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. READER.--_You_ recollect it, Mr. PUNCH!--_you_ at the court of King David! PUNCH.--I, Mr. Reader, I!--and at every court, from the court of Cain in Mesopotamia to the court of Victoria in this present, flinty-hearted London; only the truth is, as I have travelled I have changed my name. Bless you, half the _Proverbs_ given to Solomon are mine. What I have lost by keeping company with kings, not even Joseph Hume can calculate. READER.--And are you really in court confidence at this moment? PUNCH.--Am I? What! Hav'n't you heard of the elections? Have you not heard the shouts _Io Punch_? Doesn't my nose glow like coral--ar'n't my chops radiant as a rainbow--hath not my hunch gone up at least two inches--am I not, from crown to toe-nails, brightened, sublimated? Like Alexander--he was a particular friend of mine, that same Alexander, and therefore stole many of my best sayings--I only know that I am mortal by two sensations--a yearning for loaves and fishes, and a love for Judy. READER.--And you really take office under Peel? PUNCH.--Ha! ha! ha! A good joke! Peel takes office under _me_. Ha! ha! I'm only thinking what sport I shall have with the bedchamber women. But out they must go. The constitution gives a minister the selection of his own petticoats; and therefore there sha'n't be a yard of Welsh flannel about her Majesty that isn't of my choice. READER.--Do you really think that the royal bedchamber is in fact a third house of Parliament--that the affairs of the state are always to be put in the feminine gender?