staybill, (Exkews the wulgarisrm.) After Missus, I give persedince to Mr. Ahghustuss, who, bean the only sun in the house, is natrally looked up to by everybody in it.  He as bean brot up a perfick genelman, at Oxfut, and is consekently fond of spending his knights in le trou de charbon, and afterwards of skewering the streets—­twisting double knockers, pulling singlebelles, and indulging in other fashonable divertions, to wich the low-minded polease, and the settin madgistrets have strong objexions.  His Pa allows him only sicks hundred a-year, wich isn’t above 1/2 enuff to keep a cabb, a cupple of hosses, and other thinks, which it’s not necessary to elude to here.  Isn’t it ogious to curb so fine a spirit?  I wish you see him, Pa; such i’s, and such a pear of beutyful black musquitoes on his lip—­enuff to turn the hidds of all the wimming he meats.  The other membranes of this fammaly are the 3 dorters—­Miss Sofiar, Miss Selinar, and Miss Jorgina, wich are all young ladyes, full groan, and goes in public characters to the Kaledonian bawls, and is likewise angxious to get off hands as soon as a feverable opportunity hoffers.  It’s beleaved the old guv’nor can give them ten thowsand lbs. a-peace, wich of coarse will have great weight with a husband.  There’s some Qrious stoaries going—­Law! there’s Missuses bell.  I must run up-stairs, so must conclewd obroply, but hope to resoom my pen necks weak.

Believe me, my dear Pa,
Your affeckshnt
JULIA PUNCH.

* * * * *

CHARACTERISTIC CORRESPONDENCE.

The following notes actually passed between two (now) celebrated comedians:—­

Dear J——­, Send me a shilling. 
Yours, B——­,
P.S.—­On second thoughts, make it two.

To which his friend replied—­

Dear B——­, I have but one shilling in the world. 
Yours, J——­,
P.S.—­On second thoughts, I want that for dinner.

* * * * *

A young artist in Picayune takes such perfect likenesses, that a lady married the portrait of her lover instead of the original.

* * * * *

PUNCH AND PEEL.

Arcades ambo.

READER.—­God bless us, Mr. PUNCH! who is that tall, fair-haired, somewhat parrot-faced gentleman, smiling like a schoolboy over a mess of treacle, and now kissing the tips of his five fingers as gingerly as if he were doomed to kiss a nettle?

PUNCH.—­That, Mr. Reader, is the great cotton-plant, Sir Robert Peel; and at this moment he has, in his own conceit, seized upon “the white wonder” of Victoria’s hand, and is kissing it with Saint James’s devotion.

READER.—­What for, Mr. PUNCH?

PUNCH.—­What for!  At court, Mr. Reader, you always kiss when you obtain an honour.  ’Tis a very old fashion, sir—­old as the court of King David.  Well do I recollect what a smack Uriah gave to his majesty when he was appointed to the post which made Bathsheba a widow.  Poor Uriah! as we say of the stag, that was when his horns were in the velvet.