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.