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HOOD'S OWN:

OR, LAUGHTER FROM YEAR TO YEAR.

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How the following correspondence came into my hands must remain a Waverley mystery. The Pugsley Papers were neither rescued from a garret, like the Evelyn,-collected from cartridges, like the Culloden,-nor saved, like the Garrick, from being shredded into a snow storm at a Winter Theatre. They were not snatched from a tailor's shears, like the original parchment of Magna Charta. They were neither the Legacy of a Dominie, nor the communications of My Landlord,-a consignment, like the Clinker Letters, from some Rev. Jonathan Dustwich,-nor the waifs and strays of a Twopenny Post Bag. They were not unrolled from ancient papyri. They were none of those that line trunks, clothe spices," or paper the walls of old attics. They were neither given to me nor sold to me,-nor stolen,

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nor borrowed and surreptitiously copied,-nor left in a hackney coach, like Sheridan's play,-nor misdelivered by a carrier pigeon, nor dreamt of, like Coleridge's Kubla Khan,--nor turned up in the Tower, like Milton's Foundling MS.,-nor dug up,-nor trumped up, like the eastern tales of Horam harum Horam, the son of Asmar,-nor brought over by Rammohun Roy, nor translated by Doctor Bowring from the Scandinavian, Batavian, Pomeranian, Spanish, or Danish, or Russian, or Prussian, or any other language dead or living. They were not picked from the Dead Letter Office, nor purloined from the British Museum. In short, I cannot, dare not, will not, hint even at the mode of their acquisition: the reader must be content to know, that, in point of authenticity, the Pugsley Papers are the extreme reverse of Lady L.'s celebrated Autographs, which were all written by the proprietor.

No. I.-From Master RICHARD PUGSLEY, to Master ROBERT ROGERS, at Number 132, Barbican.

DEAR BOB,

Huzza!—Here I am in Lincolnshire! It's good-bye to Wellingtons and Cossacks, Ladies' double channels, Gentlemen's stout calf, and ditto ditto. They've all been sold off under prime cost, and the old Shoe Mart is disposed of, goodwill and fixtures for ever and ever. Father has been made a rich Squire of by will, and we've got a house and fields, and trees of our own. Such a garden, Bob!-It beats White Conduit.

Now, Bob, I'll tell you what I want. I want you to come down here for the holidays. Don't be afraid. Ask your Sister to ask your Mother to ask your Father to let you come. It's only ninety mile. If you're out of pocket money, you can walk, and beg a lift now and then, or swing by the dickies. Put on cordroys, and don't care for cut behind. The two prentices, George and Will, are here to be made farmers of, and brother

Nick is took home from school to help in agriculture. We like farming very much, it's capital fun. Us four have got a gun, and go out shooting: it's a famous good un, and sure to go off if you don't full cock it. Tiger is to be our shooting dog, as soon as he has left off killing the sheep. He's a real savage, and worries cats beautiful. Before Father comes down, we mean to bait our bull with him.

There's plenty of New Rivers about, and we're going a fishing as soon as we have mended our top joint. We've killed one of our sheep on the sly to get gentles. We've a pony, too, to ride upon when we can catch him, but he's loose in the paddock, and has neither mane nor tail to signify to lay hold of. Isn't it prime, Bob? You must come. If your Mother won't give your Father leave to allow you,-run away. Remember, you turn up Goswell Street to go to Lincolnshire, and ask for Middlefen Hall. There's a pond full of frogs, but we won't pelt them till you come, but let it be before Sunday, as there's our own orchard to rob, and the fruit's to be gathered on Monday.

If you like sucking raw eggs, we know where the hens lay, and mother don't; and I'm bound there's lots of birds' nests. Do come, Bob, and I'll show you the wasps' nest, and everything that can make you comfortable. I dare say you could borrow your father's volunteer musket of him without his knowing of it; but be sure anyhow to bring the ramrod, as we have mislaid ours by firing it off. Don't forget some bird-lime, Bob-and some fishhooks-and some different sorts of shot-and some gut and some gunpowder-and a gentle box, and some flints,-some May flies, and a powder horn,-and a landing net and a dog-whistle -and some porcupine quills, and a bullet mould-and a trollingwinch, and a shot-belt and a tin can. You pay for 'em, Bob, and I'll owe it you.

Your old friend and schoolfellow,
RICHARD PUGSLEY.

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