ESSAY II.—­“On the Science of Governing, or how to do the utmost possible good for ourselves in the shortest possible time, under the name of our altars, and our throne, and everybody that is good and wise.”  By SIR ROBERT PEEL.

We are quite unable to enter into a review of these very costly productions, an estimate of the value of which the public will be sure to receive from “authority,” and be required to meet the amount, not only with cheerful loyalty, but a more weighty and less noisy acknowledgment.

As to the Prize, it has been adjudged by PUNCH to be divided equally between the two illustrious essayists; to the one, in virtue of his incorrigible laziness, and to the other, in honour of his audacious rapacity.

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TO THE LAUGHTER-LOVING PUBLIC.

PUNCH begs to inform the inhabitants of Great Britain, Ireland, and the Isle of Dogs, that he has just opened on an entirely new line, an Universal Comic Railroad, and Cosmopolitan Pleasure Van for the transmission of bon mots, puns, witticisms, humorous passengers, and queer figures, to every part of the world.  The engines have been constructed on the most laughable principles, and being on the high-pressure principle, the manager has provided a vast number of patent anti-explosive fun-belts, to secure his passengers against the danger of suddenly bursting.

The train starts every Saturday morning, under the guidance of an experienced punster.  The departure of the train is always attended with immense laughter, and a tremendous rush to the booking-office.  PUNCH, therefore, requests those who purpose taking places to apply early, as there will be no

[Illustration:  RESERVED SEATS!]

N.B.—­Light jokes booked, and forwarded free of expense.  Heavy articles not admitted at any price.

*** Wanted an epigrammatic porter, who can carry on a smart dialogue, and occasionally deliver light jokes.

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CHANT.

TO OLD FATHER TIME.

Time—­old Time—­whither away? 
Linger a moment with us, I pray;
Too soon thou spreadest thy wings for flight;
Dip, boy, dip
In the bowl thy lip,
And be jolly, old Time, with us to-night. 
Dip, dip, &c.

Time—­old Time—­thy scythe fling down;
Garland thy pate with a myrtle crown,
And fill thy goblet with rosy wine;—­
Fill, fill up,
The joy-giving cup,
Till it foams and flows o’er the brim like mine. 
Fill, fill, &c.

Time—­old Time—­sighing is vain,
Pleasure from thee not a moment can gain;
Fly, old greybeard, but leave us your glass
To fill as we please,
And drink at our ease,
And count by our brimmers the hours as they pass.

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