read boiling Daffy. The assumed gravity of Bob’s mug upon playing off this trick was quite a treat, but I am happy to say Crooky booked[18] it. “Come, gents,” said Bob, “please yourselves, here is plenty of water, now mix away.” It had the desired effect. The glass was pushed about so quickly; that the “First of the Month” was soon forgotten, and we kept it up till very long after the Regulars had been tucked up in their dabs, and only the Roosters and the “Peep-o’-Day-Boys” were out on the prowl for a spree. At length a move was made, but not a rattler was to be had. Bob and the party, chaffing, proposed to see the Author safe to his sky-parlour. The boys were primed for anything. Upon turning the corner of Sydney’s Alley, into Leicester-Fields,[19] we were assailed by some trouble customers, and a turn-up was the result (as the Plate[20] most accurately represents). Bob got a stinker, and poor I received a chancery-suit upon the nob. How I reached the upper-story, I know not; but, on waking late in the day, I found my pocket-book was absent—without leave. I was in great grief at its loss, not on account of the blunt it contained—much worse—the notes in it were dearer than gold to me. The account of Jerry’s introduction to the Marchioness of Diamonds, the Duchess of Hearts, Lady Wanton, Dick Trifle, Bill Dash, &c., &c., on his appearance in Rotten Row with the Corinthian, booked on the spot. I was in a complete funk. I immediately went to sartain persons, and communicated my loss; how, where, and when; and I was consoled, that, if it were safe, Pierce Egan should have it. Day after day passed, and no account of it;—I gave it up for lost, and scratched my moppery, again and again, but could not recollect accurately, the substance of my notes. I was sorry for myself;—I was sorry for the public. However, on Friday morning last, taking a turn into Paternoster Row, my friend Jones[21] smiling, said he had got the Book:—as he is fond of a bit of gig, I thought he was in fun,—but, on handing it over to me, with the following letter, my peepers twinkled again with delight.

To the care of Mr. Jones, for P. Egan.

Sir,—You see as how I have sent that ere Litter.[22] Pocket-Book, which so much row has been kicked up about amongst us. Vy it an’t vorth a single tonic,[23] Who’s to understand it? vy it’s full of pot-hooks and hangers[24]—and not a screen[25] in it. You are determined nobody shall nose your idears. If your name had not been chaunted in it, it would have been dinged into the dunagan. But remember, no conking.

From yours, &c.,
Tim Hustle.

Dec. 20, 1820.

The joy I felt on recovering my Pocket-Book I cannot communicate. The return of it, however, arrived too late to prevent the following:—

APOLOGY.

In consequence of Bob Logic’s Daffy, only one sheet of Letter Press accompanies the Plates of No. 5; but, to make up for this unavoidable deficiency, THREE SHEETS of Letter Press will be given in No. 6.

I therefore trust, under the circumstances of the case, a liberal allowance will be made, when it is recollected that such RAMBLES and SPREES FIRST gave the Author an idea of detailing some of the “rich scenes” which are only to be found in

LIFE IN LONDON.

Wishing health and happiness, united with the compliments of the season, to all my numerous Subscribers,

I remain,
Your much obliged and humble servant,
P. EGAN.

Sky-Parlour,
January 1, 1821.

In Chapter XIV. of the original Life in London, there is such a graphic description of Tom, Jerry and Logic—the Oxonian; making a “jolly Night of it” at the once famed Vauxhall Gardens: written in so truly a Piercy Egania!!! style that we are tempted to reproduce it in its entirety for the benefit of our readers, together with a few Notes of our own to follow.

——“I perceive,” said Tom, “on perusing the newspaper, Vauxhall Gardens are open, and therefore, Jerry, to-night we will pay them a visit.” “It is an extraordinary place, indeed,” replied Hawthorn, “if my Old Dad and Mam have not exaggerated its grandeur; but, as the old people have not been used to sights, it may account for their astonishment and rapture in speaking about them.” “I am not surprised at that,” answered Tom, smiling; “in my humble opinion, it has not its equal in the world. There is nothing like it in Paris. Pleasure holds her court at Vauxhall. In those gay regions, you are liable to jostle against the gods and goddesses—Bacchus you will find frequently at your elbow—Venus and the Graces passing and repassing, yet condescendingly smiling upon you—Momus surrounded by fun and laughter—Terpsichore attending upon your steps—and Apollo winding up the whole with the most pleasing harmony.” “No Lethe, then is necessary at Vauxhall, I suppose,” said Jerry, ironically, interrupting Tom. “Yes, my dear Coz,” answered the Corinthian. “It might be