June 30.—­So soon as the fust aggytation of my mind is woar off, I take up my pen to put my scentiments on peaper, in hops that my friends as nose the misfortin wich as oc-curd to me, may think off me wen I’m far a whey.  Halass! sir, the wicktim of that crewel blewbeard, Lord Melbun, who got affeard of my rising poplarity in the Palass, and as sent me to see for my peeping, though, heaven nose, I was acktyated by the pewrest motiffs in what I did.  The reel fax of the case is, I’m a young man of an ighly cultiwated mind and a very ink-wisitive disposition, wich naturally led me to the use of the pen.  I ad also bean in the abit of reading “Jak Sheppard,” and I may add, that I O all my eleygant tastes to the perowsal of that faxinating book.  O! wot a noble mind the author of these wollums must have!—­what a frootful inwention and fine feelings he displays!—­what a delicat weal he throws over the piccadillys of his ero, making petty larceny lovely, and burglarly butiful.

However, I don’t mean now to enter into a reglar crickitism of this egxtrornary work, but merely to observe, when I read it fust I felt a thust for literrerry fame spring up in my buzzem; and I thort I should to be an orthor.  Unfortinnet delusion!—­that thort has proved my rooin.  It was the bean of my life, and the destroyer of my pease.  From that moment I could think of nothink else; I neglekted my wittles and my master, and wanderd about like a knight-errand-boy who had forgotten his message.  Sleap deserted my lowly pillar, and, like a wachful shepherd, I lay all night awake amongst my flocks.  I had got hold of a single idear—­it was the axle of my mind, and, like a wheelbarrow, my head was always turning upon it.  At last I resolved to rite, and I cast my i’s about for a subject—­they fell on the Palass!  Ear, as my friend Litton Bulwer ses, ear was a field for genus to sore into;—­ear was an area for fillophosy to dive into;—­ear was a truly magnificient and comprehensive desine for a great nash-ional picture!  I had got a splendid title, too—­not for myself—­I’ve a sole above such trumperry—­but for my book.  Boox is like humane beings—­a good title goes a grate way with the crowd:—­the one I ad chose for my shed-oove, was “Pencillings in the Palass; or, a Small Voice from the Royal Larder,” with commick illustriations by Fiz or Krokvill.  Mr. Bentley wantid to be engaged as monthly nuss for my expected projeny; and a nother gen’leman, whose “name” shall be “never heard,” offered to go shears with me, if I’d consent to cut-uup the Cort ladies.  “No,” ses I, indignantly, “I leave Cort scandle to my betters—­I go on independent principals into the Palass, and that’s more than Lord Melbun, or Sir Robert Peal, or any one of the insiders or outsiders ever could or ever can say of theirselves.

That’s what I said then,—­but now I think, what a cussed fool I was.  All my eye-flown bubbles were fated to be busted and melted, like the wigs, “into thin hair.”