L.S.—What do you think of poor Mam Hood, the Great Signior of the Turkies—he is humbled—and to an Irish usurper; for so I conclood Nicholas the Autograph of the Rushes to be, seeing that his name of Nick is only a nick name, and that he calls himself Paddy Shaw—surely he ought to know beast.
L.S. (2)—I comb to town with an Aikin art; the wotchmen are beat off their beats, and we shall never see their lantarns nor heer their "agreable rattles," as the play-book says, henny more. I wish Muster Peel had not ordered his new blue pelisse till the Spring, for in the dark nights, when the Fox of Lunnun is in the streets, I do love to lisson to the our a bean cried, while we are all coucheying in our lees.
Adoo, wunsmore.
We submit this letter as we have received it; and our readers will, like ourselves, gather from it, that our esteemed correspondent, like other great ladies, has resolved to appear in print. We have since ascertained that the work will appear shortly, in one volume, with the promised notes and illustrations.
XXVI.
A PECK OF TROUBLES.
To John Bull.
March, 1830.
Dear B.,—It is a long while since I wrote to you, but I have been in a pick of trubbles about my famlie. Lavv's youngest has been vascillated, and the various matter did not take a feckt—so that she tuck the small pock natrally, and I fear will be very much pitied when she comes to grow up—however, I must right you a short letter.