PUNCH AND PEEL.

Arcades ambo.

READER.--God bless us, Mr. PUNCH! who is that tall, fair-haired, somewhat
parrot-faced gentleman, smiling like a schoolboy over a mess of treacle,
and now kissing the tips of his five fingers as gingerly as if he were
doomed to kiss a nettle?

PUNCH.--That, Mr. Reader, is the great cotton-plant, Sir Robert Peel; and
at this moment he has, in his own conceit, seized upon "the white wonder"
of Victoria's hand, and is kissing it with Saint James's devotion.

READER.--What for, Mr. PUNCH?

PUNCH.--What for! At court, Mr. Reader, you always kiss when you obtain an
honour. 'Tis a very old fashion, sir--old as the court of King David. Well
do I recollect what a smack Uriah gave to his majesty when he was appointed
to the post which made Bathsheba a widow. Poor Uriah! as we say of the
stag, that was when his horns were in the velvet.

READER.--_You_ recollect it, Mr. PUNCH!--_you_ at the court of King David!

PUNCH.--I, Mr. Reader, I!--and at every court, from the court of Cain in
Mesopotamia to the court of Victoria in this present, flinty-hearted
London; only the truth is, as I have travelled I have changed my name.
Bless you, half the _Proverbs_ given to Solomon are mine. What I have lost
by keeping company with kings, not even Joseph Hume can calculate.