PUNCH.—You have been represented as a very noisy and turbulent fellow.
SIB.—Meek as a lamb, my lord, except when I’m on the saw-dust; there I acknowledge, I do crow pretty loudly—but that’s in the way of business,—and your lordship knows that we public jokers must pitch it strong sometimes to make our audience laugh, and bring the browns into the treasury. After all, my lord, I am not the rogue many people take me for,—more the other way, I can assure you, and
“Though to my share some human errors fall,
Look in my face, and you’ll forget them all.”
PUNCH.—A strong appeal, I must confess. You shall have your license.
The successful claimant having made his best bow to Commissioner Punch, withdrew, whistling the national air of
“BRITONS, STRIKE HOME.”
A fellow named Peel, who has been for many years in the habit of exhibiting as a quack-doctor, next applied for liberty to vend his nostrums at the fair. On being questioned as to his qualifications, he shook his head gravely, and, without uttering a word, placed the following card in the hands of Punch.