The following Indexes have been compiled by a gentleman who is rather strong in that useful, but much-snubbed and little-read, department of literature. They are intended to keep in countenance the well-known "face," which is said to be "the Index of the Mind." Cold Soup is the Index of a Bad Dinner. A Bang of the door is the Index of a Storm. A "Button off" is the sure Index of a Bachelor. An Irish Debate is the Index of a Row. A Popular Singer is the Index of a Cold. A bright Poker is the Index of a Cold Hearth. A Servant standing at the door is the Index of a Wasteful House. A Shirt with ballet-girls is the Index of "a Gent." The Painted Plate is the Index of the Hired Fly. Duck, or Goose, is the Index of "a Small Glass of Brandy." A Baby is the Index of a Kiss. A Toast (_after dinner_) is the Index of Butter. Cold Meat is, frequently, the Index of a Pudding. A Favour is, more frequently, the Index of Ingratitude. A Governess is the Index of suffering, uncomplaining, Poverty. A Puseyite is the Index of a Roman Catholic. Home is the Index Expurgatorius of Liberty; and lastly, Mismanagement is the Index (at least the only one published yet) of the Catalogue of the British Museum. * * * * * A QUESTION FOR A DEBATING SOCIETY. Whether, in the event of MR. SANDS being subject, like _Amina_, to fits of somnambulism, it would be likely that he would walk in his sleep head downwards with his feet on the ceiling? * * * * * A POPULAR TAX.--If MR. GLADSTONE taxes any kind of license, he ought to tax the license of Counsel. * * * * * A YOUNGER SON.--The Blade of the "Cold Shoulder." * * * * * OUR HONEYMOON. THURSDAY, MAY 23, 18-- "It would be something to say, FRED, that we'd been to France."-- "To be sure," replied FRED. "And yet only to have something to say and nothing to show, is but parrot's vanity." "But that needn't be. We might learn a great deal. And I _should_ like to see Normandy; if only a bit of it. One could fancy the rest, FRED. And then--I've seen 'em in pictures--the women wear such odd caps! And then WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR--papa says _we_ came in with him; so that we were Normans once; that is on papa's side--for mamma won't hear that _she_ had anything to do with it--though papa has often threatened to get his arms. And now I think of it, FRED, what are _your_ arms?" "Don't _you_ know?" asked FRED, puckering his mouth--well, like any bud. "Don't you know?" "No, I don't;" and I bit my lip and _would_ be serious. "What _are_ they?" "It's very odd," said he, "very odd. And _you_ are Normans! To think now, LOTTY, that I should have made you flesh of my flesh, without first learning where that flesh first came from. You must own, my love, it was very careless of me. A man doesn't even buy a horse without a pedigree." (I _did_ look at him!)