m the artists, to act as medium
of communication between the writers and draughtsmen, and to assist Mark
Lemon in making-up the paper; and for these services he received one
pound a week. Soon, however, it was found that the editor could very
well perform all such duties for himself, and the post of "pony" was
abolished. Horace--or "Ponny," as he was invariably nicknamed--became
one of the accepted writers. He was most prolific as a suggestor, and
never failed of point and pith in his own numerous little paragraphs. As
a proposer he had much of the talent of his brother, but little of his
genius. "The Life and Adventures of Miss Robinson Crusoe," written by
Douglas Jerrold, was "Ponny's" suggestion; but he carried out his
conceptions entirely in such papers as his extremely amusing "Model
Men," "Model Women," and "Model Couples;" and his "Change for a
Shilling" and "Letters left at a Pastrycook's" are still remembered.

"Ponny" had not a seat "in the Cabinet" until January 11th, 1845, before
which time he had no separate existence as a contributor, all his "copy"
being entered indiscriminately to the Editor. For a long while his
average contribution was thirty-one columns in each volume; but his main
value lay in the short articles and paragraphs of a playful and
whimsical character. Thus, when the "Birmingham Advertiser" declared
with grovelling snobbishness that "in these days it is quite refreshing
to pronounce the name of the Duke of Newcastle," "Ponny" suggested that
during the summer months "the name of his Grace should be written up in
every public thoroughfare." He was, in fact, in the words of an old
friend, "bright, good-natured, and lively, not very clever, but always
letting off little jokes;" "a social butterfly," adds Mr. Sala, "who
never fulfilled the promise of his youth."

He was a strikingly good-looking man, and was justifiably proud of
Thackeray's greeting as they met at Evans's--"Ah, here comes Colonel
Newcome!" "From his aristocratic mien and premature baldness," says
Vizetelly, "Wiltshire Austin christened him 'the wicked old Marquis.'
The keeping of late hours was Ponny Mayhew's bane. For a quarter of a
century--save an annual fortnight devoted to recruiting himself at
Scarborough or elsewhere--he scorned to seek repose before the milkman
started on his rounds, and during the greater portion of the year never
thought of rising until the sun had set, when he would emerge from his
Bond Street room