The two were dare-devils. They held between them just about 25 pounds. A meagre sum, considering the challenge they had resolved to take on. But it did not deter them. Landells insisted that they would come up with a publication that would be "less bitter than other British comic publications and of a higher literary standard." Mayhew agreed on the need to add punch to British humour and pitched on the title Punch for the magazine. The two added the subtitle, London’s Charivari, clearly indicating the objective of the magazine to draw mirth and merriment all around by taking potshots at one and all, especially the leaders of society. The magazine set out to conquer the world, armed with the prickly lance of humour under the editorship of Mark Lemon, who had burnt his fingers running a London pub, and decided that the pen could be the tool to decoct the spirit he wished to serve to the people.

The first issue appeared on July 17, 1841.

It did not set the Thames on fire. Initially there was some enthusiasm, marked more by curiosity than by genuine support. This did not last long. Circulation didn’t spiral upwards by leaps and bounds. It remained almost stagnant. Funds were hard to come by. It looked as if Punch would add to the records of infant mortality that nagged several new publications. The future looked grim.

Grim situations demand unusual steps. Mark Lemon suggested to Landells and Mayhew that they risk their all and bring out a big annual issue titled Almanack. It was a gamble. If it failed to take off, they would go bust. Their gamble paid off. About 90,000 copies were sold soon after it appeared. That was the moment when Punch truly arrived.

Not that circulation peaked dramatically. It limped on, swinging from one financial crisis to another, till it was taken over by the Bradbury and Evans, later renamed Bradbury and Agnew. Under the new management, the magazine thrived and became the epicentre of the best of humour, conveyed through fine words and finer cartoons, week after week. The failings and foibles of the leaders of society came in for lampooning. The best of wits (among them Thackeray, Wodehouse, Milne and Muggeridge), flocked to parade their wares in the magazine. The finest cartoonists like Tenniel, du Maurier. Bateman, Emmett and Heath presented their work through it.

Thanks to such rich talent to draw upon, the magazine could bring out the oddities and idiosyncracies of well-known people with tongue-in-cheek insouciance and whipped up laughter all around. The frothy, frisky touch of humour gave a distinct flavour to Punch. (This is distinctly carried by Thomas Hood’s "Song of the Shirt", which moved people’s consciences over sweated labour). Later, three great humour classics of English literature, including The Diary of Nobody, 1066 and All That and Down with School, appeared in the magazine.

Sweet indeed was the smell of public approval. The magazine rode the crest of success up to the mid 1940s. The circulation rose to 1,75,000. It looked as if the magazine would scale new heights of glory. Nobody sensed that this was the final flash in the pan.

The end of the Second World War marked a change in the composition and attitude of society. Social differences blurred. Nobility fell into bad days. A new class of entrepreneurs surfaced. They held more economic power than the conventional rich. Jokes about class and social differences became less relevant. Laughing at the poor or sneering at colour began to be considered petty piffle unworthy of a civilised society.

Malcolm Muggeridge took over as the Editor in 1952. He had the right qualifications to lead the magazine. He had a good sense of social history, a clear eye on social change. He was expected to inject dynamism into the magazine. "Unfortunately," says W.F. Deedes, a keen observer of the fortunes of Punch, "Muggeridge was a satirist. A satirist let loose on a humorous magazine is risky. Punch’s loyal readers rapidly found themselves outwitted. And when Muggeridge went so far as to satirise Churchill, for whom he had no very high regard, they were enraged."

This appears too simplistic a response to the faltering fortunes of Punch. Not even Muggeridge, despite his talent, could have done Punch in. The rot that set in had its roots in the change in the attitude and reflexes of British society. Punch tried to keep up with the times, but failed. The management revolted against the idea of turning away from the essential character of the magazine. It would have totally destroyed its character, reduced it to the levels of a caricature of the newly emerging humour magazines like Viz and Private Eye. By refusing to be reduced to a caricature, Punch maintained its dignity. But this cost the magazine heavily.

Circulation began to dip. The losses mounted. Finally, the magazine was up for grabs. United Newspapers bought the magazine from Bradbury and Agnew in 1969. Much hype followed. Three editors came and went. But Punch never regained its glory. For about 25 years, the magazine limped on. Finally, hit by heavy loss, United decided to suspend publication in 1992.

It looked, then, as if Punch had gone the way of the Dodo. But interest in the magazine revived when Al Fayed, the Egyptian multi-millionaire and owner of London’s Harrods Departmental store, stepped in. He pumped in 40,000 pounds per issue and kept Punch alive. But it failed to breathe strength into Punch. All the gimmicks and ad campaigns could not make a dent into public indifference to Punch. It had outlived its times.

That message has now been read by Al Fayed. He has decided to remove the life-supporting funds that kept Punch alive for nearly six year.

The disappearance of Punch marks the end of yet another link with the Victorian era.

Mark Lemon’s editorial in Punch’s first ever edition declared its goal, "Punch hangs the devil". Today devil has hanged Punch.