A MATTER OF TASTE.

“Do you admire Campbell’s ‘Pleasures of Hope’?” said Croker to Hook. “Which do you mean, the Scotch poet’s or the Irish Chancellor’s? the real or the ideal—Tommy’s four thousand lines or Jocky’s four thousand pounds a-year?” inquired Theodore. Croker has been in a brown study ever since.

CHARLES KEAN’S “CHEEK.”

MR. PUNCH,—Myself and a few other old Etonians have read with inexpressible scorn, disgust, and indignation, the heartless and malignant attempts, in your scoundrel journal, to blast the full-blown fame of that most transcendant actor, and most unexceptionable son, Mr. Charles Kean. Now, PUNCH, fair play is beyond any of the crown jewels. I will advance only one proof, amongst a thousand others that cart-horses sha’n’t draw from me, to show that Charles Kean makes more—mind, I say, makes more—of Shakspere, than every other actor living or dead. Last night I went to the Haymarket—Lady Georgiana L—— and other fine girls were of the party. The play was “Romeo and Juliet,” and there are in that tragedy two slap-up lines; they are, to the best of my recollection, as follow:—