The Sun.
London, England, 1832-04-10 00:00:00

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES.

Si e,—lt has been hinted lately by one of your correspondents,
that certain highflying members of our Aristocracy have threat-
ened, in the event of a new infusion of plebeianism into their
their body, to take an indignant leave of England, and transport
themselves elsewhere. This magnanimous menace has, I own,
reminded me of an occurrence I was once witness to at the
theatre, when, on some slight outbreak of uproariousness among
the gods of the gallery, a pompous gentleman of the pit rose
indignantly from his seat, and looking angrily at the disturbers,
exclaimed, " Silence, you rascals, or I'll leave the house:" I
need hardly add, that the pompous gentleman was laughed at as
he deserved. That the threat of self_expatriation to which I
have alluded has already begun to be acted upon by some of our
scions of nobility will appear from the following letter, which has
fallen by chance into my hands, and which may not, perhaps, be
thought unworthy of a place in your journal.
I am, Sir, yours, &c.

FROM THE HON. HENRY TO LADY EMMA
Paris, March 30.
You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle,
How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell;
And the truth is,—as truth you will have, my sweet railer,—
There are two worthy persons I always feel loth
To take leave of at starting,—my mistress and tailor,—
As somehow one always has scenes with them both :
The Snip in ill humour, the Syren in tears,
She calling on Heaven, and he on th' attorney,—
Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears,
A young gentleman risks being stopp'd on his journey.
But, to come to the point :—though you think, I dare say,
That 'tie debt or the cholera drives me away,
'Pon honour you're wrong ;—such a mere bagatelle

As a pestilence nobody, nowadays, fears ;
And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell-well,

To get out of the way of these torrid new Peers ;
This deluge of coronets, frightful to think of,
Which England is now, for her sins, on the brink of;—
This coinage of nobles, coin'd, all of them, badly,
And sure to bring Counts to a discount most sadly.
Only think, to have Lords overrunning the nation,
As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation ;
No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection,
And tadpole young lords, too, in every direction,—
Things created in haste, just to make a Court list of,
Two legs and a coronet all they consist of
The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George R—e
(My particular friend says is perfectly true,
That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows,

'Twixt the Peers and the pestilence, what he's to do;
And Sir George even doubts,—could he choose his disorder,
'Twixt coffin and cornet, which he would order.*
This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma,
'Twere best to fight shy of so curs'd a dilemma ;
And though I confess myself somewhat a villain,

To 've left idol mio, without an addio,
Console your sweet heart, and, a week hence, from Milan
I'll send you—some news of Bellini's last trio.
N.B.—Have just pack'd up my travelling set-out,
Things a tourist in Italy can't go without—
Viz., a pair of gaols Bras, from old Houbigant's shop,
Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis may chap.
Small presents for ladies,—and nothing so wheedles
The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles.
A neat pocket Horace, by which folks are cozen'd,
To think one knows Latin when—one, perhaps, does'nt ;
With some little book about heathen mythology,
Just large enough to refresh one's theology ;
Nothing on earth being half such a bore as
Not knowing the difference 'twixt Virgins and Floras.
Once more, lore, farewell; best regards to the girls,
And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls.
HENRY