ood old times extolled. Once, in a
fit of madness, after having been to a public dinner which took place
just as this Ministry came in, I wrote the parody I send you enclosed,
for Fonblanque. There is nothing in it but wrath; but that's wholesome,
so I send it you.

I am writing a little history of England for my boy, which I will send
you when it is printed for him, though your boys are too old to profit
by it. It is curious that I have tried to impress upon him (writing, I
daresay, at the same moment with you) the exact spirit of your paper,
for I don't know what I should do if he were to get hold of any
Conservative or High Church notions; and the best way of guarding
against any such horrible result is, I take it, to wring the parrots'
necks in his very cradle.

Oh Heaven, if you could have been with me at a hospital dinner last
Monday! There were men there who made such speeches and expressed such
sentiments as any moderately intelligent dustman would have blushed
through his cindery bloom to have thought of. Sleek, slobbering,
bow-paunched, over-fed, apoplectic, snorting cattle, and the auditory
leaping up in their delight! I never saw such an illustration of the
power of purse, or felt so degraded and debased by its contemplation,
since I have had eyes and ears. The absurdity of the thing was too
horrible to laugh at. It was perfectly overwhelming. But if I could have
partaken it with anybody who would have felt it as you would have done,
it would have had quite another aspect; or would at least, like a
"classic mask" (oh d---- that word!) have had one funny side to relieve
its dismal features.

Supposing fifty families were to emigrate into the wilds of North
America--yours, mine, and forty-eight others--picked for their
concurrence of opinion on all important subjects and for their
resolution to found a colony of common-sense, how soon would that devil,
Cant, present itself among them in one shape or other? The day they
landed, do you say, or the day after?

That is a great mistake (almost the only one I know) in the "Arabian
Nights," when the princess restores people to their original beauty by
sprinkling them with the golden water. It is quite clear that she must
have made monsters of them by such a christening as that.

My dear Jerrold,
Faithfully your Friend.

[Sidenote: Mr. David Dickson.]

1, DEVONSHIRE