Master Smith took an airing on the 5th, accompanied by a Guy Fawkes and a very numerous suite.  In the evening there was a select circle, and a bonfire.

Mr. Baron Nathan and family are still at Kennington.  The Baron danced the college hornpipe, last Wednesday, on one leg, before a party of private friends; and the Honourable Miss Nathan went through the Cracovienne, amidst twenty-four coffee-cups and an inverted pitcher, surmounted by a very long champagne-glass.  Upon inspecting the cups after the graceful performance was concluded, there was not a chip upon one of them.  The champagne glass, though it frequently rattled in its perilous position, retained it through the whole of the dance, and was carefully picked up at its conclusion by the Baroness, who we were happy to find looking in more than her usual health, and enjoying her accustomed spirits.

Bill Bunks has a new feline provisional equipage ready to launch.  The body is a dark black, and the wheels are of the same rich colour, slightly picked out here and there with a chalk stripe.  The effect altogether is very light and pretty, particularly as the skewers to be used are all new, and the board upon which the ha’porths are cut has been recently planed with much nicety.

The travelling menagerie at the foot of Waterloo-bridge was visited yesterday by several loungers.  Amongst the noses poked through the wires of the cage, we remarked several belonging to children of the mobility.  The spirited proprietor has added another mouse to his collection, which may now be pronounced the first—­speaking, of course, Surreysideically—­in (entering) London.

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SONGS FOR CATARRHS.

“The variable climate of our native land,” as Rowland the Minstrel of Macassar has elegantly expressed it, like a Roman epicure, deprives our nightingales of their tongues, and the melodious denizens of our drawing-rooms of their “sweet voices.”

Vainly has Crevelli raised a bulwark of lozenges against the Demon of Catarrh!  Soreness will invade the throat, and noses run in every family, seeming to be infected with a sentimental furor for blooming—­we presume from being so newly blown.  We have seen noses chiseled, as it were, from an alabaster block, grow in one short day scarlet as our own, as though they blushed for the continual trouble they were giving their proprietors; whilst the peculiar intonation produced by the conversion of the nasals into liquids, and then of the liquids ultimately into mutes, leads to the inference that there must be a stoppage about the bridge, and should be placarded, like that of Westminster, “No thoroughfare.”