Dec. 7.—­Peter reported stock—­two coats, two pairs of trousers, and five gentlemen in bed.  Smith hinted at the “beauties of Burke”—­Peter brought a note for Jones—­everybody in ecstacy—­Jones’s jolly old uncle from Glamorganshire had arrived in town.  Huzza! safe for a 20l.  Busker (that’s myself) volunteered his suit—­Jones dressed and off in a brace of shakes—­caught Peter laughing—­found it was a hoax of Jones’s to give us the slip—­would have stripped Peter, only his clothes were worth nothing—­calculated the produce of the remaining suit at—­

    Buttons . . . . . a breakfast. 
    Two sleeves . . . . one pint of porter. 
    Body . . . . . . . four plates of a-la-mode. 
    Trousers (at per leg) . half a quartern loaf.

Caught an idea.—­wrote an anonymous letter to the landlord, and told him that an association had been formed to burke Colonel Sibthorp—­his lodgers the conspirators—­that the scheme was called the “Lie-a-bed plot”—­poverty with his lodgers all fudge—­men of immense wealth—­get rid of them for his own sake—­old boy very nervous, having been in quod for smuggling—­gave us warning—­couldn’t go if we would.  Landlord redeemed our clothes.  Ha! ha!—­did him brown.

The above is a statement of what I suffered during my minority.  I have now the honour to be a magistrate and a member of Parliament.

* * * * *

THE RICH OLD BUFFER.

A MAIDEN LYRIC.

  Urge it no more!  I must not wed
    One who is poor, so hold your prattle;
  My lips on love have ne’er been fed,
    With poverty I cannot battle. 
  My choice is made—­I know I’m right—­
    Who wed for love starvation suffer;
  So I will study day and night
    To please and win a rich OLD BUFFER.

  Romance is very fine, I own;
    Reality is vastly better;
  I’m twenty—­past—­romance is flown—­
    To Cupid I’m no longer debtor. 
  Wealth, power, and rank—­I ask no more—­
    Let the world frown, with these I’ll rough her—­
  Give me an equipage and four,
    Blood bays, a page, and—­rich OLD BUFFER.

  An opera-box shall be my court,
    Myself the sovereign of the women;
  There moustached loungers shall resort,
    Whilst Elssler o’er the stage is skimming. 
  If any rival dare dispute
    The palm of ton, my set shall huff her;
  I’ll reign supreme, make envy mute,
    When once I wed a rich OLD BUFFFER!

“The heart”—­“the feelings”—­pshaw! for nought
They go, I grant, though quite enchanting
In valentines by school-girls wrought: 
Nonsense! by me they are not wanting. 
A note! and, as I live, a ring! 
“Pity the sad suspense I suffer!”
All’s right.  I knew to book I’d bring
Old Brown.  I’ve caught—­
A RICH OLD BUFFER.