Punch (34.1858)

TT might have been at Freemasonic Hart's—it might have been after earnest diving into Quarter-Maine
Liquor Law—-it might have been during a study of Women of England after Ellis. Never mind that.
; Fahrenheit filled his glass to 90, and Mr. Punch filled his to—but never mind that. It had been a
| very good dinner, and the other noblemen and their ladies had gone out into the balcony.

The foremost man of all this world went to sleep. No. He did not so condescend. Sleep came
to him, gentle, and whispering, and cooing, like a wife who wants an extra cheque. And he slept
pleasantly, as a husband who has promised to draw one.

A. dream came to him. If, beloved, you will only take flounders, and salmon, and eels stewed
i and fried, and sole, and mullet, and lamprey, and whitebait, and trout with Tartar sauce, and ducklings,
and peas, with a few trifles of cream, jellies, and ices, adding strawberries and cherries, casting in sherry ^
hock, Moselle, champagne, and maraschino, and then pouring on claret of the first price, until you go
to sleep, perhaps you may have a dream, too. If you have not, the preliminary process will repay you
—and your host.

And Mr. Punch dreamed that he was Mr. Barey.

And behold, Pollers of the Earth had been turned into quadrupeds, by an elevating and improving
magic, a hint from

" the JEeean bay,
Where Circe dwelt, the daughter of the Day."

And their people brought them to the great Rarey-Punch that he might tame them.

Came prancing in, a haughty black horse, with a red eye, and he tried to trample upon everything
in his way. They called him Corsican. A Newspaper was laid before him, and he stamped it to
atoms, and only to those who approached him on their knees would he be placable. Mr. Punch talked
to him for five minutes, and then Corsican ran playfully about, holding the Cap of Liberty between his teeth,
j He kicked a hole in a drum, and snorted with delight as Mr. P. whistled our National Anthem.

Keys embroidered on his cloth, there entered a sleek, but vicious-looking Italian horse, named
Tiara. His vice, as was explained by one Mazzini, his keeper, was, that having gained your confidence
by apparent good-nature, he would strike out, lame you, and try to roll over you. He had actually