half-annivel performance of "PUNCH." The pleasing task now dewolves upon
me, on behoof of the Lessee and the whole strength off the Puppets, to
come forrard and acknowledge the liberal showers of applause and 'apence
what a generous and enlightened British public has powered upon the
performances and pitched into our goss. Steamilated by this St. Swiffin's
of success, the Lessee fearlessly launches his bark upon the high road of
public favor, and enters his Theaytre for the grand steeple-chase of
general approbation.

Ourn hasn't been a bed of roses. We've had our rivals and our troubles. We
came out as a great hint, and everybody took us.

First and foremost, the great Juggeler in Printing-house Square, walks in
like the Sheriff and takes our comic effects.

Then the Black Doctor, as blowed the bellows to the late ministerial
organ, starts a fantoccini and collars our dialect.

Then, the unhappy wight what acts as dry-nuss to his _Grandmother_,
finding his writing on the pavement with red and white chalk and
sentiment, won't friz,--gives over appealing to the sympathies, kidnaps
our comic offspring, and (as our brother dramatist Muster Sheridan says)
disfigures 'em to make 'em look like his own.

Then, the whole biling of our other hoppositioners who puts their
shoulders together, to "hoist up a donkey," tries to ornament their werry
wulgar exhibitions with our vitticisms.

Now this was cruel, deceitful condick on the part of the juggeler,--a side
wind blow from the organ,--didn't show much of the milk of human kindness