READER.--And are you really in court confidence at this moment?

PUNCH.--Am I? What! Hav'n't you heard of the elections? Have you not heard
the shouts _Io Punch_? Doesn't my nose glow like coral--ar'n't my chops
radiant as a rainbow--hath not my hunch gone up at least two inches--am I
not, from crown to toe-nails, brightened, sublimated? Like Alexander--he
was a particular friend of mine, that same Alexander, and therefore stole
many of my best sayings--I only know that I am mortal by two sensations--a
yearning for loaves and fishes, and a love for Judy.

READER.--And you really take office under Peel?

PUNCH.--Ha! ha! ha! A good joke! Peel takes office under _me_. Ha! ha! I'm
only thinking what sport I shall have with the bedchamber women. But out
they must go. The constitution gives a minister the selection of his own
petticoats; and therefore there sha'n't be a yard of Welsh flannel about
her Majesty that isn't of my choice.

READER.--Do you really think that the royal bedchamber is in fact a third
house of Parliament--that the affairs of the state are always to be put in
the feminine gender?

PUNCH.--Most certainly: the ropes of the state rudder are nothing more than
cap-ribbons; if the minister hav'n't hold of them, what can he do with the
ship? As for the debates in parliament, they have no more to do with the
real affairs of the country than the gossip of the apple-women in
Palace-yard. They're made, like the maccaroni in Naples, for the poor to
swallow; and so that they gulp down length, they think, poor fellows, they
get strength. But for the real affairs of the country! Who shall tell what