The end of Mr. Deuceace’s history is going to be the end of my corrispondince. I wish the public was as sory to part with me as I am with the public; becaws I fansy reely that we’ve become frends, and feal for my part a becoming greaf at saying ajew.

It’s imposbill for me to continyow, however, a-writin, as I have done — violetting the rules of authography, and trampling upon the fust princepills of English grammar. When I began, I knew no better: when I’d carrid on these papers a little further, and grew accustmd to writin, I began to smel out somethink quear in my style. Within the last sex weaks I have been learning to spell: and when all the world was rejoicing at the festivvaties of our youthful Quean2 — when all i’s were fixed upon her long sweet of ambasdors and princes, following the splendid carridge of Marshle the Duke of Damlatiar, and blinking at the pearls and dimince of Prince Oystereasy — Yellowplush was in his loanly pantry — HIS eyes were fixt upon the spelling-book — his heart was bent upon mastring the diffickleties of the littery professhn. I have been, in fact, CONVERTID.

2 This was written in 1838.

You shall here how. Ours, you know, is a Wig house; and ever sins his third son has got a place in the Treasury, his secknd a captingsy in the Guards, his fust, the secretary of embasy at Pekin, with a prospick of being appinted ambasdor at Loo Choo — ever sins master’s sons have reseaved these attentions, and master himself has had the promis of a pearitch, he has been the most reglar, consistnt, honrabble Libbaral, in or out of the House of Commins.

Well, being a Whig, it’s the fashn, as you know, to reseave littery pipple; and accordingly, at dinner, tother day, whose name do you think I had to hollar out on the fust landing-place about a wick ago? After several dukes and markises had been enounced, a very gentell fly drives up to our doar, and out steps two gentlemen. One was pail, and wor spektickles, a wig, and a white neckcloth. The other was slim with a hook nose, a pail fase, a small waist, a pare of falling shoulders, a tight coat, and a catarack of black satting tumbling out of his busm, and falling into a gilt velvet weskit. The little genlmn settled his wigg, and pulled out his ribbins; the younger one fluffed the dust of his shoes, looked at his whiskers in a little pockit-glas, settled his crevatt; and they both mounted upstairs.

“What name, sir?” says I, to the old genlmn.

“Name! — a! now, you thief o’ the wurrld,” says he, “do you pretind nat to know ME? Say it’s the Cabinet Cyclopa — no, I mane the Litherary Chran — psha! — bluthanowns! — say it’s DOCTHOR DIOCLESIAN LARNER— I think he’ll know me now — ay, Nid?” But the genlmn called Nid was at the botm of the stare, and pretended to be very busy with his shoo-string. So the little genlmn went upstares alone.

“DOCTOR DIOLESIUS LARNER!” says I.

“DOCTOR ATHANASIUS LARDNER!” says Greville Fitz-Roy, our secknd footman, on the fust landing-place.

“DOCTOR IGNATIUS LOYOLA!” says the groom of the chambers, who pretends to be a scholar; and in the little genlmn went. When safely housed, the other chap came; and when I asked him his name, said, in a thick, gobbling kind of voice:

“Sawedwadgeorgeearllittnbulwig.”

“Sir what?” says I, quite agast at the name.

“Sawedwad — no, I mean MISTAWedwad Lyttn Bulwig.”

My neas trembled under me, my i’s fild with tiers, my voice shook, as I past up the venrabble name to the other footman, and saw this fust of English writers go up to the drawing-room!

It’s needless to mention the names of the rest of the compny, or to dixcribe the suckmstansies of the dinner. Suffiz to say that the two littery genlmn behaved very well, and seamed to have good appytights; igspecially the little Irishman in the whig, who et, drunk, and talked as much as a duzn. He told how he’d been presented at cort by his friend, Mr. Bulwig, and how the Quean had received ’em both, with a dignity undigscribable; and how her blessid Majisty asked what was the bony fidy sale of the Cabinit Cyclopaedy, and how be (Doctor Larner) told her that, on his honner, it was under ten thowsnd.

You may guess that the Doctor, when he made this speach, was pretty far gone. The fact is, that whether it was the coronation, or the goodness of the wine (cappitle it is in our house, I can tell you), or the natral propensaties of the gests assembled, which made them so igspecially jolly, I don’t know; but they had kep up the meating pretty late, and our poar butler was quite tired with the perpechual baskits of clarrit which he’d been called upon to bring up. So that about 11 o’clock, if I were to say they were merry, I should use a mild term; if I wer to say they were intawsicated, I should use a nigspresshn more near to the truth, but less rispeckful in one of my situashn.

The cumpany reseaved this annountsmint with mute extonishment.

“Pray, Doctor Larnder,” says a spiteful genlmn, willing to keep up the littery conversation, “what is the Cabinet Cyclopaedia?”

“It’s the littherary wontherr of the wurrld,” says he; “and sure your lordship must have seen it; the latther numbers ispicially — cheap as durrt, bound in gleezed calico, six shillings a vollum. The illusthrious neems of Walther Scott, Thomas Moore, Docther Southey, Sir James Mackintosh, Docther Donovan, and meself, are to be found in the list of conthributors. It’s the Phaynix of Cyclopajies — a litherary Bacon.”

“A what?” says the genlmn nex to him.

“A Bacon, shining in the darkness of our age; fild wid the pure end lambent flame of science, burning with the gorrgeous scintillations of divine litherature — a monumintum, in fact, are perinnius, bound in pink calico, six shillings a vollum.”

“This wigmawole,” said Mr. Bulwig (who seemed rather disgusted that his friend should take up so much of the convassation), “this wigmawole is all vewy well; but it’s cuwious that you don’t wemember, in chawactewising the litewawy mewits of the vawious magazines, cwonicles, weviews, and encyclopaedias, the existence of a cwitical weview and litewary chwonicle, which, though the aewa of its appeawance is dated only at a vewy few months pwevious to the pwesent pewiod, is, nevertheless, so wemarkable for its intwinsic mewits as to be wead, not in the metwopolis alone, but in the countwy — not in Fwance merely, but in the west of Euwope — whewever our pure Wenglish is spoken, it stwetches its peaceful sceptre — pewused in Amewica, fwom New York to Ningawa — wepwinted in Canada, from Montweal to Towonto — and, as I am gwatified to hear fwom my fwend the governor of Cape Coast Castle, wegularly weceived in Afwica, and twanslated into the Mandingo language by the missionawies and the bushwangers. I need not say, gentlemen — sir — that is, Mr. Speaker — I mean, Sir John — that I allude to the Litewary Chwonicle, of which I have the honor to be pwincipal contwibutor.”

“Very true; my dear Mr. Bullwig,” says my master: “you and I being Whigs, must of course stand by our own friends; and I will agree, without a moment’s hesitation, that the Literary what-d’ye-call’em is the prince of periodicals.”

“The pwince of pewiodicals?” says Bullwig; “my dear Sir John, it’s the empewow of the pwess.”

“Soit — let it be the emperor of the press, as you poetically call it: but, between ourselves, confess it — Do not the Tory writers beat your Whigs hollow? You talk about magazines. Look at —”

“Look at hwat?” shouts out Larder. “There’s none, Sir Jan, compared to ourrs.”

“Pardon me, I think that —”

“It is ‘Bentley’s Mislany’ you mane?” says Ignatius, as sharp as a niddle.

“Why, no; but —”

“O thin, it’s Co’burn, sure! and that divvle Thayodor — a pretty paper, sir, but light — thrashy, milk-and-wathery — not sthrong, like the Litherary Chran — good luck to it.”

“Why, Doctor Lander, I was going to tell at once the name of the periodical, it’s FRASER’S MAGAZINE.”

“FRESER!” says the Doctor. “O thunder and turf!”

“FWASER!” says Bullwig. “O— ah — hum — haw — yes — no — why — that is weally — no, weally, upon my weputation, I never before heard the name of the pewiodical. By the by, Sir John, what wemarkable good clawet this is; is it Lawose or Laff —?”

Laff, indeed! he cooden git beyond laff; and I’m blest if I could kip it neither — for hearing him pretend ignurnts, and being behind the skreend, settlin somethink for the genlmn, I bust into such a raw of laffing as never was igseeded.

“Hullo!” says Bullwig, turning red. “Have I said anything impwobable, aw widiculous? for, weally, I never befaw wecollect to have heard in society such a twemendous peal of cachinnation — that which the twagic bard who fought at Mawathon has called an anewithmon gelasma.”

“Why, be the holy piper,” says Larder, “I think you are dthrawing a little on your imagination. Not read Fraser! Don’t believe him, my lord duke; he reads every word of it, the rogue! The boys about that magazine baste him as if he was a sack of oatmale. My reason for crying out, Sir Jan, was because you mintioned Fraser at all. Bullwig has every syllable of it be heart — from the pailitix down to the ‘Yellowplush Correspondence.’”

“Ha, ha!” says Bullwig, affecting to laff (you may be sure my ears prickt up when I heard the name of the “Yellowplush Correspondence”). “Ha, ha! why, to tell truth, I HAVE wead the cowespondence to which you allude: it’s a gweat favowite at court. I was talking with Spwing Wice and John Wussell about it the other day.”

“Well, and what do you think of it?” says Sir John, looking mity waggish — for he knew it was me who roat it.

“Why, weally and twuly, there’s considewable cleverness about the cweature; but it’s low, disgustingly low: it violates pwabability, and the orthogwaphy is so carefully inaccuwate, that it requires a positive study to compwehend it.”

“Yes, faith,” says Larner; “the arthagraphy is detestible; it’s as bad for a man to write bad spillin as it is for ’em to speak wid a brrogue. Iducation furst, and ganius afterwards. Your health, my lord, and good luck to you.”

“Yaw wemark,” says Bullwig, “is vewy appwopwiate. You will wecollect, Sir John, in Hewodotus (as for you, Doctor, you know more about Iwish than about Gweek) — you will wecollect, without doubt, a stowy nawwated by that cwedulous though fascinating chwonicler, of a certain kind of sheep which is known only in a certain distwict of Awabia, and of which the tail is so enormous, that it either dwaggles on the gwound, or is bound up by the shepherds of the country into a small wheelbawwow, or cart, which makes the chwonicler sneewingly wemark that thus ‘the sheep of Awabia have their own chawiots.’ I have often thought, sir (this clawet is weally nectaweous)— I have often, I say, thought that the wace of man may be compawed to these Awabian sheep — genius is our tail, education our wheelbawwow. Without art and education to pwop it, this genius dwops on the gwound, and is polluted by the mud, or injured by the wocks upon the way: with the wheelbawwow it is stwengthened, incweased, and supported — a pwide to the owner, a blessing to mankind.”

“A very appropriate simile,” says Sir John; “and I am afraid that the genius of our friend Yellowplush has need of some such support.”

“Apropos,” said Bullwig, “who IS Yellowplush? I was given to understand that the name was only a fictitious one, and that the papers were written by the author of the ‘Diary of a Physician;’ if so, the man has wonderfully improved in style, and there is some hope of him.”

“Bah!” says the Duke of Doublejowl; “everybody knows it’s Barnard, the celebrated author of ‘Sam Slick.’”

“Pardon, my dear duke,” says Lord Bagwig; “it’s the authoress of ‘High Life,’ ‘Almack’s,’ and other fashionable novels............