Epistles to the Literati by William Makepeace Thackeray

CH-S Y-LL-WPL-SH, ESQ., TO SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, BT.

JOHN THOMAS SMITH, ESQ., TO C -- S Y -- H, ESQ.

NOTUS.

The suckmstansies of the following harticle are as follos: -- Me and / my friend, the sellabrated Mr. Smith, reckonized each other in the / Haymarket Theatre, during the performints of the new play. I was settn / in the gallery, and sung out to him (he was in the pit), to jine us / after the play, over a glass of bear and a cold hoyster, in my pantry, / the family being out.

Smith came as appinted. We descorsed on the subjick of the comady; / and, after sefral glases, we each of us agreed to write a letter to the / other, giving our notiums of the pease. Paper was brought that momint; / and Smith writing his harticle across the knife-bord, I dasht off mine / on the dresser.

Our agreement was, that I (being remarkabble for my style of riting) / should cretasize the languidge, whilst he should take up with the plot / of the play; and the candied reader will parding me for having holtered / the original address of my letter, and directed it to Sir Edward / himself; and for having incopperated Smith's remarks in the midst of my / own: --

MAYFAIR, Nov. 30, 1839. Midnite.

HONRABBLE BARNET! -- Retired from the littery world a year or moar, I / didn't think anythink would injuice me to come forrards again: for I / was content with my share of reputation, and propoas'd to add nothink to / those immortial wux which have rendered this Magaseen so sallybrated.

Shall I tell you the reazn of my re-appearants? -- a desire for the / benefick of my fellow-creatures? Fiddlestick! A mighty truth with which / my busm labored, and which I must bring forth or die? Nonsince -- stuff: / money's the secret, my dear Barnet, -- money -- l'argong, gelt, spicunia. / Here's quarter-day coming, and I'm blest if I can pay my landlud, unless / I can ad hartificially to my inkum.

This is, however, betwigst you and me. There's no need to blacard the / streets with it, or to tell the British public that Fitzroy Y-ll-wpl-sh / is short of money, or that the sallybrated hauthor of the Y -- - Papers is / in peskewniary difficklties, or is fiteagued by his superhuman littery / labors, or by his famly suckmstansies, or by any other pusnal matter: / my maxim, dear B, is on these pints to be as quiet as posbile. What / the juice does the public care for you or me? Why must we always, in / prefizzes and what not, be a-talking about ourselves and our igstrodnary / merrats, woas, and injaries? It is on this subjick that I porpies, my / dear Barnet, to speak to you in a frendly way; and praps you'll find my / advise tolrabbly holesum.

Well, then, -- if you care about the apinions, fur good or evil, of us / poor suvvants, I tell you, in the most candied way, I like you, Barnet. / I've had my fling at you in my day (for, entry nou, that last stoary I / roat about you and Larnder was as big a bownsir as ever was) -- I've had / my fling at you; but I like you. One may objeck to an immense deal of / your writings, which, betwigst you and me, contain more sham scentiment, / sham morallaty, sham poatry, than you'd like to own; but, in spite of / this, there's the STUFF in you: you've a kind and loyal heart in you, / Barnet -- a trifle deboshed, perhaps; a kean i, igspecially for what's / comic (as for your tradgady, it's mighty flatchulent), and a ready / plesnt pen. The man who says you are an As is an As himself. Don't / believe him, Barnet! not that I suppose you wil, -- for, if I've formed / a correck apinion of you from your wucks, you think your small-beear as / good as most men's: every man does, -- and why not? We brew, and we love / our own tap -- amen; but the pint betwigst us, is this stewpid, absudd way / of crying out, because the public don't like it too. Why shood they, / my dear Barnet? You may vow that they are fools; or that the critix are / your enemies; or that the wuld should judge your poams by your critticle / rules, and not their own: you may beat your breast, and vow you are a / marter, and you won't mend the matter. Take heart, man! you're not so / misrabble after all: your spirits need not be so VERY cast down; you are / not so VERY badly paid. I'd lay a wager that you make, with one thing / or another -- plays, novvles, pamphlicks, and little odd jobbs here and / there -- your three thowsnd a year. There's many a man, dear Bullwig that / works for less, and lives content. Why shouldn't you? Three thowsnd a / year is no such bad thing, -- let alone the barnetcy: it must be a great / comfort to have that bloody hand in your skitching.

But don't you sea, that in a wuld naturally envius, wickid, and fond / of a joak, this very barnetcy, these very cumplaints, -- this ceaseless / groning, and moning, and wining of yours, is igsackly the thing which / makes people laff and snear more? If you were ever at a great school, / you must recklect who was the boy most bullid, and buffited, and / purshewd -- he who minded it most. He who could take a basting got but / few; he who rord and wep because the knotty boys called him nicknames, / was nicknamed wuss and wuss. I recklect there was at our school, in / Smithfield, a chap of this milksop, spoony sort, who appeared among the / romping, ragged fellers in a fine flanning dressing-gownd, that his mama / had given him. That pore boy was beaten in a way that his dear ma and / aunts didn't know him; his fine flanning dressing-gownd was torn all to / ribbings, and he got no pease in the school ever after, but was abliged / to be taken to some other saminary, where, I make no doubt, he was paid / off igsactly in the same way.