XXIII.

MRS. RAMSBOTTOM AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

May, 1829.

DEAR B.,--As you haven't given any count of the Summerset House expedition, which opened as weasal, the fust Monday in May, I thoght perhaps a few loose remarks of mine and Lavy's would be exceptable, therefore I rite to give you an int of what _we_ think.

Oh, that Precedent, Sir Tummas Larrence--I never seed such pitchers as his--but I need not talk of those, because you nose his merits--what I want is, to bring to your notice some of the young uns.

Well, B., away we went Wensday, and paid our munney at the dore, and the man gave us a chick, and we bought our catlog, and then another man tuck away my parisot, which never happened to me before, the many ears I have seen in that place--he told me if I gave him my one, he would give me a number--which deseived me, so I let him have it, and he gave me a curd--this was just at the bottom of the great Achilles with the fir knees wich is kept in a bird cage, to prevent the people hurting his back--well, up we went--such a stare case--so hot was I--however, at last up we got.

The fust pitcher I seed was Adam and Heve expulsed from Paradise, by Debuffe. In buff I think--I never seed such a thing in all my days, and no reason for it, because it was after the date of the fig leaves--no matter--I turned away my eyes to Doctor Gobbleston, the Bishop of Llandaff, and a plainer creatur I never set my eyes on--his face looks for all the world as if he had been a rat hunting up a chimley. I couldn't look at him long. The next I saw was "I. Strutt, Esqueer, and his sister." I'm sure that is a likeness; and the next is called "a Gentleman," which I am sure can_not_ be a likeness.

Lord Caravan, with a sword on, is a fine work, and so is a big picture of a Hero going to Philander in the Tower; and near that is one of a Gull with a Guttar, with sich funny pudsy fingers, which made Lavy laugh so as I was quite ashammed of her. Then there is one by Mr. Willes of a Dream, where "Puck takes away an asses head from bottom,"--it is so in the catlog, and I wonder at it--but no matter--I'm sure I felt quite in jeffery when I read such a thing in a book--and Mr. Newton, my favourite, what drawed the Disconsolate Lady in white satan, which hided her head in her hankycher, at the British Gallary, has got the pitcher of a Lady in a Coach-horse Dress, uncommon pretty; and Mr. Picksgill has got Sir Jeffery Dunstan with his gray locks a dangling just as I remember him when he was Mare of Garret, only bigger.

An artist of the name of Bedstead has a picture of two whole Snips, and also of two Jack Snips--which is meant for birds, but I never heard of sich afore. There is also Sir Roger de Coverlee and the Gypsums, and a picture of Lord Drum, (Lampton as was,) by Larrence, like as to phechurs, but not his compleckshun. I wish my Lord had sot to Turner, he would have done him betterer.

Mr. Barraud has a pitcher of his own painting, which he calls the Study of an Ass--how funny!--and there is Miss Phillips of Drury-lane, with a long waste, and no more like her pretty face than I am like her--instead of Dawe after this pitcher they should have put Dawb. Mr. Landseer has got a picture of a dead oh dear, and there is a pitcher of Colonel Johnson, who is called the Cove of Mustcat.

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.