Mr. D’ISRAELI then rose, and said,—“Chair, and brethren of the quill, I feel, in assuming the perpendicular, like the sun when sinking into his emerald bed of western waters. Overcome by emotions mighty as the impalpable beams of the harmonious moon’s declining light, and forcibly impressed as the trembling oak, girt with the invisible arms of the gentle loving zephyr; the blush mantles on my cheek, deep as the unfathomed depths of the azure ocean. I say, gentlemen, impressed as I am with a sense—with a sense, I say, with a sense—” Here the hon. gentleman sat down for want of a termination.

Song—“No more shall the children of Judah sing.”

Mr. PETER BORTHWICK (having corked himself a handsome pair of mustachios), next rose, and said,—“Most potent, grave, and reverend signors, and Mr. Chairman,—if it were done, when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly’—in rising to drink—‘my custom always of an afternoon’—the health of Sir Peter Laurie, and whom I can ask, in the language of the immortal bard, ‘where gottest thou that goose look,’ I can only say, ‘had Heaven made me such another,’ I would not”— Then Peter Borthwick sat down, evidently indisposed, exclaiming—“The drink, Hamlet, the drink!!!”

Here our reporter left the meeting, who were vociferously chanting, by way of grace, previous to the attack on the “roast geese,” the characteristic anthem of the “King of the Cannibal Islands.”

DYER IGNORANCE.

It has been rumoured that Mr. Bernal, the new member, has been for some weeks past suffering from a severe attack of scarlet fever, caused by his late unparliamentary conduct in addressing the assembled legislators as—gentlemen. We are credibly informed that this unprecedented piece of ignorance has had the effect, as Shakspere says, of

“MAKING THE GREEN ONE RED.”—Macbeth.

MAKING A COMPOSITION WITH ONE’S ANCESTORS.

Roebuck, the ex-attorney, and member for Bath, who has evinced a most commendable love of his parents, from his great-grandfather upwards, seeing the utter impossibility of carrying through the “whole hog” conviction of their respectability, and finding himself in rather an awkward “fix,” on the present occasion begs to inform the editor of the Times, that he will be most happy to accept a compromise, on their literary and scientific attainments, at the very reasonable rate of

SIX-AND-EIGHTPENCE IN THE POUND.

PUNCH’S HISTRIONIC READINGS IN HISTORY.

NO. 1.—ENGLAND.

Of the early history of England nothing is known. It was, however, invaded by the Normans; but whether they were any relations of the once celebrated Norman the pantaloon, we have no authentic record. The kingdom had at one time seven kings—two of whom were probably the two well-known kings of Brentford. Perhaps, also, the king of Little Britain made a third; while old king Cole may have constituted a fourth; thus leaving only a trifling balance of three to be accounted for.

Alfred the Great is supposed to have been originally a baker, from his having undertaken the task of watching the cakes in the neat-herd’s oven; and Edward the Black Prince was probably a West Indian, who found his way to our hospitable shores at an early period.

We now come to King John, who ascended the throne after putting out his nephew’s eyes with a pair of curling-irons, and who is the first English Sovereign who attempted to write his own name; for the scrawl is evidently something more than his mark, which is attached to Magna Charta.

We need say nothing of Richard the Third, with whom all our play-going friends are familiar, and who made the disgraceful offer, if Shakspeare is to be believed, of parting with the whole kingdom for a horse, though it does not appear that the disreputable bargain was ever completed.

The wars of York and Lancaster, which, though not exactly couleur de rose, were on the subject of white and red roses (that is to say, China and cabbage), united the crown in the person of Henry the Seventh, known to the play-going public as the Duke of Richmond, and remarkable for having entered the country by the Lincolnshire fens; for he talks of having got into “the bowels of the land” immediately on his arrival.

Henry the Eighth, as everybody knows, was the husband of seven wives, and gave to Mr. Almar (the Sadler’s Wells Stephens) the idea of his beautiful dramatic poem of the Wife of Seven Husbands.

Elizabeth’s reign is remarkable for having produced a mantle which is worn at the present day, it having been originally made for one Shakspeare; but it is now worn by Mr. George Stephens, for whom, however, it is a palpable misfit, and it sits upon him most awkwardly.

Charles the First had his head cut off, and Mr. Cathcart acted him so naturally in Miss Mitford’s play that one would have thought the monarch was entirely without a head all through the tragedy.

Cromwell next obtained the chief authority. This man was a brewer, who did not think “small beer” of himself, and inundated his country with “heavy wet,” in the shape of tears, for a long period.

Charles the Second, well known as the merry monarch, is remarkable only for his profligacy, and for the number of very bad farces in which he has been the principal character. His brother James had a short reign, but not a merry one. He is the only English sovereign who may be said to have amputated his bludgeon; which, if we were speaking of an ordinary man and not a monarch, we should have rendered by the familiar phrase of “cut his stick,” a process which was soon performed by his majesty.

The crown now devolved upon William and Mary, upon whom half-a crown a-piece was thus settled by the liberality of Parliament. William was Prince of Orange, a descendant probably of the great King Pippin.

Anne of Denmark comes next on our list, but of her we shall say nothing; and as the Georges who followed her are so near own time, we shall observe, with regard to them, an equally impenetrable mystery.

WAR TO THE NAIL.

The British Critic, the high church, in fact, steeple Tory journal, tells its readers, “if we strike out the first person of Robert’s speeches, ay, out of his whole career, they become a rope untwisted,” &c. &c. &c. This excited old lady is evidently anxious to disfigure the head of the government, by scratching Sir Robert Peel’s I’s out.

MOLAR AND INCISOR.

Muntz, in rigging Wakley upon the late article in the Examiner, likening the member for Finsbury, in his connexion with Sir Robert Peel, “to the bird which exists by picking the crocodile’s teeth,” jocularly remarked, “Well, I never had any body to pick my teeth.” “I should think not, or they would have chosen a much better set.”

TWENTY POUNDS.

READER, did you ever want twenty pounds? You have—you have!—I see it—I know it! Nay, never blush! Your hand—your hand!

READER.—Sir, I—

Silence!—nonsense—stuff; don’t, don’t prevaricate—own it as I do,—own it and rejoice.

READER.—Really, sir,