For ditto, a grand ditto, or a great-grand ditto—­not so much:  their leases, it is presumed, being about to fall in.

Uncles, aunts, cousins, friends, companions, and the community in general—­in proportion.

The cost of assaults and batteries, and other diversions, might be easily arranged; only I must remark, that for assaulting policemen I would charge high; that being, like the Italian Opera, for the most part, the entertainment of the nobility.

You may object that the propounding such a scheme would be discreditable, and that the thing is unprecedented.  Reflect, my dear Punch, for an instant.  Surely, nothing can be deemed to be discreditable by a Whig government, after the cheap sugar, cheap timber, cheap bread rigs.  Why, this is just what might have been expected from them.  I wonder they had not hit upon it.  How it would have “agitated the masses!”

As to the want of a precedent, that is easily supplied.  Pardons for all sorts and sizes of crimes were commonly bought and sold in the reign of James I.; nay, pardon granted in anticipation of crimes to be at a future time committed.

After all, you see, Mr. Dyer’s idea was not altogether original.

Your affectionate friend,

Christopher Sly.

Pump Court.

P.S.—­Permit me to congratulate you on the determination you have come to, of entering the literary world.  Your modesty may be alarmed, but I must tell you that several of our “popular and talented” authors are commonly thought to be greatly indebted to you.  They are said to derive valuable hints from you, particularly in their management of the pathetic.

Keep a strict eye upon your wife, Judith.  You say she will superintend your notices of the fashions, &c.; but I fear she has been already too long and exclusively employed on certain newspapers and other periodicals.  Her style is not easily mistaken.

* * * * *

WHIG-WAGGERIES.

  The Whigs must go:  to reign instead
    The Tories will be call’d;
  The Whigs should ne’er be at the head—­
    Dear me, I’m getting bald!

  The Whigs! they pass’d that Poor Law Bill;
    That’s true, beyond a doubt;
  The poor they’ve treated very ill—­
    There, kick that beggar out!

  The Whigs about the sugar prate! 
    They do not care one dump
  About the blacks and their sad state—­
    Just please to pass the lump!

  Those niggers, for their sufferings here,
    Will angels be when dying;
  Have wings, and flit above us—­dear—­
    Why, how those blacks are flying!

  The Whigs are in a state forlorn;
    In fact, were ne’er so low: 
  They make a fuss about the corn—­
    My love, you’re on my toe!

  The Whigs the timber duty say
    They will bring down a peg;
  More wooden-pated blockheads they!
    Fetch me my wooden leg!