QUESTION BY LADY BLESSINGTON, “When is a lady’s neck not a neck?” ANSWER BY LADY MORGAN. “For shame now!—When it is a little bare (bear), I suppose.” A SPEECH FROM THE HUSTINGS. The following is a correct report of a speech made by one of the candidates at a recent election in the north of England. THOMAS SMITH, Esq., then presented himself, and said—“ * * * * * * * * crisis * * * * * * * * * * * * * important dreadful * * * * * industry * * * * * * enemies * * slaves * * independence * * * * * * freedom * * * * * firmly * * * * gloriously * * * * contested * * * * * * support * * * * victory, Hurrah!——” Mr. Smith then sat down; but we regret that the uproar which prevailed, prevents us giving a fuller report of his very eloquent and impressive speech. FASHIONABLE MOVEMENTS. COUNT D’ORSAY declares that no gentleman having the slightest pretensions to fashionable consideration can be seen out of doors except on a Sunday, as on that day bailiffs and other low people keep at home. EPIGRAM ON A VERY LARGE WOMAN. “All flesh is grass,” so do the Scriptures say; But grass, when cut and dried, is turned to hay; Then, lo; if Death to thee his scythe should take, God bless us! what a haycock thou wouldst make. An author that lived somewhere has such a brilliant wit, that he contracted to light the parish with it, and did it. “Our church clock,” say the editors of a down-cast paper, “keeps time so well that we get a day out of every week by it.” A man in Kentucky has a horse which is so slow, that his hind legs always get first to his journey’s end. PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. [pg 25] JULY 31, 1841. POETRY ON AN IMPROVED PRINCIPLE. Let me earnestly implore you, good Mr. PUNCH, to give publicity to a new invention in the art of poetry, which I desire only to claim the merit of having discovered. I am perfectly willing to permit others to improve upon it, and to bring it to that perfection of which I am delightedly aware, it is susceptible. It is sometimes lamented that the taste for poetry is on the decline—that it is no longer relished—that the public will never again purchase it as a luxury. But it must be some consolation to our modern poets to know (as no doubt they do, for it is by this time notorious) that their productions really do a vast deal of service—that they are of a value for which they were never designed. They—I mean many of them—have found their way into the pharmacopoeia, and are constantly prescribed by physicians as soporifics of rare potency. For instance— “—— not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world. Shall ever usher thee to that sweet sleep”