SAME

Albany.

You be d—d, Backstitch.

PENTWISTLE PINK.

(Thirdly.)

From a constituent in the country, being a creditor “upon promises,” to a returned member of Parliament in town.

Bumbleton Butts, April 1, 1841.

DEAR SIR,—The enthusiastic delight myself (an humble individual) and the immense body of your enraptured constituents felt upon reading your truly patriotic, statesman-like, learned, straightforward and consistent speech, may be conceived by a person of your immense parliamentary imagination, but cannot be expressed by my circumscribed vocabulary. In stating that my trifling exertions for the return of such a patriot are more than doubly recompensed by your noble conduct, may I be allowed to suggest the earnest wish of my eldest son to be in town, for the pleasure of being near such a representative, which alone induces him to accept the situation of landing-waiter you so kindly insisted upon his preparing for. You will, I am sure, be happy to learn, the last baby, as you desired is christened after:—“the country’s, the people’s, nay, the world’s member!”

Believe me, with united regards from Mrs. F. and Joseph, ever your staunch supporter and admirer,

FUNK FLAT.

To Gripe Gammon, Esq., M.P.

(Fourthly.)

ANSWER TO THE SAME, FROM GRIPE GAMMON, M.P.

St. Stephen’s.

DEAR AND KIND CONSTITUENT,—I am more than happy. My return for your borough has satisfied you, my country, and myself! What can I say more? Pray give both my names to the dear innocent. Be careful in the spelling, two “M’s” in Gammon, one following the A, the other preceding the O, and immediately next to the final N. I think I have now answered every point of your really Junisean letter. Let me hear from you soon—you cannot TOO SOON—and believe me,

My dear Funk, yours ever,
GRIPE GAMMON.

Funk Flat, Esq., &c. &c.

(Fifthly.)

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. (SECOND LETTER).

Bumbleton Butts, April 4, 1841.

MY DEAR FRIEND AND PATRON,—All’s right, the two M’s are in their places, when will Joe be in his? I know your heart; pray excuse my earnestness, but oblige me with an early answer. Joe is dying to be near so kind, so dear, so sincere a friend.

More devotedly than ever yours,
FUNK FLAT

G. Gammon, Esq., M.P., &c. &c.

(Sixthly.)

ANSWER FROM THE M.P. TO THE ABOVE.

St. Stephen’s.

How can I express my feelings? My name, mine engrafted on the innocent offspring of the thoroughbred Funks, evermore to be by them and their heirs handed down to posterity! How I rejoice at that circumstance, and the intelligence I have so happily received about the wretched situation you speak of. Fancy, Funk, fancy the man, your son, in a moment of rashness, I meant to succeed, died of a sore-throat! an infallible disorder attendant upon the duties of those d—d landing-waiterships. What an escape we have had! The place is given to my butler, so there’s no fear. Kiss the child, and believe me ever,

Your sincere and much relieved friend,
GRIPE GAMMON.

To Funk Flat, Esq., &c. &c.

From this time forward the correspondence, like “Irish reciprocity,” is “all on one side.” It generally consists of four-and-twenty letters from the constituent in the country to the returned member in town. As these are never opened, all that is required is a well-written direction, on a blank sheet of paper.

(Seventhly.)

FROM SONS TO FATHERS.

(Several.)

DEAR FATHER,—Studies continued—(blot)—profession—future hopes—application—increased expenses—irate landlady—small remittance—duty—love—say twenty-five pounds—best wishes—sister, mother, all at home.

Dutiful son,
JOHN JOSKIN.

(Eighthly.)

ANSWER TO THE SAME.

Delighted—assiduity—future fortune—great profession!—Increase of family—no cash—best prayers, sister, mother.

Loving father!
JOSKIN, SEN.

N.B. By altering the relative positions and sexes, the above is good for all relations! If writing to nabob, more flattery in letter of asker. Strong dose of oaths in refuser’s answer.

(Ninthly.)

FROM “DEAR AND INTIMATE” TO A “DITTO DITTO.”

Brighton.

MY DEAR TOM,—How are you, old fellow? Here I am, as happy as a prince; that is, I should be if you were with me. You know when we first met! what a time it was! do you remember? How the old times come back, and really almost the same circumstances! Pray do you recollect I wanted one hundred and fifty then? isn’t it droll I do now? Send me your check, or bring it yourself.

Ever yours.
FITZBROWN SMITH.

T. Tims, Esq.

(Tenthly.)

ANSWER FROM “THE DITTO DITTO” TO “THE DITTO DITTO.”

OLD FELLOW,—Glad to hear you are so fresh! Give you joy—wish I was with you, but can’t come. Damn the last Derby—regularly stump’d—cleaned out—and done Brown!—not a feather to fly with! Need I say how sorry I am. Here’s your health in Burgundy. Must make a raise for my Opera-box and a new tilbury. Just lost my last fifty at French hazard.

Ever, your most devoted friend,
T. TIMS.

F. Smith, Esq.

THE BARBER OF STOCKSBAWLER.

A TALE OF THE SUPERNATURAL.

At the little town of Stocksbawler, on the Lower Rhine, in the year of grace 1830, resided one Hans Scrapschins, an industrious and close-shaving barber. His industry met with due encouragement from the bearded portion of the community; and the softer sex, whose greatest fault is fickleness, generally selected Hans for the honour of new-fronting them, when they had grown tired of the ringlets nature had bestowed and which time had frosted.

Hans continued to shave and thrive, and all the careful old burghers foretold of his future well-doing; when he met with a misfortune, which promised for a time to shut up his shop and leave him a beggar. He fell in love.

Neighbours warned Hans of the consequences of his folly; but all remonstrance was vain. Customers became scarce, wearing out their patience and their wigs together; the shop became dirty, and winter saw the flies of summer scattered on his show-board.

Agnes Flirtitz was the prettiest girl in Stocksbawler. Her eyes were as blue as a summer’s sky, her cheeks as rosy as an autumn sunset, and her teeth as white as winter’s snow. Her hair was a beautiful flaxen—not a drab—but that peculiar sevenpenny-moist-sugar tint which the poets of old were wont to call golden. Her voice was melodious; her notes in alt were equal to Grisi’s: in short, she would have been a very desirable, loveable young lady, if she had not been a coquette.

Hans met her at a festival given in commemoration of the demise of the burgomaster’s second wife—I beg pardon, I mean in celebration of his union with his third bride. From that day Hans was a lost barber. Sleeping, waking, shaving, curling, weaving, or powdering, he thought of nothing but Agnes. His love-dreams placed him in all kinds of awkward predicaments. And Agnes—what thought she of the unhappy barber? Nothing, except that he was a presumptuous puppy, and wore very unfashionable garments. Hans