A LETTER FROM AN OLD FRIEND,

SHOWING HOW HE IS GETTING ON.


_Clodpole, Dec. 23, 1841_.

MY DEAR PUNCH,

Here I am, you see, keeping Christmas, and having no end of fun amongst
the jolly innocent grubs that vegetate in these rural districts. All I
regret is that you are not here. I would give a ten-pound note to see you,
if I had it;--I would, indeed--so help me several strong men and a
steam-engine!

We had a great night in London before I started, only I got rascally
screwed: not exactly sewed up, you know but hit under the wing, so that I
could not very well fly. I managed to break the window on the third-floor
landing of my lodgings, and let my water-jug fall slap through the
wash-hand basin upon a looking-glass that was lying face upwards
underneath; but as I was off early in the morning it did not signify.

The people down here are a queer lot; but I have hunted up two or three
jolly cocks, and we contrive to keep the place alive between us. Of
course, all the knockers came off the first night I arrived, and to-morrow
we are going to climb out upon the roof of my abode, and make a tour along
the tops of the neighbouring houses, putting turfs on the tops of all the
practicable chimneys. Jack Randall--such a jolly chick! you must be
introduced to him--has promised to tie a cord across the pavement at the
corner, from the lamp-post to a door-scraper; and we have made a careful