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been in more than one sense 6 a Giant in the Land.” After some more conversation, in the course of which he asked me if I ever came to Scotland, and kindly said he should be glad to see me at Abbotsford, I took my leave, with flattering dreams in my

head that never were, and now, alas ! never can be, realized !


And now, not to conclude in too melancholy a tone, allow me, gentle reader, to present to you the following genuine letter, the names, merely, for obvious reasons, being disguised.

To T. Hood, Esq.

“ Thou’rt a comical chap-so am I; but thou possessest brains competent to write what I mean ;-I don't-therefore Brother Comic wilt thou oblige me (if 'twas in my power I would you) I'll tell you just what I want, and no more. Of late, Lord *** has been endeavoring to raise a body of yeomanry in this county. Now there's a man at Bedfont—a compounder of nauseous drugs--and against whom I owe a grudge, who wishes to enter, but who's no more fit for a fighter than I for a punster. Now if you will just give him a palpable hit or two in verse, and transmit them to me by post, directed to A. B., Post Office, Bedfont, your kindness shall ever be remembered with feelings of the deepest sincerity and gratitude. His name is ' JAMES BOOKER, CHEMIST,' Bedfont of course. If you disapprove of the above, I trust you will not abuse the confidence placed in you, by "SPLITTING.' You'll say, how can I ?—by showing this letter to him. He knows the hand-writing full well—but you'll not do so, I hope. Perhaps, if you feel a disposition to oblige me, you will . do so at your first convenience, ere the matter will be getting stale.

Yours truly,

A. B. Perhaps you will be kind enough to let me have an answer from you, even if you will not condescend to accede to my wish.

“Perhaps you've not sufficient particulars. He's a little fellow, flushed face, long nose, precious ugly, housekeeper as ugly, lives between the two Peacock Inns, is a single man, very anx

ious to get possession of Miss Boltbee, a ward in Chancery with something like 90001. (wish he may get it), is famous for his Gout Medicine, sells jalap (should like to make him swallow an ounce), always knows other people's business better than his own, used to go to church, now goes to chapel, and in the whole is a great rascal.

“ Bedfont is thirteen miles from London."


“Oh where, and oh where,
Is my bonny laddie gone?”—OLD SONG.

ONE day, as I was going by
That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry
That chill'd my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,
Bedaub'd with


and mud.
She turn'd her East, she turn'd her West,
Staring like Pythoness possest,
With streaming hair and heaving breast,
As one stark mad with grief.
This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man-
Her right hand held a frying-pan,
The left a lump of beef.
At last her frenzy seem'd to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech,
As wild as ocean birds,
Or female Ranter mov'd to preach,
She gave her " sorrow words.”

"O Lord ! O dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark

staring wild !

Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying

lost-looking child ? Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I only

knew which wayA Child as is lost about London streets, and especially Seven

Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay. I am all in a quiver--get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you

little Kitty M’Nab! You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did,

you dirty deceitful young drab. The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own

blessed Motherly eyes, Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making little

dirt pies.

I wonder he left the court where he was better off than all the

other young boys, With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten

by way of toys. When his Father comes home, and he always comes home as

sure as ever the clock strikes one, He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef

and the inguns not done! La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don't be

making a mob in the street; O serjeant M’Farlane! you have not come across my poor

little boy, have you, in your beat ? Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me like a

parcel of stupid stuck pigs; Saints forbid ! but he's p’r’aps been inviggled away up a court

for the sake of his clothes by the prigs; He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for

a shilling one day in Rag Fair ; And his trowsers considering not very much patch'd, and red

plush, they was once his Father's best pair. His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the tub, or that

might have gone with the rest ; But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a

burn on the breast.

He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sew'd in, and not

quite so much jagg'd at the brim. With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and you

’ll know by that if it's him. Except being so well dress’d, my mind would misgive, some old

beggar woman in want of an orphan, Had borrow'd the child to go a begging with, but I'd rather see

him laid out in his coffin ! Do, good people, move on, such a rabble of boys! I'll break

every bone of ’em I come near, Go home--you ’re spilling the porter-go home-Tommy Jones,

go along home with your beer. This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my

name was Betty Morgan, Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before all along of

following a Monkey and an Organ: O my Billy—my head will turn right round—if he's got kid

dynapp'd with them Italians, They 'll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the

outlandish tatterdemalions. Billy—where are you, Billy ?-I'm as hoarse as a crow, with

screaming for ye, you young sorrow! And shan't have half a voice, no more I shan’t, for crying fresh

herrings to-morrow. O Billy, you ’re bursting my heart in two, and my life won't be

of no more vally, If I'm to see other folks' darlins, and none of mine, playing

like angels in our alley, And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks at the

old three-legged chair As Billy used to make coach and horses of, and there a’n’t no

Billy there! I would run all the wide world over to find him, if I only know'd

where to run, Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a month

through stealing a penny bun, The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it would kill me


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