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THE PUNCH CORRESPONDENCE.

In presenting the following epistle to my readers, it may be necessary to apprise them, that it is the genuine production of my eldest daughter, Julia, who has lately obtained the situation of lady’s-maid in the house of Mr. Samuel Briggs, an independent wax and tallow-chandler, of Fenchurch-street, City, but who keeps his family away from business, in fashionable style, in Russell-square, Bloomsbury.  The example of many of our most successful literary chiffonniers, who have not thought it disgraceful to publish scraps of private history and unedited scandal, picked up by them in the houses to which they happened to be admitted, will, it is presumed, sufficiently justify my daughter in communicating, for the amusement of an enlightened public, and the benefit of an affectionate parent, a few circumstances connected with Briggs’ family, with such observations and reflections of her own as would naturally suggest themselves to a refined and intelligent mind.  Should this first essay of a timid girl in the thorny path of literature be favourably received by my friends and patrons, it will stimulate her to fresh exertions; and, I fondly hope, may be the means of placing her name in the same rank by those of Lady Morgan, Madame Tussaud, Mrs. Glasse, the Invisible Lady, and other national ornaments of the feminine species.—­[PUNCH.

Russl Squear, July 14.

Dear PA,—­I nose yew will he angxious to ear how I get on sins I left the wing of the best of feathers.  I am appy to say I am hear in a very respeckble fammaly, ware they keeps too tawl footmen to my hand; one of them is cawld John, and the other Pea-taw,—­the latter is as vane as a P-cock of his leggs, wich is really beutyful, and puffickly streight—­though the howskeaper ses he has bad angles; but some pipple loox at things with only 1 i, and sea butt there defex.  Mr. Wheazey is the ass-matick butler and cotchman, who has lately lost his heir, and can’t get no moar, wich is very diffycult after a serting age, even with the help of Rowland’s Madagascar isle.  Mrs. Tuffney, the howsekeaper, is a prowd and oystere sort of person.  I rather suspex that she’s jellows of me and Pea-taw, who as bean throwink ship’s i’s at me.  She thinks to look down on me, but she can’t, for I hold myself up; and though we brekfists and t’s at the same board, I treat with a deal of hot-tar, and shoes her how much I dispeyses her supper-silly-ous conduck.  Besides these indyvidules, there’s another dome-stick, wich I wish to menshun particlar—­wich is the paige Theodore, that, as the poat says, as bean

  “—­contrived a double debt to pay,
  A paige at night—­a tigger all the day.”