How much, then, are we indebted to our cooks! those perspiring professors of gastronomy and their valuable assistants—the industrious scullery-maids. Let not the Melbourne opposition to this meritorious class, be supported by the nation at large; for England would soon cease to occupy her present proud pre-eminence, did her rulers, her patriots, and her heroes, sit down to cold mutton, or the villanously dressed “joints ready from 12 to 5.” Justice is said to be the foundation of all national prosperity—we contend that it is repletion—that Mr. Toole, the toast-master, is the only embodiment of fame, and that true glory consists of a gratuitous participation in “Three courses and a dessert!” INQUEST—NOT EXTRAORDINARY. Great Bulwer’s works fell on Miss Basbleu’s head. And, in a moment, lo! the maid was dead! A jury sat, and found the verdict plain— “She died of milk and water on the brain.” [pg 79] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—NO. VII. A man gives a smaller man a haircut. TRIMMING A W(H)IG. [pg 81] NAPOLEON’S STATUE AT BOULOGNE. [The bronze statue of Napoleon which was last placed on the summit of the grand column at Boulogne with extraordinary ceremony, has been turned, by design or accident, with its back to England.] Upon its lofty column’s stand, Napoleon takes his place; His back still turned upon that land That never saw his face. THE HIEROGLYPHIC DECIPHERED. The letters V.P.W. scratched by some person on the brow of the statue of Napoleon while it lay on the ground beside the column, which were supposed to stand for the insulting words Vaincu par Wellington, have given great offence to the French. We have authority for contradicting this unjust explanation. The letters are the work of an ambitious Common Councilman of Portsoken Ward, who, wishing to associate himself with the great Napoleon, scratched on the bronze the initials of his name—V.P.W.—VILLIAM PAUL WENABLES. SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—NO. 5. “O fly with me, lady, my gallant destrere Is as true as the brand by my side; Through flood and o’er moorland his master he’ll bear, With the maiden he seeks for a bride.” This, this was the theme of the troubadour’s lay, And thus did the lady reply:— “Sir knight, ere I trust thee, look hither and say, Do you see any green in my eye?” “O, doubt me not, lady, my lance shall maintain That thou’rt peerless in beauty and fame; And the bravest should eat of the dust of the plain, Who would quaff not a cup to thy name.” “I doubt not thy prowess in list or in fray, For none dare thy courage belie; And I’ll trust thee, though kindred and priest say me nay— When you see any green in my eye!”