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
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,
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!
 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