ON DITS OF THE CLUBS.

Peter Borthwich has expressed his determination—­not to accept of the speakership of the House of Commons.

C.M.  Westmacott has announced his intention of not joining the new administration; in consequence of which serious defection, he asserts that Sir Robert Peel will be unable to form a cabinet.

“You have heard,” said his Grace of Buckingham, to Lord Abinger, a few evenings ago, “how scandalously Peel and his crew have treated me—­they have actually thrown me overboard.  A man of my weight, too!” “That was the very objection, my Lord,” replied the rubicund functionary.  “Their rotten craft could not carry a statesman of your ponderous abilities.  Your dead weight would have brought them to the bottom in five minutes.”

* * * * *

THE REJECTED ADDRESS OF THE MELANCHOLY WHIGS.

Alas! that poor old Whiggery should have been so silly as to go a-wooing.  Infirm and tottering as he is, it was the height of insanity.  Down he dropped on his bended knees before the object of his love; out he poured his touching addresses, lisped in the blandest, most persuasive tones; and what was his answer?  Scoffs, laughs, kicks, rejection!  Even Johnny Russell’s muse availed not, though it deserved a better fate.  It gained him a wife, but could not win the electors.  Our readers will discover the genius of the witty author of “Don Carlos” in the address, which, though rejected, we in pity immortalise in PUNCH.

  Loved friends—­kind electors, once more we are here
    To beg your sweet voices—­to tell you our deeds. 
  Though our Budget is empty, we’ve got—­never fear—­
    A long full privy purse, to stand bribing and feeds. 
  For, oh! we are out-and-out Whigs—­thorough Whigs! 
    Then, shout till your throttles, good people, ye crack;
  Hurrah! for the troop of sublime “Thimble-rigs!”
    Hurrah! for the jolly old Downing-street pack.

What we’ve done, and will do for you, haply you’ll ask: 
All, all, gentle folks, you shall presently see. 
Off your sugar we’ll take just one penny a cask!
Only adding a shilling a pound on your tea. 
That’s the style for your Whigs—­your reforming old Whigs! 
Then, shout, &c.

Off your broad—­think of this!—­we will take—­(if we can)—­
A whole farthing a loaf; then, when wages decline,
By one-half—­as they must—­and you’re starving, each man
In our New Poor Law Bastiles may go lodge, and go dine. 
That’s the plan of your Whigs—­your kind-hearted, true Whigs! 
Then, shout, &c.

Off the fine Memel timber, we’d take—­if we could—­
All tax, ’cause ’tis used in the palace and hall;
On the cottager’s, tradesman’s coarse Canada wood,
We will clap such a tax as shall pay us for all. 
That’s the “dodge” for your Whigs—­your poor-loving, true Whigs! 
Then, shout, &c.