OWLS THAT IS NOT HORGANS.
Mr. Punch has—need he say it?—the profoundest admiration for the skill and zeal of the great Healers who have conducted H.R.H. the Prince of Wales out of the region of bulletins. But he hopes that should any member of the Royal Family again need medical advice (which good fortune forefend for many a long day), no name belonging to a member of the illustrious trio may be signed to the affiches. It was not for Mr. Punch to complain while bulletins issued, but now all else is happiness, he makes his moan, or rather (as Mr. Roebuck says Birmingham is always doing) makes his howl. How many thousand idiots have sent Mr. Punch jests on the names of the Doctors, he cannot say, but the changes have been rung, ad nauseam, on a "Jennerous diet," a "Lowe fever," a "bird of good omen—a Gull," until——But not one goose was gratified; ha! ha! Fire, not vanity, was fed. Still, Mr. Punch has suffered; and therefore he begs leave to suggest that all the three Doctors be raised to the Peerage. They have richly deserved it, and so has Sir James Paget (whose name happily does not help the small wits); but Mr. Punch's comfort is the thing to be considered. N.B. He likes to give those who are "blest in not being simple men" an occasional peep—as thus—at the circumjacent world of donkeyism.
Mrs. Malaprop has lately been studying Latin, with success. But, as a good Church-woman, she cannot hold with the rule Festina lentè. She disapproves of feasting in Lent.