on my hands,
and as I am told you pay a handsome sum to persons writing for you, I
will furnish you occasionally with some of my views upon men and things;
occasional histories of my acquaintance, which I think may amuse you;
personal narratives of my own; essays, and what not. I am told that I do
not spell correctly. This of course I don't know; but you will remember
that Richelieu and Marlborough could not spell, and egad! I am an honest
man, and desire to be no better than they. I know that it is the matter,
and not the manner, which is of importance. Have the goodness, then, to
let one of your understrappers correct the spelling and the grammar
of my papers; and you can give him a few shillings in my name for his
trouble.

Begging you to accept the assurance of my high consideration, I am, sir,

Your obedient servant,

GEORGE SAVAGE FITZ-BOODLE.

P.S.--By the way, I have said in my letter that I found ALL literary
persons vulgar and dull. Permit me to contradict this with regard to
yourself. I met you once at Blackwall, I think it was, and really did
not remark anything offensive in your accent or appearance.

Before commencing the series of moral disquisitions, &c. which I intend,
the reader may as well know who I am, and what my past course of life
has been. To say that I am a Fitz-Boodle is to say at once that I am a
gentleman. Our family has held the estate of Boodle ever since the
reign of Henry II.; and it is out of no ill will to my elder brother,
or unnatural desire for his death, but only because the estate is a
very good one, that I wish heartily it was mine: I would say as much of
Chatsworth or Eaton Hall.

I am not, in the first place, what is called a ladies' man, having
contracted an irrepressible habit of smoking after dinner, which has
obliged me to give up a great deal of the dear creatures' society; nor
can I go much to country-houses for the same reason. Say what they will,
ladies do not like you to smoke in their bedrooms: their silly little
noses scent out the odor upon the chintz, weeks after you have left
them. Sir John has been caught coming to bed particularly merry and
redolent of cigar-smoke; young George, from Eton, was absolutely found
in the little green-house puffing an Havana; and when discovered they
both lay the blame upon Fitz-Boodle. "It was Mr. Fitz-Boodle, mamma,"
says George, "who offered me the cigar, and I did not like to refuse
him." "That rascal Fitz seduced us, my