A pook has just been written about John Mytton, a sporting squire who lived 100 years ago.
He was a waster who squandered half a million during his short life—he died at 37 and is said to have been drunk for the last twelve.
As a young man he was entered for Cambridge and had some port sent up beforehand.
What became of the 339 gallons of port, I dont' know, as he never went to Cambridge, after all.
Mytton was elected to Parliament in the days when votes were bought, and the venture cost him £10,000.
He took his place in the House, listened to a prosy speech for half an hour, and then, thoroughly fed up, went out and never returned.
What his constituents thought about it didn't matter—he was like that. All that can be said in his favour is that he had a dare devil sort of pluck and plenty of it.
Abbot's Snorting News "Now, Luce, love," said Miss Mattock to her friend Miss Firkin, "tell Oi true, vower pig's sake, what do ce think o' moi middle Lunnon lad?"
"Ee, Moll, 'e be sweet, wi' is pink feace an is well-off way o' speaking.
"Ah, so "e clu bel" a "But, Moll," said Miss Firkin roguishly, "now do ce tell Oi what happened when thee took im in t' parlour after tea."
"Us chatted," replied Miss Mattock, suddenly crimson.
"Coom on, Moll!"
"CE said Oi wur is ideal wumman."
"An' did "e,...2"
"Aye; an' don't ce laff, Lucy Firkin! 'E didden ave tu stand on t' coal scuttle tu kiss Oi. Us wur setting' on t' sofa."
"Moll, sweetheart, Oi sudden loft!"
"Thee'd best not," said Miss Mattock; "vower Oi be like a loyoness wi? ur yoong these days." Showman in the "Herald."
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.