“THE LAST DAYS OF POMP—.”

I’ve never been happy since we came up to London, and all through Parliament. The election was good sport enough. I liked the riding up and down, and carrying a flag; and the battle, with sticks, between the Blues and the Yellows, was famous fun; and I huzza’d myself hoarse at our getting the day at last. But after that came the jollup, as we used to say at Old Busby’s. Theme writing was a fool to it. If father composed one maiden speech he composed a hundred, and he made me knuckle down and copy them all out, and precious stupid stuff it was. A regular physicker, says you, and I’d worse to take after it. He made us all sit down and hear him spout them, and a poor stick he made.—Dick Willis, that we used to call Handpost, was a dab at it compared to him. He’s no better hand at figures, so much the worse for me. Did you ever have a fag, Tom, at the national debt? I don’t know who owes it, but I wish he’d pay it, or be made bankrupt at once. I’ve worked more sums last month than ever I did at school in the half year,—geography the same. I had to hunt out Don Carlos and Don Pedro, all over the maps. I came in for a regular wigging one day, for wishing both the Dons were well peppered, as Tom Tough says. I’ve seen none of the sights I wanted to see. He wouldn’t let me go to the play, because he says the theatres are bad schools, and would give me a vicious style of elocution. The only pleasure he promised me was to sit in the gallery at the Commons and see him present his petitions. Short-hand would have come next, that I might take down his speechifying—for he says the reporters all garble. An’t I well out of it all—and a place he was to get for me besides, from the Prime Minister? I suppose the Navy Pay, to sit on a high stool and give Jack Junk one pound two and ninepence twice a year. I’d rather be Jack Junk himself, wouldn’t you, Tom? But father’s lost his wicket, and huzza for Shropshire! In hopes of our soon meeting, I remain, my dear Tom,

Your old chum and schoolfellow,
FREDERICK JUBB.

P.S.—A court gentleman has just come in, with a knock-me-down-again. He says there’s to be a new election. I wish you’d do something; it would be a real favour, and I will do as much for you another time. What I want of you is, to get your father to set up against mine. Do try, Tom—there’s a good fellow. I will ask every body I know to give your side a plumper.

AN ADDER UP.

To Mr. Roger Davis, Bailiff, the Shrubbery, near Shrewsbury.

DAVIS,