the election of sir jacob at such a crisis was an act of providence. his firmness at the fire affords an example to posterity; although the bench was burning under him he refused to retreat, replying emphatically, “i will sit by my order.” as far as this goes you may mention, and no more. i enjoin upon all else a diplomatic silence. sir jacob himself will write to the bailiff, and whatever may be the nature of his directions, i desire that no curiosity may be indulged in, and above

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all, that you entertain no opinions of your own. you cannot square with the upper circles. i would write more, but i am going to a meeting, i need not say where, or upon what subject. i rely, mrs. phipps, on your discretion, and am, &c.,

arabella anastasia jubb.

to t. crawfurd, junior, esquire, the beeches, near shrewsbury, shrops.

dear tom,

throw up your cap and huzza. there’s glorious news, and so you’ll say when i tell you. i could almost jump out of my skin for joy! father’s dismembered! the house of commons caught fire, and he was dissolved along with the rest.

“the last days of pomp—.”

i’ve never been happy since we came up to london, and all through parliament. the election was good sport enough. i liked the riding up and down, and carrying a flag; and the

[pg 80]

battle, with sticks, between the blues and the yellows, was famous fun; and i huzza’d myself hoarse at our getting the day at last. but after that came the jollup, as we used to say at old busby’s. theme writing was a fool to it. if father composed one maiden speech he composed a hundred, and he made me knuckle down and copy them all out, and precious stupid stuff it was. a regular physicker, says you, and i’d worse to take after it. he made us all sit down and hear him spout them, and a poor stick he made.—dick willis, that we used to call handpost, was a dab at it compared to him. he’s no better hand at figures, so much the worse for me. did you ever have a fag, tom, at the national debt? i don’t know who owes it, but i wish he’d pay it, or be made bankrupt at once. i’ve worked more sums last month than ever i did at school in the half year,—geography the same. i had to hunt out don carlos and don pedro, all over the maps. i came in for a regular wigging one day, for wishing both the dons were well peppered, as tom tough says. i’ve seen none of the sights i wanted to see. he wouldn’t let me go to the play, because he says the theatres are bad schools, and would give me a vicious style of elocution. the only pleasure he promised me was to sit in the gallery at the commons and see him present his petitions. short-hand would have come next, that i might take down his speechifying—for he says the reporters all garble. an’t i well out of it all—and a place he was to get for me besides, from the prime minister? i suppose the navy pay, to sit on a high stool and give jack junk one pound two and ninepence twice a year. i’d rather be jack junk himself, wouldn’t you, tom? but father’s lost his wicket, and huzza for shropshire! in hopes of our soon meeting, i remain, my dear tom,

your old chum and schoolfellow,

frederick jubb.

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p.s.—a court gentleman has just come in, with a knock-me-down-again. he says there’s to be a new election. i wish you’d do something; it would be a real favour, and i will do as much for you another time. what i want of you is, to get your father to set up against mine. do try, tom—there’s a good fellow. i will ask every body i know to give your side a plumper.