SIR:--Yes, I distinctly remember meeting you on the occasion to which you refer, and it is naturally gratifying to me to hear that you enjoy my writing so much. Unfortunately, however, I am unable to accept your generous offer to do Lord Beaconsfield for the "English Men of Letters" series, as the volume has been already arranged for. Yours sincerely, J. MOGGRIDGE, Ed. "English Men of Letters" series. _To F. C. Burnand, Esq., Peebles, N.B._ SIR:--The jokes which you forwarded to _Punch_ on Monday last are so good that we used them three years ago. Yours faithfully, J. MOGGRIDGE, Ed. _Punch_. _To Mr. D'Oyley Carte, Cross Stone Buildings, Westminster Bridge Road._ DEAR SIR:--The comic opera by your friends Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan, which you have submitted to me, as sole lessee and manager of the Savoy Theatre, is now returned to you unread. The little piece, judged from its title-page, is bright and pleasing, but I have arranged with two other gentlemen to write my operas for the next twenty-one years. Faithfully yours, J. MOGGRIDGE, Sole Lessee and Manager Savoy Theatre. [Illustration] _To James Ruskin, Esq., Railway Station Hotel, Willisden._ SIR:--I warn you that I will not accept any more copies of your books. I do not know the individual named Tennyson to whom you refer; but if he is the scribbler who is perpetually sending me copies of his verses, please tell him that I read no poetry except my own. Why can't you leave me alone? J. MOGGRIDGE, Poet Laureate. These letters of Jimmy's remind me of our famous competition, which took place on the night of the Jubilee celebrations. When all the rest of London (including William John) was in the streets, the Arcadians met as usual, and Scrymgeour, at my request, put on the shutters to keep out the din. It so happened that Jimmy and Gilray were that night in wicked moods, for Jimmy, who was so anxious to be a journalist, had just had his seventeenth article returned from the _St. John's Gazette_, and Gilray had been "slated" for his acting of a new part, in all the leading papers. They were now disgracing the tobacco they smoked by quarrelling about whether critics or editors were the more disreputable class, when in walked Pettigrew, who had not visited us for months. Pettigrew is as successful a journalist as Jimmy is unfortunate, and the pallor of his face showed how many Jubilee articles he had written during the past two months. Pettigrew offered each of us a Splendidad (his wife's new brand), which we dropped into the fireplace. Then he filled my little Remus with Arcadia, and sinking weariedly into a chair, said: "My dear Jimmy, the curse of journalism is not that editors won't accept our articles, but that they want too many from us." This seemed such monstrous nonsense to Jimmy that he turned his back on Pettigrew, and Gilray broke in with a diatribe against critics. "Critics," said Pettigrew, "are to be pitied rather than reviled."