Letter From a Goose
To John Bull.
Farm Yard, Claremont, Friday, Sept. 27, 1822.
Sir,—These are the last words I shall ever have an opportunity of addressing to you; my doom, alas! is fixed. I am sentenced to die this evening; neither Alderman Waithman, nor Mr. Ex-Sheriff Parkins, can save me; I am waiting in the condemned coop, the coup-de-grace of my illustrious master’s chicken-butcher.
Probably you anticipate the cause of my death: Sunday is the feast of St. Michael, my blood is required in the mysterious celebration of the ceremonies observed in all well-regulated families on that anniversary. This very day twelve-months my excellent and amiable mother, and my respectable father, perished on the same account.
At this critical juncture, I pick a quill from one of my wings to assure you of that resignation to my fate, which I truly feel:—that it is not unalloyed, Mr. Bull, I must, however, confess. Those who know our family know that we are patriots, that we have souls; and I cannot quit the world without regretting my future destiny. Brought up, sir, as I have been; educated upon the English system in the farm-yard of a Foreign Prince; fattened as I have been at the public expense; I did expect (as all patriots say they do) that the sacrifice of my life might have been of some utility to the country;—but, alas! no: pampered, fed, stuffed as it were by anticipation. What is my doom? Am I to be yielded as a tribute to the nation, whence I have derived my weight and flavour? Am I to gratify the palate of the illustrious Prince, my nominal patron? No; I am to be sold and eaten by some base venal hind in this neighbourhood, who, in these times of wretchedness, cannot dine on Michaelmas-day without me.
What my sensations are at the treatment I have met with you may, perhaps, comprehend. Will you believe it, sir, I have never seen the illustrious Personage in whose service I have wasted my days. I have never beheld the amiable Prince, to whom, for many reasons, I am warmly attached: first, because I am a goose; secondly, because, thanks to the generosity of the nation, I am his Royal Highness’s goose; and, thirdly, because I am a goose of high feeling, honour, and, above all, of gratitude.
What a consolation it would have been to have seen his Royal countenance!—what a disgrace to my family to quit the world without having attained to such a favour! It is true I have received a great deal of pleasure in the occasional society of Sir Robert Gardiner, whose attentions have been very much devoted to our comfort and accommodation in our Royal Master’s absence. I certainly found him in pens; which, as you know Sir Robert is fond of writing, was no small return for his civilities—civilities, which I begin shrewdly to suspect were, after all, interested, and more insidious than I apprehend at the moment.
I ought to apologise for trespassing at such length upon your patience; but, having been for a considerable time a constant correspondent of the Morning Chronicle, I am habituated to what are vulgarly called long-winded letters; and when a goose prints his own grievances he is generally somewhat diffuse. My wrongs are now strongest in my recollection, and I am anxious that my family reputation should not suffer in my person, and therefore devote my last moments—my last words to you.
If you were a goose, Mr. Editor, how would you bear with indignities like those I have suffered? Sir, the Heralds’ College could prove, and would prove, if they were sufficiently well paid for it, that I am lineally descended from the noble bird who saved the Roman Capitol; and it is in consequence a common observation amongst the poulterers at Kingston, that “there are Capitol geese at Claremont;” which classical saying of that erudite body has been garbled into the more vulgar observation, that “there are capital geese at Prince Leopold’s;” inferring thereby that part of his Royal Highness’s capital consists of geese!
It is needless to tell you, that the branch of my family which has settled itself in Norfolk is in the most flourishing state, and that at Holkham, at this present moment, there is an old Goose held in high estimation amongst the Whigs. At Woburn Abbey, another set of my connexions are in high force, and admirably calculated for cutting up and roasting; while in the North, the Grey Geese are reckoned invaluable as a cross breed, the head of that coop being the identical bird celebrated in the Fable of the Fox and Goose, to which the Tories have subjoined a very salutary if not pleasant moral. To the notice of these most honourable birds I may add one of the younger scions of our stock, the Goslings—who, as everybody knows, are a most excellent and respectable firm in the City of London.
These things disturb me. I have contributed to the funds of my Master, I am about to lay down my life for his advantage, and, I repeat, he has never seen me. There are thousands of geese, I am ready to grant, labouring under the same disadvantage, and thousands of human beings too, but to them the disappointment is not of the same nature as to us: none but geese would contribute to support an absentee as we do; and yet, supporting him, none but a goose would care about ever seeing him again.
I must cease—the poulterer’s cart and my end approach. I have heard that the only modification of my sentence which I ventured to request—the change of strangling into decapitation—is refused me; His Royal Highness’s ministers here declaring that I cannot be sent off the premises without a bill. It matters little, Mr. Bull, but I must say, it is not what I expected. Publish my letter, that my Prince may see how he is beloved and respected, and by whom;—he has been at Rome, but never thought of me or mine; perhaps he never heard of the story which connects us with that once mighty city. Adieu!—One of my sisters has already suffered: would I were a swan, I would sing my own elegy—they come nearer—they have seized my pens—I can only give—what we occasionally have here—a great quack, and subscribe myself,
Your affectionate Gander,
Billy.
P.S.—No anser will reach me; but in making any further inquiries about me, be cautious, as there is a much greater Goose than myself of my name, living at Bagshot, which, being in this neighbourhood, might cause some confusion.