PREFACE TO PUNCH'S SERMONS TO TRADESMEN.

Lyttelton Times, Volume II, Issue 57, 7 February 1852, Page 10 (Supplement)

PREFACE TO PUNCH'S SERMONS TO TRADESMEN.

In our early days of ink-bottle we wrote a little book—a beautiful little book—a beautiful little marrowy book. Is it vanity,'gross selflore, to say so ? May not the parent delight in the memory of his little one, laid years ago within the grave? May not the author, the father of a charming little subject, .decorously dressed in ink and paper, lament the lost beauty

of his offspring dead, ere cutting its teeth, it made the smallest mark in the world ? Having written a dead book, shall the mortal author be denied the consolation of epitaph or monody? We hope not. Any way, it is a sweet consolation to know that no hook dies—whether it just sighs, kicks, and expires in the arms of a review; or drops apoplectic from the press, that somebody is not left behind to weep, aye, to bleed for it. Perhaps the largest, handsomest, and, withal, most inviting cheese and butter shop—with Spanish hams in festoons from the rafters— hams that Sancho might bury his nose and cheeks in, is in No. , in street, as you turn to the left, on your way to the Bank, when proceeding thither to receive your hard-earnt dividend. An admirable shop ! Rabelais would have smacked his lips like a whip, at the sides of bacon crowding the premises. We were sold at the shop. Politely flung into a scale that went to the ground with a growl and a grunt, as, some five hundred copies strong, we suddenly asserted our gravity in the balance.

" Do famous for the pig's cheeks," said the master Butterman, looking down upon the paper that thickly clothed our spiritual intelligence, further arrayed in handsome print. There was scarcely a sentence of that immortal little book—for because it is dead to the world, we believe it to be immortal to future generations,—scarcely a thought, that, as it flashed from its briliant source, we did not con- . skier a spick and span of sunbeam for a benighted and grateful country. How our heart was poured into that book! And the book would be—famous for the pig's cheeks. We were taken to a warehouse, or rather a bone-house, reaching far and darkly from the back shop. The place was cold and damp, with a sickening smell of mildew. After a short time, so low, miserable, and degraded did we feel, that the prospect of being again restored for a while to society, even in the company of pig's cheeks,'brought a cheery sense of holiday with it. We remembered that pet crocodiles, sacred sinecurists of certain temples, were wont to carry precious jewels at their ears. Well, then, we would be content to enfold, with intellectual glory, a pig's cheek. Yet awhile, and we discovered that we lay in the literary dead house; an off-tenement appertaining to the butter shop. As we became accustomed to the gloom, we distinguished to our astonishment, and—no, we will not suppress the malice of the truth—to our consolation, that we had for companions many printed reams, avowedly produced to flutter in the highest circles, and bask in the most fashionable drawingrooms. Why, there was—but no, we will not name names; and yet to think that his leaves, especially made to be rustled by, at least, a princess, should, like our swinish"selves, finally associate with a pig's cheek! * Time wore on; and it struck, of course, twelve. It was legitimate midnight; and it seemed to us that, just as exhalations and Jacket -Lanterns arise from marsh and swamp, and flicker from bog to bog—so did lights of all hues, lights without destroying heat, arise from every heap of paper. The ink—the printer's ink—seemed to us to undergo spontaneous combustion, and to burn the colour of the mind of the writer.

But the strongest and most vivid fires arose from some fifty old ledgers lying scattered in a corner. Some lines burned"'brimstone blueothers blood red ; whilst the figures, still keeping their numeral shape, twisted and moved like fiery snakes of all colours. A few minutes, and as though the thing grew into form from the exhalations of the led»er page, a little imp sat upon every book ; an imp. with avarice, craft, and cruelty, in his metalcoloured lace ; that would now" look like a shilling, now grow into a sovereign, now shrink into a four-penny bit; and now swell to a coarse, copper penny-piece. Imps of all trades were there. The BakerImp who grinds his alum to make his bread ; and selling the staff of life, makes the staff carry a mischievous weapon for the bowel of him who trusts to it. The Grocer-Imp who enriches his chocolate with brick-dust: and with a morning draught conveys the materials of a vault. The Milkman-Tmp with chalk against his customer, and chalk inside him. 1 he Confectioner-Imp, who paints Twelfth Cakes with Emerald Green (a beautiful change tor coppers, in an arsentie development) and—