His Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex has, in the most unequivocal manner, expressed his opinion on the state of the weather—­which he pronounces to be hot! hot! all hot!

* * * * *

A SINGULAR INADVERTENCE.

A good deal of merriment was caused in the House of Commons, by Mr. Bernal and Commodore Napier addressing the members as “gentlemen.”  This may be excusable in young members, but the oldest parliamentary reporter has no recollection of the term being used by any one who had sat a session in the House.  “Too much familiarity,” &c.

* * * * *

PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS—­No.  VIII.

[Illustration:  THE LETTER OF INTRODUCTION.]

* * * * *

THE MINISTRY’S ODE TO THE PASSIONS.

NOT BY COLLINS.

  When the Whig Ministry had run,
  Nor left behind a mother’s son,
  The Tories, at their leader’s call,
  Came thronging round him, one and all,
  Exulting, braying, cringing, coaxing,
  Expert at humbugging and hoaxing;
  By turns they felt an honest zeal
  For private good and public weal;
  Till all at once they raised such yells,
  As rung in Apsley House the bells: 
  And as they sought snug berths to get
  In Bobby Peel’s new cabinet,
  Each, for interest ruled the hour,
  Would prove his taste for place and power.

  First Follett’s hand, his skill to try,
    Upon the seals bewilder’d laid;
  But back recoil’d—­he scarce knew why—­
    Of Lyndhurst’s angry scowl afraid.

  Next Stanley rush’d with frenzied air;
    His eager haste brook’d no delay: 
  He rudely seized the Foreign chair,
    And bade poor Cupid trudge away.

  With woeful visage Melbourne sate—­
    A pint of double X his grief beguiled;
  And inly pondering o’er his fate,
    He bade th’ attendant pot-boy “draw it mild.”

  But thou, Sir Jamie Graham—­prig;
    What was thy delighted musing? 
  Now accepting, now refusing,
  Till on the Admiralty pitch’d,
    Still would that thought his speech prolong;
  To gain the place for which he long had itch’d,
    He call’d on Bobby still through all the song;
  But ever as his sweetest theme he chose,
  A sovereign’s golden chink was heard at every close,
  And Pollock grimly smiled, and shook his powder’d wig.

  And longer had he droned—­but, with a frown
          Brougham impatient rose;
  He threw the bench of snoring bishops down,
          And, with a withering look,
          The Whig-denouncing trumpet took,
  And made a speech so fierce and true,
  Thrashing, with might and main, both friend and foe;
          And ever and anon he beat,