spirit submitted it to Punch—an evidence of wisdom which we really did not expect from our friend Baron Jamescrow.

We subjoin the introductory epistle—

DEAR PUNCH,—I hasten to forward you the awful letter enclosed—we are all abroad here concerning it—by the bye, how are you all at home—to say the least, it certainly does look very ugly. Mrs. P., I hope, has improved in appearance. Something terrible is evidently about to happen. I intend to pay you a visit shortly. I trust we may not have to encounter any more Guys—you may expect to see me on my Friday. I can only add my prayers for the nation’s safety and my compliments to Mrs. Punch and the young P.s.

Yours ever,
MONTEAGLE.

P.S. Let me have your advice and your last Number immediately I have made a few notes, and paid the postage.

The following is the letter referred to by the Baron Jamescrow:—

MY LORD,—Being known to some of your friends I would advise you, as you tender your peace and quiet, to devise some excuse to shift off your attendance at your house (clearly the House of Lords—Monteagle), for fire and brimstone have united to destroy the enemies of man (evidently gunpowder, lucifer-matches, and the Peers—Monteagle). Think not lightly of my advertisement (see Dispatch), but retire yourself in the country (I should think I would—Monteagle), where you may abide in safety; for though there be no appearance of any punæ; (what the deuce does this mean? Puny’s little—Monteagle), yet they will receive a terrible blow-up (By punæ he means members of Parliament, and he is another Guy!—Monteagle); yet they shall not see who hurts them, though the place shall be purified and the enemy completely destroyed.

I am, your Lordship’s servant,
and destroyer to her Majesty and the two Houses of Parliament.
T.I.F. Fin.

We are surprised at our friend Monteagle troubling us with a matter evidently as plain as the nose on our own face. It requires neither a Solon nor a Punch to solve the enigma. It is merely a letter from Tiffin, the bug destroyer to her Majesty, and refers to his peculiar plan of persecuting the punæ.

We have no doubt that Lords and Commons will be blown up on the re-assembling of Parliament; and as an assurance that we do not speak upon conjecture only, we beg to subjoin a portrait of the delinquent.

THE MODERN GUY VAUX.

THE RIVAL CANDIDATES.

Be not afraid, gentle reader, that, from the title of our present article, we are about to prescribe for you any political draught. No! be assured that we know as little about politics as pyrotechny—that we are as blissfully ignorant of all that relates to the science of government as that of gastronomy—and have ever since our boyhood preferred the solid consistency of gingerbread to the crisp insipidity of parliament. The candidates of whom we write were no would-be senators—no sprouting Ciceros or embryo Demosthenes’—they were no aspirants for the grand honour of representing the honest and independent stocks and stones of some ancient rotten borough, or, what is about the same thing, the enlightened ten-pound voters of some modern reformed one—they were not ambitious of the proud privilege of appending for seven years two letters to their names, and of franking some half-dozen others per diem. No! the rivals who form the theme of our present paper were emulous of obtaining no place in Parliament, but, what is far more desirable, a place in the affections of a lovely maid. They sought not for the suffrages of the unwashed, but for the smiles of a fair one,—they neither desired to be returned as the representative of so many sordid voters for the term of seven years (a term of transportation common alike to M.P.s and pickpockets), but for the more permanent honour of being elected as the partner of a certain lady for life.

Georgiana Gray was the lovely object of the rivalry of the above candidates; and a damsel more eminently qualified to be the innocent cause of contention could not be found within the whole catalogue of those dear destructive little creatures who, from Eve downwards, have always possessed a peculiar patent for mischief-making. Georgiana was as handsome as she was rich. She was, in the superlative sense of the word, a beauty, and—what ought to be written in letters of gold—an heiress. She had the figure of a sylph, and the purse of a nabob. Her face was lovely and animated enough to enrapture a Raffaelle, and her fortune ample enough to captivate a Rothschild. She had a clear rent-roll of 20,000l. per annum,—and a pair of eyes that, independent of her other attractions, were sufficiently fascinating to seduce Diogenes himself into matrimony.

Philosophers generally affirm that the only substance capable of producing a magnetic effect is steel; but had they been witnesses of the great attraction that the fortune of our fair heroine had for its many eager pursuers, they would doubtless have agreed with us that the metal possessing the greatest possible power of magnetism is decidedly—gold. Innumerable were the butterflies that were drawn towards the lustre of the lovely Georgiana’s money; and many a suitor, who set a high value upon his personal qualifications, might be found at her side endeavouring to persuade its pretty possessor of the eligible investment that might be made of the property in himself. Report, however, had invidiously declared that Georgiana looked with a cold and contemptuous eye upon the addresses of all save two.

Augustus Peacock and Julius Candy (this enviable duo) were two such young men as may be met with in herds any fine afternoon publishing their persons to the frequenters of Regent-street. They did credit to their tailors, who were liberal enough to give them credit in return. Their coats were guiltless of a wrinkle, their gloves immaculate in their chastity, and their boots resplendent in their brilliancy. Indeed they were human annuals—splendidly bound, handsomely embellished—but replete with nothing but fashionable frivolities. They never ventured out till such time as they imagined the streets were well-aired, and were never known to indulge in an Havannah till twelve o’clock P.M. They were scrupulous in their attentions to the Opera and the figurantes, and had no objection to wear the chains of matrimony provided the links were made of gold. In fine, they were of that common genus of gentlemen who lounge through life, and leave nothing behind them but a tombstone and a small six-shilling advertisement amongst the Deaths of some morning newspaper as a record of their having existed.

Such were the persons and the qualifications of the gentlemen to whom report had assigned the possession of the hand and fortune of the fair Georgiana Gray. But, happy as they respectively felt to be thus singled out for the proud distinction, still the knowledge of there being a rival in the field to dispute the glories of the conquest materially detracted from that feeling. They had each heard of the pretensions of the other; and while the peace of the one was repeatedly disturbed by the panegyrics of Mr. P., the harmony of the other met with an equal violation from the eulogies of Mr. C.; and although their respective vanities would not allow them to believe that the lady in question could be so deficient in taste as to prefer any other person to their precious selves, still it was but natural that they should neither look upon the other with any other feeling