_Strephon._ I made that stately dowager jump, She leapt to one side, and puffed! _Phyllis._ That leisurely cur, I'm inclined to infer, To-morrow will go to be stuffed! _Both._ So side by side we merrily ride, And scatter the murmuring throng, Who think the police should compel us to cease, And mournfully ask, "How long?" * * * * * JUST A LITTLE TOO MUCH.--When a parliamentary candidate or popular Member is received with a torchlight procession, it is almost unnecessary for his constituents to present him, on a dark night, with "an illuminated address." * * * * * THE FRENCH AMNESTY. _Bruxelles, le 31. Janvier._ MONSIEUR,--I write to you, _M. Punch_, these some words, which I essay to write in english. I come of to receive--how say you _la nouvelle?_--the new of the amnesty in France. The government which banished the descendant of the great NAPOLÉON has recalled some exileds. But he has not recalled me, _ce gouvernement infâme!_ He has left to languish the heir of the crown imperial in this droll of little town. _Nom d'une pipe, quelle ville! Rien qu'un Palais de Justice et quelques rues désertes!_ But I go to write in english. I rest here, at five hours of Paris, alldays ready, alldays vigilant. _Mais que c'est triste!_ _Tiens_, it is not perhaps so sad as that--how write you the name?--that Stove, in your _département_ of the Bukkinhammshir. At least one speak french in this country. It is not the french of Paris, or the french of Touraine, but all of same it values better than english--a language so difficult. Thus I rest here, I walk myself to horse in their Wood of Cambre, I visit of time in time the Palace of Justice and Ste. Gudule, _et voilà c'est fini!_ Then I recommence and I see, _encore une fois_, the _Bois_, the _Palais_, and the _Cathédrale_. I go not to Waterloo, for people say my Great Ancestor there was conquered by your Duc of WELINTONG. One has wrong, the historians have wrong, _mais enfin, que faire?_ I may not to write the history of new. _A l'avenir nous verrons. En attendant j'attends._ And I stand, like my Great Ancestor, the arms folded, and frown towards the frontier of the France, _la patrie ingrate_. It is a fine attitude, and I study it all the days. _Agréez, &c._ N. _Stowe, the 31. January._