patronage of a venal ministry--no matter of what creed, for
party _must_ destroy patriotism.

The noble in his robes and coronet--the beadle in his gaudy livery
of scarlet, and purple, and gold--the dignitary in the fulness of his
pomp--the demagogue in the triumph of his hollowness--these and other
visual and oral cheats by which mankind are cajoled, have passed in
review before us, conjured up by the magic wand of PUNCH.

How we envy his philosophy, when SHALLA-BA-LA, that demon with the
bell, besets him at every turn, almost teasing the sap out of him! The
moment that his tormentor quits the scene, PUNCH seems to forget the
existence of his annoyance, and, carolling the mellifluous numbers of
_Jim Crow_, or some other strain of equal beauty, makes the most of
the present, regardless of the past or future; and when SHALLA-BA-LA
renews his persecutions, PUNCH boldly faces his enemy, and ultimately
becomes the victor. All have a SHALLA-BA-LA in some shape or other;
but few, how few, the philosophy of PUNCH!

We are afraid our prototype is no favourite with the ladies. PUNCH
is (and we reluctantly admit the fact) a Malthusian in principle, and
somewhat of a domestic tyrant; for his conduct is at times harsh and
ungentlemanly to Mrs. P.

"Eve of a land that still is Paradise,
Italian beauty!"

But as we never look for perfection in human nature, it is too much
to expect it in wood. We wish it to be understood that we repudiate
such principles and conduct. We have a Judy of our own, and a little
Punchininny that commits innumerable improprieties; but we fearlessly
aver that we never threw him out of window, nor belaboured the lady
with a stick--even of the size allowed by law.

There is one portion of the drama we wish was omitted, for it always
saddens us--we allude to the prison scene. PUNCH, it is true, sings in
durance, but we hear the ring of the bars mingling with the song. We
are advocates for the _correction_ of offenders; but how many generous
and kindly beings are there pining within the walls of a prison, whose
only crimes are poverty and misfortune! They, too, sing and laugh, and
appear jocund, but the _heart_ can ever hear the ring of the bars.

We never looked upon a lark in a cage, and heard him trilling out
his music as he sprang upwards to the roof of his prison, but we felt
sickened with the sight and sound, as contrasting, in our thought,
the free minstrel of the morning, bounding as it were