LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—­Don’t you know, sir, that poeta nascitur non fit? Is not a judge a judge the moment he applies himself to the seat of justice?

MR. JOBTICKLER.—­Most undoubtedly it is so, my lord, as your lordship is a glorious example, but—­

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—­But me no buts, sir.  I’ll have no allusions made to my person.  What way are the cases on the point you would press on the court?

MR. JOBTICKLER.—­The cases, I am sorry to say, are all in favour of the Peel Place-hunting Company’s proceedings; but the principle, my lord, the principle!

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—­Principle!  What has principle to do with law, Sir?  Really the bar is losing all reverence for authority, all regard for consistency.  I must put a stop to such revolutionary tendencies on the part of gentlemen who practise in my court.  Sit down, sir.

MR. JOBTICKLER.—­May my client have the injunction?

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—­No-o-o-o!  But he shall pay all the costs, and I only wish I could double them for his impertinence.  You, sir, you deserve to be stripped of your gown for insulting the ears of the court with such a motion.

CRIER.—­Any more appeals, causes, or motions, in the Supreme Court of the Lord High Inquisitor Punch, to-day? (A dead silence.)

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR (bowing gracefully to the bar).—­Good morning, gentlemen.  You behold how carefully we fulfil the letter of Magna Charta.

  “Nulli vendemus, nulli negabimus, aut differemus rectum vel
  justitiam.” [Exit.]

CRIER.—­This Court will sit the next time it is the Lord High Inquisitor’s pleasure that it should sit, and at no other period or time.—­God save the Queen!

* * * * *

AN AN-TEA ANACREONTIC.—­No. 3.

[Greek:  EIS LYRAN.]

  Apollo! ere the adverse fates
  Gave thy lyre to Mr. Yates[2],
  I have melted at thy strain
  When Bunn reign’d o’er Drury-lane;
  For the music of thy strings
  Haunts the ear when Romer sings. 
  But to me that voice is mute! 
  Tuneless kettle-drum and flute
  I but hear one liquid lyre—­
  Kettle bubbling on the fire,
  Whizzing, fizzing, steaming out
  Music from its curved spot,
  Wak’ning visions by its song
  Of thy nut-brown streams, Souchong;
  Lumps of crystal saccharine—­
  Liquid pearl distill’d from kine;
  Nymphs whose gentle voices mingle
  With the silver tea-spoons’ jingle! 
  Symposiarch I o’er all preside,
  The Pidding of the fragrant tide. 
  Such the dreams that fancy brings,
  When my tuneful kettle sings!

    [2] This celebrated instrument now crowns the chaste yet elaborate
        front of the Adelphi Theatre, where full-length effigies of Mr.
        and Mrs. Yates may be seen silently inviting the public to walk
        in.