Mary Robinson - "Beaux and Belles of England"

Frank E. Smedley - "Frank Fairlegh"

Anonymous - "The Book Of The Thousand Nights And One Night, Volume IV"

by Alfred Russell Wallace - "The Malay Archipelago Volume 1"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

T >> Thomas Moore et al >> The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore




[11] The Indians call hell "the House of Smoke."








TWOPENNY POST-BAG,

BY

THOMAS BROWN, THE YOUNGER.


_elapsae manibus secidere tabellae_.--OVID.




DEDICATION.

TO

STEPHEN WOOLRICHE, ESQ.


MY DEAR WOOLRICHE,--

It is now about seven years since I promised (and I grieve to think it is
almost as long since we met) to dedicate to you the very first Book, of
whatever size or kind I should publish. Who could have thought that so
many years would elapse, without my giving the least signs of life upon
the subject of this important promise? Who could have imagined that a
volume of doggerel, after all, would be the first offering that Gratitude
would lay upon the shrine of Friendship?

If you continue, however, to be as much interested about me and my
pursuits as formerly, you will be happy to hear that doggerel is not my
_only_ occupation; but that I am preparing to throw my name to the Swans
of the Temple of Immortality, leaving it of course to the said Swans to
determine whether they ever will take the trouble of picking it from the
stream.

In the meantime, my dear Woolriche, like an orthodox Lutheran, you must
judge of me rather by my _faith_ than my _works_; and however trifling the
tribute which I here offer, never doubt the fidelity with which I am and
always shall be

Your sincere and attached friend,

THE AUTHOR.

_March 4, 1813_.




PREFACE.


The Bag, from which the following Letters are selected, was dropped by a
Twopenny Postman about two months since, and picked up by an emissary of
the Society for the Suppression of Vice, who supposing it might materially
assist the private researches of that Institution, immediately took it to
his employers and was rewarded handsomely for his trouble. Such a treasury
of secrets was worth a whole host of informers; and, accordingly, like the
Cupids of the poet (if I may use so profane a simile) who "fell at odds
about the sweet-bag of a bee,"[1] those venerable Suppressors almost
fought with each other for the honor and delight of first ransacking the
Post-Bag. Unluckily, however, it turned out upon examination that the
discoveries of profligacy which it enabled them to make, lay chiefly in
those upper regions of society which their well-bred regulations forbid
them to molest or meddle with.--In consequence they gained but very few
victims by their prize, and after lying for a week or two under Mr.
Hatchard's counter the Bag with its violated contents was sold for a
trifle to a friend of mine.

It happened that I had been just then seized with an ambition (having
never tried the strength of my wing but in a Newspaper) to publish
something or other in the shape of a Book; and it occurred to me that, the
present being such a letter-writing era, a few of these Twopenny-Post
Epistles turned into easy verse would be as light and popular a task as I
could possibly select for a commencement. I did not, however, think it
prudent to give too many Letters at first and accordingly have been
obliged (in order to eke out a sufficient number of pages) to reprint some
of those trifles, which had already appeared in the public journals. As in
the battles of ancient times, the shades of the departed were sometimes
seen among the combatants, so I thought I might manage to remedy the
thinness of my ranks, by conjuring up a few dead and forgotten ephemerons
to fill them.

Such are the motives and accidents that led to the present publication;
and as this is the first time my Muse has ever ventured out of the go-cart
of a Newspaper, though I feel all a parent's delight at seeing little Miss
go alone, I am also not without a parent's anxiety lest an unlucky fall
should be the consequence of the experiment; and I need not point out how
many living instances might be found of Muses that have suffered very
severely in their heads from taking rather too early and rashly to their
feet. Besides, a Book is so very different a thing from a Newspaper!--in
the former, your doggerel without either company or shelter must stand
shivering in the middle of a bleak page by itself; whereas in the latter
it is comfortably backed by advertisements and has sometimes even a Speech
of Mr. Stephen's, or something equally warm, for a _chauffe-pieds_--so
that, in general, the very reverse of "_laudatur et alget_" is its
destiny.

Ambition, however, must run some risks and I shall be very well satisfied
if the reception of these few Letters should have the effect of sending me
to the Post-Bag for more.


[1] Herrick.






INTERCEPTED LETTERS, ETC.






LETTER I.

FROM THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES
TO THE LADY BARBARA ASHLER.[1]


My dear Lady Bab, you'll be shockt I'm afraid,
When you hear the sad rumpus your Ponies have made;
Since the time of horse-consuls (now long out of date),
No nags ever made such a stir in the state.
Lord Eldon first heard--and as instantly prayed he
To "God and his King"--that a Popish young Lady
(For tho' you've bright eyes and twelve thousand a year,
It is still but too true you're a Papist, my dear,)
Had insidiously sent, by a tall Irish groom,
Two priest-ridden ponies just landed from Rome,
And so full, little rogues, of pontifical tricks
That the dome of St. Paul was scarce safe from their kicks.

Off at once to Papa in a flurry he flies--
For Papa always does what these statesmen advise
On condition that they'll be in turn so polite
As in no case whate'er to advise him _too right_--
"Pretty doings are here, Sir (he angrily cries,
While by dint of dark eyebrows he strives to look wise)--
"'Tis a scheme of the Romanists, so help me God!
"To ride over your _most_ Royal Highness roughshod--
"Excuse, Sir, my tears--they're from loyalty's source-
"Bad enough 'twas for Troy to be sackt by a _Horse_,
"But for us to be ruined by _Ponies_ still worse!"
Quick a Council is called--the whole Cabinet sits--
The Archbishops declare, frightened out of their wits,
That if once Popish Ponies should eat at my manger,
From that awful moment the Church is in danger!
As, give them but stabling and shortly no stalls
Will suit their proud stomachs but those at St. Paul's.

The Doctor,[2] and he, the devout man of Leather,[3]
Vansittart, now laying their Saint-heads together,
Declare that these skittish young abominations
Are clearly foretold in Chap. vi. Revelations--
Nay, they verily think they could point out the one
Which the Doctor's friend Death was to canter upon.

Lord Harrowby hoping that no one imputes
To the Court any fancy to persecute brutes,
Protests on the word of himself and his cronies
That had these said creatures been Asses, not Ponies,
The Court would have started no sort of objection,
As Asses were, _there_, always sure of protection.

"If the Princess _will_ keep them (says Lord Castlereagh),
"To make them quite harmless, the only true way
"Is (as certain Chief Justices do with their wives)
"To flog them within half an inch of their lives.
"If they've any bad Irish blood lurking about,
"This (he knew by experience) would soon draw it out."
Should this be thought cruel his Lordship proposes
"The new _Veto_ snaffle[4] to bind down their noses--
"A pretty contrivance made out of old chains,
"Which appears to indulge while it doubly restrains;
"Which, however high-mettled, their gamesomeness checks
"(Adds his Lordship humanely), or else breaks their necks!"

This proposal received pretty general applause
From the Statesmen around-and the neck-breaking clause
Had a vigor about it, which soon reconciled
Even Eldon himself to a measure so mild.
So the snaffles, my dear, were agreed to _nem. con_.,
And my Lord Castlereagh, having so often shone
In the _fettering line_, is to buckle them on.
I shall drive to your door in these _Vetoes_ some day,
But, at present, adieu!-I must hurry away
To go see my Mamma, as I'm suffered to meet her
For just half an hour by the Queen's best repeater.

CHARLOTTE.


[1] This young Lady, who is a Roman Catholic, had lately made a present of
some beautiful Ponies to the Princess.

[2] Mr. Addington, so nicknamed.

[3] Alluding to a tax lately laid upon leather.

[4] The question whether a Veto was to be allowed to the Crown in the
appointment of Irish Catholic Bishops was, at this time, very generally
and actively agitated.






LETTER II.

FROM COLONEL M'MAHON TO GOULD FRANCIS LECKIE, ESQ.


DEAR SIR--
I've just had time to look
Into your very learned Book,
Wherein--as plain as man can speak.
Whose English is half modern Greek--
You prove that we can ne'er intrench
Our happy isles against the French,
Till Royalty in England's made
A much more independent trade;--
In short until the House of Guelph
Lays Lords and Commons on the shelf,
And boldly sets up for itself.

All that can well be understood
In this said Book is vastly good;
And as to what's incomprehensible,
I dare be sworn 'tis full as sensible.

But to your work's immortal credit
The Prince, good Sir, the Prince has read it
(The only Book, himself remarks,
Which he has read since Mrs. Clarke's).
Last levee-morn he lookt it thro',
During that awful hour or two
Of grave tonsorial preparation,
Which to a fond, admiring nation
Sends forth, announced by trump and drum,
The best-wigged Prince in Christendom.

He thinks with you, the imagination
Of _partnership_ in legislation
Could only enter in the noddles
Of dull and ledger-keeping twaddles,
Whose heads on _firms_ are running so,
They even must have a King and Co.,
And hence most eloquently show forth
On _checks_ and _balances_ and so forth.

But now, he trusts, we're coming near a
Far more royal, loyal era;
When England's monarch need but say,
"Whip me those scoundrels, Castlereagh!"
Or, "Hang me up those Papists, Eldon,"
And 'twill be done--ay, faith, and well done.

With view to which I've his command
To beg, Sir, from your travelled hand,
(Round which the foreign graces swarm)[1]
A Plan of radical Reform;
Compiled and chosen as best you can,
In Turkey or at Ispahan,
And quite upturning, branch and root,
Lords, Commons, and Burdett to boot.

But, pray, whate'er you may impart, write
Somewhat more brief than Major Cartwright:
Else, tho' the Prince be long in rigging,
'Twould take at least a fortnight's wigging,--
Two wigs to every paragraph--
Before he well could get thro' half.

You'll send it also speedily--
As truth to say 'twixt you and me,
His Highness, heated by your work,
Already thinks himself Grand Turk!
And you'd have laught, had you seen how
He scared the Chancellor just now,
When (on his Lordship's entering puft) he
Slapt his back and called him "Mufti!"

The tailors too have got commands
To put directly into hands
All sorts of Dulimans and Pouches,
With Sashes, Turbans and Paboutches,
(While Yarmouth's sketching out a plan
Of new _Moustaches a l'Ottomane_)
And all things fitting and expedient
To _turkify_ our gracious Regent!

You therefore have no time to waste--
So, send your System.--
Yours in haste.

POSTSCRIPT.

Before I send this scrawl away,
I seize a moment just to say
There's some parts of the Turkish system
So vulgar 'twere as well you missed 'em.
For instance--in _Seraglio_ matters--
Your Turk whom girlish fondness flatters,
Would fill his Haram (tasteless fool!)
With tittering, red-cheekt things from school.
But _here_ (as in that fairy land,
Where Love and Age went hand in hand;[2]
Where lips, till sixty, shed no honey,
And Grandams were worth any money,)
_Our_ Sultan has much riper notions--
So, let your list of _she_-promotions
Include those only plump and sage,
Who've reached the _regulation_-age;
That is, (as near as one can fix
From Peerage dates) full fifty-six.

This rule's for _favorites_--nothing more--
For, as to _wives_, a Grand Signor,
Tho' not decidedly _without_ them,
Need never care one curse about them.


[1] "The truth indeed seems to be, that having lived so long abroad as
evidently to have lost, in a great degree, the use of his native language,
Mr. Leckie has gradually come not only to speak, but to feel, like a
foreigner."--_Edinburgh Review_.

[2] The learned Colonel must allude here to a description of the
Mysterious Isle, in the History of Abdalla, Son of Hanif, where such
inversions of the order of nature are said to have taken place.--"A score
of old women and the same number of old men played here and there in the
court, some at chuck-farthing, others at tip-cat or at cockles."--And
again, "There is nothing, believe me, more engaging than those lovely
wrinkles."--See "_Tales of the East_," vol. iii. pp. 607, 608.






LETTER III.

FROM GEORGE PRINCE REGENT TO
THE EARL OF YARMOUTH.[1]


We missed you last night at the "hoary old sinner's,"
Who gave us as usual the cream of good dinners;
His soups scientific, his fishes quite _prime_--
His _pates_ superb, and his cutlets sublime!
In short, 'twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a
Stomachic orgasm in my Lord Ellenborough,
Who _set to_, to be sure, with miraculous force,
And exclaimed between mouthfuls, "a _He-Cook_, of course!--
"While you live--(what's there under that cover? pray, look)--
"While you live--(I'll just taste it)--ne'er keep a She-Cook.
"'Tis a sound Salic Law--(a small bit of that toast)--
"Which ordains that a female shall ne'er rule the roast;
"For Cookery's a secret--(this turtle's uncommon)--
"Like Masonry, never found out by a woman!"

The dinner you know was in gay celebration
Of _my_ brilliant triumph and Hunt's condemnation;
A compliment too to his Lordship the Judge
For his Speech to the Jury--and zounds! who would grudge
Turtle soup tho' it came to five guineas a bowl,
To reward such a loyal and complaisant soul?
We were all in high gig--Roman Punch and Tokay
Travelled round till our heads travelled just the same way;
And we cared not for Juries or Libels--no--damme! nor
Even for the threats of last Sunday's Examiner!

More good things were eaten than said--but Tom Tyrrhitt
In quoting Joe Miller you know has some merit;
And hearing the sturdy Judiciary Chief
Say--sated with turtle--"I'll now try the beef"--
Tommy whispered him (giving his Lordship a sly hit)
"I fear 'twill be _hung_-beef, my Lord, if you _try_ it!"

And Camden was there, who that morning had gone
To fit his new Marquis's coronet on;
And the dish set before him--oh! dish well-devised!--
Was what old Mother Glasse calls, "a calf's head surprised!"
The _brains_ were near Sherry and _once_ had been fine,
But of late they had lain so long soaking in wine,
That tho' we from courtesy still chose to call
These brains very fine they were no brains at all.

When the dinner was over, we drank, every one
In a bumper, "the venial delights of Crim. Con.;"
At which Headfort with warm reminiscences gloated,
And Ellenb'rough chuckled to hear himself quoted.

Our next round of toasts was a fancy quite new,
For we drank--and you'll own 'twas benevolent too--
To those well-meaning husbands, cits, parsons or peers,
Whom we've any time honored by courting their dears:
This museum of wittols was comical rather;
Old Headfort gave Massey, and _I_ gave your father.
In short, not a soul till this morning would budge--
We were all fun and frolic, and even the Judge
Laid aside for the time his juridical fashion,
And thro' the whole night wasn't _once_ in a passion!

I write this in bed while my whiskers are airing,
And Mac[2] has a sly dose of jalap preparing
For poor Tommy Tyrrhitt at breakfast to quaff--
As I feel I want something to give me a laugh,
And there's nothing so good as old Tommy kept close
To his Cornwall accounts after taking a dose.


[1] This letter, as the reader will perceive, was written the day after a
dinner given by the Marquis of Headfort.

[2] Colonel M'Mahon.






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 damned us then
Ought now in turn be damned 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 Whore 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 damnation--
(Which shows that since the world's creation
Your Priests, whate'er their gentle shamming,
Have always had a taste for damning,)
And many more such pious scraps,
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 lustration;
(_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'Fagans,
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 tittle!


[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 cumbersome 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 Advertisement of a _lusus
Naturae_ in the Newspapers lately.






LETTER VI.

FROM ABDALLAH,[1] IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN ISPAHAN.


Whilst thou, Mohassan, (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 buttoned 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 buttons 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 God, 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.

As to the rest, they're free to do
Whate'er their fancy prompts them to,
Provided they make nothing of it
Towards rank or honor, power or profit;
Which things we naturally expect,
Belong to US, the Establisht sect,
Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked!)
The aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket.
The same mild views of Toleration
Inspire, I find, this buttoned nation,
Whose Papists (full as given to rogue,
And only Sunnites with a brogue)
Fare just as well, with all their fuss,
As rascal Sunnites do with us.

The tender Gazel I enclose
Is for my love, my Syrian Rose--
Take it when night begins to fall,
And throw it o'er her mother's wall.

GAZEL.

Rememberest thou the hour we past,--
That hour the happiest and the last?
Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn
To summer bees at break of morn,
Not half so sweet, thro' dale and dell,
To Camels' ears the tinkling bell,
As is the soothing memory
Of that one precious hour to me.

How can we live, so far apart?
Oh! why not rather, heart to heart,
United live and die--
Like those sweet birds, that fly together,
With feather always touching feather,
Linkt by a hook and eye![5]


[1] I have made many inquiries about this Persian gentleman, but cannot
satisfactorily ascertain who he is. From his notions of Religious Liberty,
however, I conclude that he is an importation of Ministers; and he has
arrived just in time to assist the Prince and Mr. Leckie in their new
Oriental Plan of Reform.--See the second of these letters.--How Abdallah's
epistle to Ispahan found its way into the Twopenny Post-Bag is more than I
can pretend to account for.

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