the golden fish--who are to chew the fine manchet loaves of Downing-street?

PEEL.--The truth is, my dear Punch--

PUNCH.--Stop. You may put on that demure look, expand your right-hand
fingers across the region where the courtesy of anatomy awards to
politicians a heart, and talk about truth as a certain old lady with a
paper lanthorn before her door may talk of chastity--you may do all this on
the hustings; but this is not Tamworth: besides, you are now elected; so
take one of these cigars--they were smuggled for me by my revered friend
Colonel Sibthorp--fill your glass, and out with the list.

PEEL.--(_Rises and goes to the door, which he double locks; returns to his
seat, and takes from his waistcoat pocket a small piece of ass's skin._) I
have jotted down a few names.

PUNCH.--And, I see, on very proper material. Read, Robert, read.

PEEL.--(_In a mild voice and with a slight blush._)--"First Lord of the
Treasury, and Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Robert Peel!"

PUNCH.--Of course. Well?

PEEL.--"First Lord of the Admiralty--Duke of Buckingham."

PUNCH.--An excellent man for the Admiralty. He has been at sea in politics
all his life.

PEEL.--"Secretary for Foreign Affairs--Earl of Aberdeen."