  An Extract of an overland Dispatch. I stare at it from out my casement, And ask for what is such a place meant. Byron. July 29, 1820. ——The queerest of all the queer sights I've set sight on;— Is, the what dye-call'-t thing, here, The Folly at Brighton The outside—huge teapots, all drill'd round with holes, Relieved by extinguishers, sticking on poles: The inside—all tea-things, and dragons, and bells, The show rooms—all show, the sleeping rooms—cells. But the grand Curiosity 's not to be seen— The owner himself— an old fat Mandarin; A patron of painters who copy designs, That grocers and tea-dealers hang up for signs: Hence teaboard-taste artists gain rewards and distinction, Hence his title of 'Teapot' shall last to extinction. I saw his great chair into which he falls—soss— And sits, in his China Shop, like a large Joss; His mannikins round him, in tea-tray array, His pea-hens beside him, to make him seem gay. It is said when he sleeps on his state Eider-down, And thinks on his Wife, and about half a Crown; That he wakes from these horrible dreams in a stew; And that, stretching his arms out, he screams, Mrs. Q.! He's cool'd on the M—ch-ss, but I'm your debtor For further particulars— in a C letter. You must know that he hates his own wife, to a failing;— And it's thought, it's to shun her, he's now gone out SAILING.
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