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A CLASSICAL INSCRIPTION FOR A CIGAR CASE.

[Greek:  To bakchikhon doraema labe, se gar philo.].—­EURIPIDES.

FREE TRANSLATION.

“Accept this gift of To-Baccha—­cigar fellow.”

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FASHIONS FOR THE PRESENT WEEK.

Though the dog-days have not yet commenced, muzzlin is very general, and a new sort of shally, called shilly-shally, is getting remarkably prevalent. Shots are still considered the greatest hits, for those who are anxious to make a good impression; flounces are out in the morning, and tucks in at dinner-parties, the latter being excessively full, and much sought after.  At conversaziones, puffs are very usual, and sleeves are not so tight as before, to allow of their being laughed in; jewels are not now to be met with in the head, which is left au naturel—­that is to say, as vacant as possible.

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“Why is the Gazette like a Frenchman’s letter?”—­“Because it is full of broken English.”

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BREACH OF PRIVILEGE.

In the strangers’ gallery in the American house of representatives, the following notice is posted up:—­“Gentlemen will be pleased not to place their feet on the boards in front of the gallery, as the dirt from them falls down on the senators’ heads.”  In our English House of Commons, this pleasant penchant for dirt-throwing is practised by the members instead of the strangers.  It is quite amusing to see with what energy O’Connell and Lord Stanley are wont to bespatter and heap dirt on each other’s heads in their legislative squabbles!

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SHOCKING WANT OF SYMPATHY.

Sir Peter Laurie has made a sad complaint to the Lord Mayor, of the slippery state of the wooden pavement in the Poultry, and strongly recommended the immediate removal of the blocks.  This is most barbarous conduct on the part of Sir Peter.  Has he lost all natural affection for his kindred, that he should seek to injure them in public estimation?  Has he no secret sympathy for the poor blocks whom he has traduced?  Let him lay his hand upon his head and confess that—­

  “A fellow feeling; makes us wondrous kind.”

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PUNCH AND PEEL

THE NEW CABINET.

PUNCH.—­Well, Sir Robert, have you yet picked your men?  Come, no mystery between friends.  Besides, consider your obligations to your old crony, Punch.  Do you forget how I stood by you on the Catholic question?  Come, name, name!  Who are to pluck the golden pippins—­who are to smack lips at the golden fish—­who are to chew the fine manchet loaves of Downing-street?