Punch, or The London Charivari

of about sixty-four, with light brown hair, rather curly, a wig, say his detractors, but I can't make my mind up about it yet, as I haven't been able to study him closely with his hat off. His head is large, face a cross between J.L. TOOLE's and DIZZY's without the goatee. Always wears a frock-coat of best broadcloth, and an immense top-hat. Has one curiously protruding tooth which fascinates me, and makes my attention wander when he's telling me his anecdotes. I keep wondering how it ever got into that strange position--a sort of dental rocking-stone, weird, solitary, inexplicable. Everybody knows him, as he represents the St. Mark's Ward (which we are canvassing) in the Council. The flourish with which he always introduces me is wonderful. I might be an Emperor honouring the place with a visit. But the people take it all as a matter of course, and seem pleased to see us. They don't care twopence about real political questions in the back-streets. They mostly say, "My father was a Blue and his father afore '