If, in your London rambles, as you seem to be everywhere at once, you pitch upon Manhug, Rapp, or Jones, give my love to them, and tell them to keep their powder dry, and not to think of practising in the country, which is after all a species of social suicide. And with the best compliments of the season to yourself, and "through the medium of the columns of your valuable journal" to your readers, believe me to remain, My dear old bean, Yours very considerably, JOSEPH MUFF. * * * * * THE SECRET SORROW. Oh! let me from the festive board To thee, my mother, flee; And be my secret sorrow shared By thee--by only thee! In vain they spread the glitt'ring store, The rich repast, in vain; Let others seek enjoyment there, To me 'tis only pain. There _was_ a word of kind advice-- A whisper, soft and low; But oh! that _one_ resistless smile! Alas! why was it so? No blame, no blame, my mother dear, Do I impute to _you_. But since I ate that currant tart I don't know what to do! * * * * * [Illustration] PUNCH'S POSTSCRIPT. MR. AUGUSTUS SWIVEL, (_Professor of the Drum and Mouth-organ, and Stage-Manager to_ PUNCH'S _Theatre_,) LOQUITUR. [Illustration: P]PATRONS OF "PUNCH,"--LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,-- We has dropped the curtain and rowled up the baize on the first half-annivel performance of "PUNCH." The pleasing task now dewolves upon me, on behoof of the Lessee and the whole strength off the Puppets, to come forrard and acknowledge the liberal showers of applause and 'apence what a generous and enlightened British public has powered upon the performances and pitched into our goss. Steamilated by this St. Swiffin's of success, the Lessee fearlessly launches his bark upon the high road of public favor, and enters his Theaytre for the grand steeple-chase of general approbation. Ourn hasn't been a bed of roses. We've had our rivals and our troubles. We came out as a great hint, and everybody took us. First and foremost, the great Juggeler in Printing-house Square, walks in like the Sheriff and takes our comic effects. Then the Black Doctor, as blowed the bellows to the late ministerial organ, starts a fantoccini and collars our dialect. Then, the unhappy wight what acts as dry-nuss to his _Grandmother_, finding his writing on the pavement with red and white chalk and sentiment, won't friz,--gives over appealing to the sympathies, kidnaps our comic offspring, and (as our brother dramatist Muster Sheridan says) disfigures 'em to make 'em look like his own. Then, the whole biling of our other hoppositioners who puts their shoulders together, to "hoist up a donkey," tries to ornament their werry wulgar exhibitions with our vitticisms.