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NOTICE.

The attention of the Public is requested to PUNCHINELLO No. 10, which will be issued upon Thursday, May 26th.  It will be a very brilliant number, illustrated with flights of fancy by ten comic artists.

In PUNCHINELLO No. 11 will be commenced a new burlesque serial, “The Mystery of Mister E. Drood,” written expressly for this paper by the celebrated humorist, ORPHEUS C. KERR.

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[Illustration:  MAKING A HASH OF IT. Customer.  “I THOUGHT YOU HAD A GOOD PLACE WITH MR. ASHE; WHY ARE YOU GOING TO LEAVE?”

Cockney Waiter.  “FACT IS, SIR, HASHE IS IN THE ’ABIT OF MAKING USE OF HODIOUS LANGUAGE TO HIS WAITERS, SIR, AND NO MAN OF HEDUCATION COULD STAND THAT, SIR, YOU KNOW, SIR.”]

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JUMBLES.

MR. PUNCHINELLO, do you know when a woman is perfection itself?  “No.”  I do.  It is when she is from sixteen to nineteen.  Of course you take her judgment.  At sixteen she is the coming flower that has come—­the first Rose of Summer, and about the best that may be looked for.  Her ideas may not be solid, but they are expansive.  Her mind may not make a very great show, but her hair (real and otherwise) is sure to.  She is very deep in love—­with herself.  The supremest divinity is seen when she looks in the mirror.  Call her ARABELLA if you like.  ARABELLA is mistress of that portion of the dictionary which includes the common-place compliments of society.  In her mouth they have a common place, indeed.  Some people call such utterances “stuff,” “nonsense,” “puerilities,” but nobody is so prejudiced and unreliable as the above-named some people.  They complacently think they know a thing or two, but that is all it amounts to.  ARABELLA hasn’t any doubt about her being perfection.  Unfortunately there is a question about some matters in this world in politics, religion, morality and other kindred things, but on the doctrine of perfection, as applied to her individual self, ARABELLA is clear and settled.  Did any body, she says sotto voce, to herself, ever put vision on such an ensemble countenance?  Were eyes ever more sparkling?  Were ever dimples dimpler?  Had ever peach such artistic hue, and teeth such pearly pearliness, and lips such positive sweetness, and brow such loveliness?  We suppose not.  ARABELLA is eighteen, is of elastic notions, sees life as a romance, believes the ground on which she walks ought to be grateful for the honor, and wonders if every body who goes out don’t go straightway to talking rapturously about her.  ARABELLA is a type—­the type of a class of perfectionists.  ARABELLA is neither a worm nor a butterfly, but the bridge between.  For all this ARABELLA believes herself to be the best of butterflies, with the capacity to fly in the highest manner.  At twenty-five her wings will be clipped, her colors will modify, her notions renovate, and her eyes open.  She will perceive that the doctrine of perfection is mythical, and angels upon earth only so in name.