MONTEAGLE.

    P.S.  Let me have your advice and your last Number immediately I
    have made a few notes, and paid the postage.

The following is the letter referred to by the Baron Jamescrow:—­

MY LORD,—­Being known to some of your friends I would advise you, as you tender your peace and quiet, to devise some excuse to shift off your attendance at your house (clearly the House of Lords—­Monteagle), for fire and brimstone have united to destroy the enemies of man (evidently gunpowder, lucifer-matches, and the Peers—­Monteagle).  Think not lightly of my advertisement (see Dispatch), but retire yourself in the country (I should think I would—­Monteagle), where you may abide in safety; for though there be no appearance of any punae; (what the deuce does this mean?  Puny’s little—­Monteagle), yet they will receive a terrible blow-up (By punae he means members of Parliament, and he is another Guy!—­Monteagle); yet they shall not see who hurts them, though the place shall be purified and the enemy completely destroyed.

    I am, your Lordship’s servant,

    and destroyer to her Majesty and the two Houses of Parliament.

    T.I.F.  Fin.

We are surprised at our friend Monteagle troubling us with a matter evidently as plain as the nose on our own face.  It requires neither a Solon nor a Punch to solve the enigma.  It is merely a letter from Tiffin, the bug destroyer to her Majesty, and refers to his peculiar plan of persecuting the punae.

We have no doubt that Lords and Commons will be blown up on the re-assembling of Parliament; and as an assurance that we do not speak upon conjecture only, we beg to subjoin a portrait of the delinquent.

[Illustration:  THE MODERN GUY VAUX.]

* * * * *

THE RIVAL CANDIDATES.

Be not afraid, gentle reader, that, from the title of our present article, we are about to prescribe for you any political draught.  No! be assured that we know as little about politics as pyrotechny—­that we are as blissfully ignorant of all that relates to the science of government as that of gastronomy—­and have ever since our boyhood preferred the solid consistency of gingerbread to the crisp insipidity of parliament.  The candidates of whom we write were no would-be senators—­no sprouting Ciceros or embryo Demosthenes’—­they were no aspirants for the grand honour of representing the honest and independent stocks and stones of some ancient rotten borough, or, what is about the same thing, the enlightened ten-pound voters of some modern reformed one—­they were not ambitious of the proud privilege of appending for seven years two letters to their names, and of franking some half-dozen others per diem.  No! the rivals who form the theme of our present paper were emulous of obtaining