* The “authorized” announcement, in the John Bull newspaper, sets this question at rest. It is declared that her ladyship is not the writer of the Diary.—O. Y.
EPISTLES TO THE LITERATI.
CH-S Y-LL-WPL-SH, ESQ., TO SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, BT. JOHN THOMAS SMITH, ESQ., TO C—S Y—H, ESQ. NOTUS.
The suckmstansies of the following harticle are as follos:—Me and my friend, the sellabrated Mr. Smith, reckonized each other in the Haymarket Theatre, during the performints of the new play. I was settn in the gallery, and sung out to him (he was in the pit), to jine us after the play, over a glass of bear and a cold hoyster, in my pantry, the family being out.
Smith came as appinted. We descorsed on the subjick of the comady; and, after sefral glases, we each of us agreed to write a letter to the other, giving our notiums of the pease. Paper was brought that momint; and Smith writing his harticle across the knife-bord, I dasht off mine on the dresser.
Our agreement was, that I (being remarkabble for my style of riting) should cretasize the languidge, whilst he should take up with the plot of the play; and the candied reader will parding me for having holtered the original address of my letter, and directed it to Sir Edward himself; and for having incopperated Smith's remarks in the midst of my own:—
MAYFAIR, Nov. 30, 1839. Midnite.
HONRABBLE BARNET!—Retired from the littery world a year or moar, I didn't think anythink would injuice me to come forrards again: for I was content with my share of reputation, and propoas'd to add nothink to those immortial wux which have rendered this Magaseen so sallybrated.
Shall I tell you the reazn of my re-appearants?—a desire for the benefick of my fellow-creatures? Fiddlestick! A mighty truth with which my busm labored, and which I must bring forth or die? Nonsince—stuff: money's the secret, my dear Barnet,—money—l'argong, gelt, spicunia. Here's quarter-day coming, and I'm blest if I can pay my landlud, unless I can ad hartificially to my inkum.