Alderman Magnay laid the first shell of an oyster grotto one night this week in the Minories.  There was a large party of boys, who, with the worthy Alderman, repaired to a neighbouring fruit-stall, where the festivity of the occasion was kept up for several minutes.

The New Cut was, as usual, a scene of much animation on Saturday last, and there was rather a more brilliant display than customary of new and elegant baked-potato stands.  The well-known turn-out, with five lanterns and four apertures for the steam, was the general admiration of the host of pedestrians who throng the Cut between the hours of eight and twelve on Saturday.

* * * * *

A BITTER DRAUGHT.

SIR R. PEEL, in the celebrated medicinal metaphor with which he lately favoured his constituents at Tamworth, concludes by stating, “that he really believes he does more than any political physician ever did by referring to the prescriptions which he offered in 1835 and 1840, and by saying that he sees no reason to alter them.”  This is, to carry out the physical figure, only another version of “the mixture as before.”  We are afraid there are no hopes of the patient.

“Why are the Whigs like the toes of a dancing-master?”—­“Because they must be turned out.”

“Why are Colonel Sibthorp and Mr. Peter Borthwick like the covering of the dancing-master’s toes?”—­“Because they are a pair of pumps.”

“Why are the Whigs and Tories like the scarlet fever and the measles?”—­“Because there’s no telling which is the worst.”

* * * * *

A HINT TO THE UGLY.

My uncle Septimus Snagglegrable is no more!  Excellent old man! no one knew his worthiness whilst he was of the living, for every one called him a scoundrel.

It is reserved for me to do justice to his memory, and one short sentence will be sufficient for the purpose—­he has left me five thousand pounds!  I have determined that his benevolence shall not want an imitator, and I have resolved, at a great personal sacrifice, to benefit that portion of my fellow creatures who are denominated ugly.  I am particularly so.  My complexion is a bright snuff-colour; my eyes are grey, and unprotected by the usual verandahs of eye-lashes; my nose is retrousse, and if it has a bridge, it must be of the suspension order, for it is decidedly concave.  I wish Rennie would turn his attention to the state of numerous noses in the metropolis.  I am sure a lucrative company might he established for the purpose of erecting bridges to noses that, like my own, have been unprovided by nature.  I should be happy to become a director. Revenons nous—­my mouth is decidedly large, and my teeth singularly irregular.  My father was violently opposed to Dr. Jenner’s “repeal of the small-pox,"[4] and would not have me vaccinated;