,” says he, “my gossoon, doan’t be led asthray by the nonsinse of that divil of a Bullwig.  He’s jillous of ye, my bhoy:  that’s the rale, undoubted thruth; and it’s only to keep you out of litherary life that he’s palavering you in this way.  I’ll tell you what ­Plush ye blackguard, ­my honorable frind the mimber there has told me a hunder times by the smallest computation, of his intense admiration of your talents, and the wonderful sthir they were making in the world.  He can’t bear a rival.  He’s mad with envy, hatred, oncharatableness.  Look at him, Plush, and look at me.  My father was not a juke exactly, nor aven a markis, and see, nevertheliss, to what a pitch I am come.  I spare no ixpinse; I’m the iditor of a cople of pariodicals; I dthrive about in me carridge:  I dine wid the lords of the land; and why ­in the name of the piper that pleed before Mosus, hwy?  Because I’m a litherary man.  Because I know how to play me cards.  Because I’m Docther Larner, in fact, and mimber of every society in and out of Europe.  I might have remained all my life in Thrinity Colledge, and never made such an incom as that offered you by Sir Jan; but I came to London ­to London, my boy, and now see!  Look again at me friend Bullwig.  He is a gentleman, to be sure, and bad luck to ’im, say I; and what has been the result of his litherary labor?  I’ll tell you what; and I’ll tell this gintale society, by the shade of Saint Patrick, they’re going to make him a BARINET.”

“A barnet, Doctor!” says I; “you don’t mean to say they’re going to make him a barnet!”

“As sure as I’ve made meself a docthor,” says Larner.

“What, a baronet, like Sir John?”

“The divle a bit else.”

“And pray what for?”

“What faw?” says Bullwig.  “Ask the histowy of litwatuwe what faw?  Ask Colburn, ask Bentley, ask Saunders and Otley, ask the gweat Bwitish nation, what faw?  The blood in my veins comes puwified thwough ten thousand years of chivalwous ancestwy; but that is neither here nor there:  my political principles ­the equal wights which I have advocated ­the gweat cause of fweedom that I have celebwated, are known to all.  But this, I confess, has nothing to do with the question.  No, the question is this ­on the thwone of litewature I stand unwivalled, pwe-eminent; and the Bwitish government, honowing genius in me, compliments the Bwitish nation by lifting into the bosom of the heweditawy nobility, the most gifted member of the democwacy.” (The honrabble genlm here sunk down amidst repeated cheers.)

“Sir John,” says I, “and my lord duke, the words of my rivrint frend Ignatius, and the remarks of the honrabble genlmn who has just sate down, have made me change the detummination which I had the honor of igspressing just now.

“I igsept the eighty pound a year; knowing that I shall ave plenty of time for pursuing my littery career, and hoping some day to set on that same bentch of barranites, which is deckarated by the presnts of my honrabble friend.

“Why shooden I?  It’s trew I ain’t done anythink as yet to deserve such an honor; and it’s very probable that I never shall.  But what then? ­quaw dong, as our friends say?  I’d much rayther have a coat-of-arms than a coat of livry.  I’d much rayther have my blud-red hand spralink in the middle of a shield, than underneath a tea-tray.  A barranit I will be; and, in consiquints, must cease to be a footmin.

“As to my politticle princepills, these, I confess, ain’t settled:  they are, I know, necessary; but they ain’t necessary until askt for; besides, I reglar read the Sattarist newspaper, and so ignirince on this pint would be inigscusable.

“But if one man can git to be a doctor, and another a barranit, and another a capting in the navy, and another a countess, and another the wife of a governor of the Cape of Good Hope, I begin to perseave that the littery trade ain’t such a very bad un; igspecially if you’re up to snough, and know what’s o’clock.  I’ll learn to make myself usefle, in the fust place; then I’ll larn to spell; and, I trust, by reading the novvles of the honrabble member, and the scientafick treatiseses of the reverend doctor, I may find the secrit of suxess, and git a litell for my own share.  I’ve sevral frends in the press, having paid for many of those chaps’ drink, and given them other treets; and so I think I’ve got all the emilents of suxess; therefore, I am detummined, as I said, to igsept your kind offer, and beg to withdraw the wuds which I made yous of when I refyoused your hoxpatable offer.  I must, however ­”

“I wish you’d withdraw yourself,” said Sir John, bursting into a most igstrorinary rage, “and not interrupt the company with your infernal talk!  Go down, and get us coffee:  and, hark ye! hold your impertinent tongue, or I’ll break every bone in your body.  You shall have the place as I said; and while you’re in my service, you shall be my servant; but you don’t stay in my service after to-morrow.  Go down stairs, sir; and don’t stand staring here!”

. . . . . .

In this abrupt way, my evening ended; it’s with a melancholy regret that I think what came of it.  I don’t wear plush any more.  I am an altered, a wiser, and, I trust, a better man.

I’m about a novvle (having made great progriss in spelling), in the style of my friend Bullwig; and preparing for publigation, in the Doctor’s Cyclopedear, “The Lives of Eminent British and Foring Wosherwomen.”



Dear why, ­Takin advantage of the Crismiss holydays, Sir John and me (who is a member of parlyment) had gone down to our place in Yorkshire for six wicks, to shoot grows and woodcox, and enjoy old English hospitalaty.  This ugly Canady bisniss unluckaly put an end to our sports in the country, and brot us up to Buckly Square as fast as four posterses could gallip.  When there, I found your parcel, containing the two vollumes of a new book; which, as I have been away from the literary world, and emplied solely in athlatic exorcises, have been laying neglected in my pantry, among my knife-cloaths, and dekanters, and blacking-bottles, and bed-room candles, and things.

These Memoirs were originally published in Fraser’s Magazine, and it may be stated for the benefit of the unlearned in such matters, that “Oliver Yorke” is the assumed name of the editor of that periodical.

This will, I’m sure, account for my delay in notussing the work.  I see sefral of the papers and magazeens have been befoarhand with me, and have given their apinions concerning it:  specially the Quotly Revew, which has most mussilessly cut to peases the author of this Dairy of the Times of George IV.

Diary illustrative of the Times of George the Fourth, interspersed with Original Letters from the late Queen Caroline, and from various other distinguished Persons.

         “Tot tard, tout se scait.” ­Maintenon.

In 2 vols.  London, 1838.  Henry Colburn.

That it’s a woman who wrote it is evydent from the style of the writing, as well as from certain proofs in the book itself.  Most suttnly a femail wrote this Dairy; but who this Dairy-maid may be, I, in coarse, can’t conjecter:  and indeed, common galliantry forbids me to ask.  I can only judge of the book itself; which, it appears to me, is clearly trenching upon my ground and favrite subjicks, viz. fashnabble life, as igsibited in the houses of the nobility, gentry, and rile fammly.

But I bare no mallis ­infamation is infamation, and it doesn’t matter where the infamy comes from; and whether the Dairy be from that distinguished pen to which it is ornarily attributed ­whether, I say, it comes from a lady of honor to the late quean, or a scullion to that diffunct majisty, no matter:  all we ask is nollidge; never mind how we have it.  Nollidge, as our cook says, is like trikel-possit ­it’s always good, though you was to drink it out of an old shoo.

Well, then, although this Dairy is likely searusly to injur my pussonal intrests, by fourstalling a deal of what I had to say in my private memoars ­though many, many guineas, is taken from my pockit, by cuttin short the tail of my narratif ­though much that I had to say in souperior languidge, greased with all the ellygance of my orytory, the benefick of my classcle reading, the chawms of my agreble wit, is thus abruply brot befor the world by an inferior genus, neither knowing nor writing English; yet I say, that nevertheless I must say, what I am puffickly prepaired to say, to gainsay which no man can say a word ­yet I say, that I say I consider this publication welkom.  Far from viewing it with enfy, I greet it with applaws; because it increases that most exlent specious of nollidge, I mean “FASHNABBLE nollidge:”  compayred to witch all other nollidge is nonsince ­a bag of goold to a pare of snuffers.

Could Lord Broom, on the Canady question, say moar? or say what he had tu say better?  We are marters, both of us, to prinsple; and every body who knows eather knows that we would sacrafice anythink rather than that.  Fashion is the goddiss I adoar.  This delightful work is an offring on her srine; and as sich all her wushippers are bound to hail it.  Here is not a question of trumpry lords and honrabbles, generals and barronites, but the crown itself, and the king and queen’s actions; witch may be considered as the crown jewels.  Here’s princes, and grand-dukes and airsparent, and heaven knows what; all with blood-royal in their veins, and their names mentioned in the very fust page of the peeridge.  In this book you become so intmate with the Prince of Wales, that you may follow him, if you please, to his marridge-bed:  or, if you prefer the Princiss Charlotte, you may have with her an hour’s tator-tator.

Our estimable correspondent means, we presume, tete-a-tete. ­O.  Y.

Now, though most of the remarkable extrax from this book have been given already (the cream of the Dairy, as I wittily say,) I shall trouble you, nevertheless, with a few; partly because they can’t be repeated too often, and because the toan of obsyvation with which they have been genrally received by the press, is not igsackly such as I think they merit.  How, indeed, can these common magaseen and newspaper pipple know anythink of fashnabble life, let alone ryal?

Conseaving, then, that the publication of the Dairy has done reel good on this scoar, and may probly do a deal moor, I shall look through it, for the porpus of selecting the most ellygant passidges, and which I think may be peculiarly adapted to the reader’s benefick.

For you see, my dear Mr. Yorke, that in the fust place, that this is no common catchpny book, like that of most authors and authoresses, who write for the base looker of gain.  Heaven bless you! the Dairy-maid is above anything musnary.  She is a woman of rank, and no mistake; and is as much above doin a common or vulgar action as I am superaor to taking beer after dinner with my cheese.  She proves that most satisfackarily, as we see in the following passidge: ­

“Her royal highness came to me, and having spoken a few phrases on different subjects, produced all the papers she wishes to have published:  her whole correspondence with the prince relative to Lady J –­’s dismissal; his subsequent neglect of the princess; and, finally, the acquittal of her supposed guilt, signed by the Duke of Portland, &c., at the time of the secret inquiry:  when, if proof could have been brought against her, it certainly would have been done; and which acquittal, to the disgrace of all parties concerned, as well as to the justice of the nation in general, was not made public at the time.  A common criminal is publicly condemned or acquitted.  Her royal highness commanded me to have these letters published forthwith, saying, ’You may sell them for a great sum.’  At first (for she had spoken to me before concerning this business), I thought of availing myself of the opportunity; but upon second thoughts, I turned from this idea with detestation:  for, if I do wrong by obeying her wishes and endeavoring to serve her, I will do so at least from good and disinterested motives, not from any sordid views.  The princess commands me, and I will obey her, whatever may be the issue; but not for fare or fee.  I own I tremble, not so much for myself, as for the idea that she is not taking the best and most dignified way of having these papers published.  Why make a secret of it at all?  If wrong, it should not be done; if right it should be done openly, and in the face of her enemies.  In her royal highness’s case, as in that of wronged princes in general, why do they shrink from straightforward dealings, and rather have recourse to crooked policy?  I wish, in this particular instance, I could make her royal highness feel thus:  but she is naturally indignant at being falsely accused, and will not condescend to an avowed explanation.”

Can anythink be more just and honrabble than this?  The Dairy-lady is quite fair and abovebored.  A clear stage, says she, and no favior!  “I won’t do behind my back what I am ashamed of before my face:  not I!” No more she does; for you see that, though she was offered this manyscrip by the princess for nothink, though she knew that she could actially get for it a large sum of money, she was above it, like an honest, noble, grateful, fashnabble woman, as she was.  She aboars secrecy, and never will have recors to disguise or crookid polacy.  This ought to be an ansure to them radicle SNEERERS, who pretend that they are the equals of fashnabble pepple; wheras it’s a well-known fact, that the vulgar roagues have no notion of honor.

And after this positif declaration, which reflex honor on her ladyship (long life to her!  I’ve often waited behind her chair!) ­after this positif declaration, that, even for the porpus of defending her missis, she was so hi-minded as to refuse anythink like a peculiarly consideration, it is actially asserted in the public prints by a booxeller, that he has given her A thousand pound for the Dairy.  A thousand pound! nonsince! ­it’s a phigment! a base lible!  This woman take a thousand pound, in a matter where her dear mistriss, friend, and benyfactriss was concerned!  Never!  A thousand baggonits would be more prefrabble to a woman of her xqizzit feelins and fashion.

But to proseed.  It’s been objected to me, when I wrote some of my expearunces in fashnabble life, that my languidge was occasionally vulgar, and not such as is genrally used in those exqizzit famlies which I frequent.  Now, I’ll lay a wager that there is in this book, wrote as all the world knows, by a rele lady, and speakin of kings and queens as if they were as common as sand-boys ­there is in this book more wulgarity than ever I displayed, more nastiness than ever I would dare to think on, and more bad grammar than ever I wrote since I was a boy at school.  As for authografy, evry genlmn has his own:  never mind spellin, I say, so long as the sence is right.

Let me here quot a letter from a corryspondent of this charming lady of honor; and a very nice corryspondent he is, too, without any mistake: 

“Lady O –­, poor Lady O –! knows the rules of prudence, I fear me, as imperfectly as she doth those of the Greek and Latin Grammars:  or she hath let her brother, who is a sad swine, become master of her secrets, and then contrived to quarrel with him.  You would see the outline of the melange in the newspapers; but not the report that Mr. S –­ is about to publish a pamphlet, as an addition to the Harleian Tracts, setting forth the amatory adventures of his sister.  We shall break our necks in haste to buy it, of course crying ‘Shameful’ all the while; and it is said that Lady O –­ is to be cut, which I cannot entirely believe.  Let her tell two or three old women about town that they are young and handsome, and give some well-timed parties, and she may still keep the society which she hath been used to.  The times are not so hard as they once were, when a woman could not construe Magna Charta with anything like impunity.  People were full as gallant many years ago.  But the days are gone by wherein my lord-protector of the commonwealth of England was wont to go a lovemaking to Mrs. Fleetwood, with the Bible under his arm.

“And so Miss Jacky Gordon is really clothed with a husband at last, and Miss Laura Manners left without a mate!  She and Lord Stair should marry and have children in mere revenge.  As to Miss Gordon, she’s a Venus well suited for such a Vulcan, ­whom nothing but money and a title could have rendered tolerable, even to a kitchen wench.  It is said that the matrimonial correspondence between this couple is to be published, full of sad scandalous relations, of which you may be sure scarcely a word is true.  In former times, the Duchess of St. A –­s made use of these elegant epistles in order to intimidate Lady Johnstone:  but that ruse would not avail; so in spite, they are to be printed.  What a cargo of amiable creatures!  Yet will some people scarcely believe in the existence of Pandemonium.

“Tuesday Morning. ­You are perfectly right respecting the hot rooms here, which we all cry out against, and all find very comfortable ­much more so than the cold sands and bleak neighborhood of the sea; which looks vastly well in one of Vander Velde’s pictures hung upon crimson damask, but hideous and shocking in reality.  H –­ and his ‘elle’ (talking of parties) were last night at Cholmondeley House, but seem not to ripen in their love.  He is certainly good-humored, and I believe, good-hearted, so deserves a good wife; but his cara seems a genuine London miss made up of many affectations.  Will she form a comfortable helpmate?  For me, I like not her origin, and deem many strange things to run in blood, besides madness and the Hanoverian evil.

“Thursday. ­I verily do believe that I shall never get to the end of this small sheet of paper, so many unheard of interruptions have I had; and now I have been to Vauxhall, and caught the toothache.  I was of Lady E. B –­m and H –­’s party:  very dull ­the Lady giving us all a supper after our promenade ­

     ’Much ado was there, God wot
      She would love, but he would not.’

He ate a great deal of ice, although he did not seem to require it:  and she ‘faisoit les yeux doux’ enough not only to have melted all the ice which he swallowed, but his own hard heart into the bargain.  The thing will not do.  In the meantime, Miss Long hath become quite cruel to Wellesley Pole, and divides her favor equally between Lords Killeen and Kilworth, two as simple Irishmen as ever gave birth to a bull.  I wish to Hymen that she were fairly married, for all this pother gives one a disgusting picture of human nature.”

A disgusting pictur of human nature, indeed ­and isn’t he who moralizes about it, and she to whom he writes, a couple of pretty heads in the same piece?  Which, Mr. Yorke, is the wüst, the scandle or the scandle-mongers?  See what it is to be a moral man of fashn.  Fust, he scrapes togither all the bad stoaries about all the people of his acquentance ­he goes to a ball, and laffs or snears at everybody there ­he is asked to a dinner, and brings away, along with meat and wine to his heart’s content, a sour stomick filled with nasty stories of all the people present there.  He has such a squeamish appytite, that all the world seems to disagree with him.  And what has he got to say to his delicate female frend?  Why that ­

Fust.  Mr. S. is going to publish indescent stoaries about Lady O –­, his sister, which everybody’s goin to by.

Nex.  That Miss Gordon is going to be cloathed with an usband; and that all their matrimonial corryspondins is to be published too.

3.  That Lord H. is going to be married; but there’s some thing rong in his wife’s blood.

4.  Miss Long has cut Mr. Wellesley, and is gone after two Irish lords.

Wooden you phancy, now, that the author of such a letter, instead of writin about pipple of tip-top qualaty, was describin Vinegar Yard?  Would you beleave that the lady he was a-ritin to was a chased, modist lady of honor, and mother of a famly?  O trumpery!  O morris! as Homer says:  this is a higeous pictur of manners, such as I weap to think of, as evry morl man must weap.

The above is one pritty pictur of mearly fashnabble life:  what follows is about families even higher situated than the most fashnabble.  Here we have the princessregient, her daughter the Princess Sharlot, her grandmamma the old quean, and her madjisty’s daughters the two princesses.  If this is not high life, I don’t know where it is to be found; and it’s pleasing to see what affeckshn and harmny rains in such an exolted spear.

“Sunday 24th. ­Yesterday, the princess went to meet the Princess Charlotte at Kensington.  Lady ­ told me that, when the latter arrived, she rushed up to her mother, and said, ’For God’s sake, be civil to her,’ meaning the Duchess of Leeds, who followed her.  Lady ­ said she felt sorry for the latter; but when the Princess of Wales talked to her, she soon became so free and easy, that one could not have any feeling about her feelings.  Princess Charlotte, I was told, was looking handsome, very pale, but her head more becomingly dressed, ­that is to say, less dressed than usual.  Her figure is of that full round shape which is now in its prime; but she disfigures herself by wearing her bodice so short, that she literally has no waist.  Her feet are very pretty; and so are her hands and arms, and her ears, and the shape of her head.  Her countenance is expressive, when she allows her passions to play upon it; and I never saw any face, with so little shade, express so many powerful and varied emotions.  Lady ­ told me that the Princess Charlotte talked to her about her situation, and said, in a very quiet, but determined way, she would not bear it, and that as soon as parliament met, she intended to come to Warwick House, and remain there; that she was also determined not to consider the Duchess of Leeds as her governess but only as her first lady.  She made many observations on other persons and subjects; and appears to be very quick, very penetrating, but imperious and wilful.  There is a tone of romance, too, in her character, which will only serve to mislead her.

“She told her mother that there had been a great battle at Windsor between the queen and the prince, the former refusing to give up Miss Knight from her own person to attend on Princess Charlotte as sub-governess.  But the prince-regent had gone to Windsor himself, and insisted on her doing so; and the ‘old Beguin’ was forced to submit, but has been ill ever since:  and Sir Henry Halford declared it was a complete breaking up of her constitution ­to the great delight of the two princesses, who were talking about this affair.  Miss Knight was the very person they wished to have; they think they can do as they like with her.  It has been ordered that the Princess Charlotte should not see her mother alone for a single moment; but the latter went into her room, stuffed a pair of large shoes full of papers, and having given them to her daughter, she went home.  Lady ­ told me everything was written down and sent to Mr. Brougham next day.”

See what discord will creap even into the best regulated famlies.  Here are six of ’em ­viz., the quean and her two daughters, her son, and his wife and daughter; and the manner in which they hate one another is a compleat puzzle.

                        {his mother. 
 The Prince hates... {his wife.
                        {his daughter.

 Princess Charlotte hates her father.

 Princess of Wales hates her husband.

The old quean, by their squobbles, is on the pint of death; and her two jewtiful daughters are delighted at the news.  What a happy, fashnabble, Christian famly!  O Mr. Yorke, Mr. Yorke, if this is the way in the drawin-rooms, I’m quite content to live below, in pease and charaty with all men; writin, as I am now, in my pantry, or els havin a quiet game at cards in the servants-all.  With us there’s no bitter, wicked, quarling of this sort.  We don’t hate our children, or bully our mothers, or wish ’em ded when they’re sick, as this Dairywoman says kings and queens do.  When we’re writing to our friends or sweethearts, we don’t fill our letters with nasty stoaries, takin away the carricter of our fellow-servants, as this maid of honor’s amusin’ moral frend does.  But, in coarse, it’s not for us to judge of our betters; ­these great people are a supeerur race, and we can’t comprehend their ways.

Do you recklect ­it’s twenty years ago now ­how a bewtiffle princess died in givin buth to a poar baby, and how the whole nation of Hengland wep, as though it was one man, over that sweet woman and child, in which were sentered the hopes of every one of us, and of which each was as proud as of his own wife or infnt?  Do you recklect how pore fellows spent their last shillin to buy a black crape for their hats, and clergymen cried in the pulpit, and the whole country through was no better than a great dismal funeral?  Do you recklet, Mr. Yorke, who was the person that we all took on so about?  We called her the Princis Sharlot of Wales; and we valyoud a single drop of her blood more than the whole heartless body of her father.  Well, we looked up to her as a kind of saint or angle, and blest God (such foolish loyal English pipple as we ware in those days) who had sent this sweet lady to rule over us.  But heaven bless you! it was only souperstition.  She was no better than she should be, as it turns out ­or at least the Dairy-maid says so.  No better? ­if my daughters or yours was 1/2 so bad, we’d as leaf be dead ourselves, and they hanged.  But listen to this pritty charritable story, and a truce to reflexshuns: ­

“Sunday, January, 9, 1814. ­Yesterday, according to appointment, I went to Princess Charlotte.  Found at Warwick House the harp-player, Dizzi; was asked to remain and listen to his performance, but was talked to during the whole time, which completely prevented all possibility of listening to the music.  The Duchess of Leeds and her daughter were in the room, but left it soon.  Next arrived Miss Knight, who remained all the time I was there.  Princess Charlotte was very gracious ­showed me all her bonny dyes, as B –­would have called them ­pictures, and cases, and jewels, &c.  She talked in a very desultory way, and it would be difficult to say of what.  She observed her mother was in very low spirits.  I asked her how she supposed she could be otherwise?  This questioning answer saves a great deal of trouble, and serves two purposes ­i.e. avoids committing oneself, or giving offence by silence.  There was hung in the apartment one portrait, amongst others, that very much resembled the Duke of D –.  I asked Miss Knight whom it represented.  She said that was not known; it had been supposed a likeness of the Pretender, when young.  This answer suited my thoughts so comically I could have laughed, if one ever did at courts anything but the contrary of what one was inclined to do.

“Princess Charlotte has a very great variety of expression in her countenance ­a play of features, and a force of muscle, rarely seen in connection with such soft and shadeless coloring.  Her hands and arms are beautiful; but I think her figure is already gone, and will soon be precisely like her mother’s:  in short it is the very picture of her, and not in miniature.  I could not help analyzing my own sensations during the time I was with her, and thought more of them than I did of her.  Why was I at all flattered, at all more amused, at all more supple to this young princess, than to her who is only the same sort of person set in the shade of circumstances and of years?  It is that youth, and the approach of power, and the latent views of self-interest, sway the heart and dazzle the understanding.  If this is so with a heart not, I trust, corrupt, and a head not particularly formed for interested calculations, what effect must not the same causes produce on the generality of mankind?

“In the course of the conversation, the Princess Charlotte contrived to edge in a good deal of tum-de-dy, and would, if I had entered into the thing, have gone on with it, while looking at a little picture of herself, which had about thirty or forty different dresses to put over it, done on isinglass, and which allowed the general coloring of the picture to be seen through its transparency.  It was, I thought, a pretty enough conceit, though rather like dressing up a doll.  ‘Ah!,’ said Miss Knight, ’I am not content though, madame ­for I yet should have liked one more dress ­that of the favorite Sultana.’

“‘No, no!’ said the princess, ’I never was a favorite, and never can be one,’ ­looking at a picture which she said was her father’s, but which I do not believe was done for the regent any more than for me, but represented a young man in a hussar’s dress ­probably a former favorite.

“The Princess Charlotte seemed much hurt at the little notice that was taken of her birthday.  After keeping me for two hours and a half she dismissed me; and I am sure I could not say what she said, except that it was an olio of decousus and heterogeneous things, partaking of the characteristics of her mother, grafted on a younger scion.  I dined tete-a-tete with my dear old aunt:  hers is always a sweet and soothing society to me.”

There’s a pleasing, lady-like, moral extract for you!  An innocent young thing of fifteen has picturs of two lovers in her room, and expex a good number more.  This dellygate young creature edges in a good deal of tumdedy (I can’t find it in Johnson’s Dixonary), and would have gone on with the thing (ellygence of languidge), if the dairy-lady would have let her.

Now, to tell you the truth, Mr. Yorke, I doan’t beleave a single syllible of this story.  This lady of honner says, in the fust place, that the princess would have talked a good deal of tumdedy:  which means, I suppose, indeasnsy, if she, the lady of honner would have let her.  This is a good one!  Why, she lets every body else talk tumdedy to their hearts’ content; she lets her friends write tumdedy, and, after keeping it for a quarter of a sentry, she prints it.  Why then, be so squeamish about hearing a little!  And, then, there’s the stoary of the two portricks.  This woman has the honner to be received in the frendlyest manner by a British princess; and what does the grateful loyal creature do? 2 picturs of the princess’s relations are hanging in her room, and the Dairy-woman swears away the poor young princess’s carrickter, by swearing they are picturs of her lovers.  For shame, oh, for shame! you slanderin backbitin dairy-woman you!  If you told all them things to your “dear old aunt,” on going to dine with her, you must have had very “sweet and soothing society” indeed.

I had marked out many more extrax, which I intended to write about; but I think I have said enough about this Dairy:  in fack, the butler, and the gals in the servants’-hall are not well pleased that I should go on reading this naughty book; so we’ll have no more of it, only one passidge about Pollytics, witch is sertnly quite new: ­

“No one was so likely to be able to defeat Bonaparte as the Crown Prince, from the intimate knowledge he possessed of his character.  Bernadotte was also instigated against Bonaparte by one who not only owed him a personal hatred, but who possessed a mind equal to his, and who gave the Crown Prince both information and advice how to act.  This was no less a person than Madame de Stael.  It was not, as some have asserted, that she was in love with Bernadotte; for, at the time of their intimacy, madame de Stael was in love with Rocca.  But she used her influence (which was not small) with the Crown Prince, to make him fight against Bonaparte, and to her wisdom may be attributed much of the success which accompanied his attack upon him.  Bernadotte has raised the flame of liberty, which seems fortunately to blaze all around.  May it liberate Europe; and from the ashes of the laurel may olive branches spring up, and overshadow the earth!”

There’s a discuvery! that the overthrow of Boneypart is owing to madame de Stael!  What nonsince for Colonel Southey or Doctor Napier to write histories of the war with that Capsican hupstart and murderer, when here we have the whole affair explaned by the lady of honor!

“Sunday, April 10, 1814. ­The incidents which take place every hour are miraculous.  Bonaparte is deposed, but alive; subdued, but allowed to choose his place of residence.  The island of Elba is the spot he has selected for his ignominious retreat.  France is holding forth repentant arms to her banished sovereign.  The Poissardes who dragged Louis XVI. to the scaffold are presenting flowers to the Emperor of Russia, the restorer of their legitimate king!  What a stupendous field for philosophy to expatiate in!  What an endless material for thought!  What humiliation to the pride of mere human greatness!  How are the mighty fallen!  Of all that was great in Napoleon, what remains?  Despoiled of his usurped power, he sinks to insignificance.  There was no moral greatness in the man.  The meteor dazzled, scorched, is put out, ­utterly, and for ever.  But the power which rests in those who have delivered the nations from bondage, is a power that is delegated to them from heaven; and the manner in which they have used it is a guarantee for its continuance.  The Duke of Wellington has gained laurels unstained by any useless flow of blood.  He has done more than conquer others ­he has conquered himself:  and in the midst of the blaze and flush of victory, surrounded by the homage of nations, he has not been betrayed into the commission of any act of cruelty or wanton offence.  He was as cool and self-possessed under the blaze and dazzle of fame as a common man would be under the shade of his garden-tree, or by the hearth of his home.  But the tyrant who kept Europe in awe is now a pitiable object for scorn to point the finger of derision at:  and humanity shudders as it remembers the scourge with which this man’s ambition was permitted to devastate every home tie, and every heartfelt joy.”

And now, after this sublime passidge, as full of awfle reflections and pious sentyments as those of Mrs. Cole in the play, I shall only quot one little extrak more: ­

“All goes gloomily with the poor princess.  Lady Charlotte Campbell told me she regrets not seeing all these curious personages; but she says, the more the princess is forsaken, the more happy she is at having offered to attend her at this time.  This is very amiable in her, and cannot fail to be gratifying to the princess.”

So it is ­wery amiable, wery kind and considerate in her, indeed.  Poor Princess! how lucky you was to find a frend who loved you for your own sake, and when all the rest of the wuld turned its back kep steady to you.  As for believing that Lady Sharlot had any hand in this book, heaven forbid! she is all gratitude, pure gratitude, depend upon it.  She would not go for to blacken her old frend and patron’s carrickter, after having been so outrageously faithful to her; she wouldn’t do it, at no price, depend upon it.  How sorry she must be that others an’t quite so squemish, and show up in this indesent way the follies of her kind, genrus, foolish bennyfactris!

The “authorized” announcement, in the John Bull newspaper, sets this question at rest.  It is declared that her ladyship is not the writer of the Diary. ­O.  Y.