herewith enriches the world with his Tenth Volume. Writing, quill of an Eagle, which, sympathising with its living parent, continually renews its youth; for it is a "great fact" that PUNCH's quill, cut to the very stump at night, is whole again by the morning; it is not for him to guess, even within a few hundreds, the number of Volumes that Time, his shopman and publisher, will yet distribute to the Universe. All, prophet-like, he knows is-this: so long as English Midsummer and English Christmas endure, so long will a new Tome of PUNCH impart a sweetness and a beauty to the rose of June; endow with brighter greenness the holly of December. Great news this, for the present generation. Happy tidings for a yet unborn world! And while our heart expands with this conviction of typographic Immortality; whilst PUNCH, pitying the ousted mummies of Egyptian Kings, sees himself embalmed in decency for ever in printers' ink; he can afford to be compassionate of the few (the silly few!) who now and then are pleased to croak at him. Small frogs are they; noisiest, too, in dirtiest pools. But as no croaking, be it ever so vehement, can turn the silver moon into a copper pocket-piece, so cannot little frogs in the dregs of ink-bottles bring a shadow on the shining countenance of PUNCH. No: croak as they will, his only revenge shall be to wish them nightingales. |