bound the brow of infamy as well as that of honour--a mockery to both;
as though virtue required a reward beyond the fulfilment of its own
high purposes, or that infamy could be cheated into the forgetfulness
of its vileness by the weight around its temples! Gilded coaches have
glided before us, in which sat men who thought the buzz and shouts
of crowds a guerdon for the toils, the anxieties, and, too often, the
peculations of a life. Our ears have rung with the noisy frothiness of
those who have bought their fellow-men as beasts in the market-place,
and found their reward in the sycophancy of a degraded constituency,
or the 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