s 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.

* * * * *

"Why is the _Gazette_ like a Frenchman's letter?"--"Because it is full of
_broken English_."

* * * * *

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!

* * * * *

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."

* * * * *

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?

PEEL.--The truth is, my dear Punch--

PUNCH.--Stop. You may put on that demure look, expand your right-hand
fingers across the region where the courtesy of anatomy awards to
politicians a heart, and talk about truth as a certain old lady with a
paper lanthorn be