On Tuesday Charles Mears, I.M., accompanied by Jeremiah Donovan, called at the residence of Paddy Green, Esquire, in Vere-street, to inquire after the health of Master P. Green. Master James Marc Anthony George Finch has succeeded Bill Jenkins as errand-boy at the butter-shop in Great Wild-street. This change had long been expected in the neighbourhood. On Friday Paddy Green, Esquire, did not rise till the evening. A slight disposition to the prevailing epidemic, influenza, is stated to be the cause. He drank copiously of rum-and-water with a piece of butter in it. On Thursday last the lady of Paddy Green, personally attended to the laundry; a fortnight's wash took place, when Mrs. Briggs, the charwoman, was in waiting. Mrs. P. Green, with her accustomed liberality, sent out for a quartern of gin and a quarter of an ounce of brown rappee. Charles Mears, I.M., and Jeremiah Donovan yesterday took a short walk and a short pipe together. It is confidently reported that at the close of the present Covent-Garden season that Mr. Ossian Sniggers will retire from the stage, of which he has been so long a distinguished ornament. We have it from the best authority that he purposes going into the retail coal and tater line. * * * * * LINES ON MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE. _By Sir Lumley Skeffington, Bart._ _Supercelestial_ is the art she practises, Transcending far all other living actresses; Her father's talent--mother's grace--compose This Stephen's figure, with John's Roman nose. * * * * * PUNCH'S LETTER-WRITER. DEAR PUNCH! VENERABLE NOSEY! By the bye, was Publius Ovidius _Nuso_ an ancestor of yours? Talking of ancestors, why do the Ayrshire folks speak of theirs as _four bears_ (forbears), it sounds very ursine. But to our _muttons_, as my old French master used to call it. Do you do anything in the classico-historical line, for the Charivaresque enlightenment of the British public; if so, here is a specimen of a work in that style, "done out of the original:"-- THE DEATH OF CAESAR: A TOUCH OF THE CLASSICAL IN THE VULGAR TONGUE. When he beheld the hand of him he had so loved raised against him, Caesar's heart was filled with anguish, and uttering the deep reproach--"And thou, too, Brutus!" he shrouded his face in his mantle, and fell at the foot of Pompey's statue, covered with wounds. Thus, in the zenith of his glory, perished Caius Julius Caesar, the conqueror of the world, and the eloquent historian of his own exploits; spiflicatus est (says my original), he was done for: he got his gruel, and inserted his pewter in the stucco, B.C. 44.