acts, in which the conspirators come to grief, and the empire is reëstablished. We shall read all about it in the cable dispatches a few months hence. Good Heavens! who can listen calmly to the speeches of the players, while the grandest drama of the century is acting across the sea, where a mad populace, freed from the firm grasp of its master, breaks windows and howls itself hoarse as the best preparations for holding the fairest of cities against the resistless veterans of VON MOLTKE.

MATADOR.

Insurrectionary.

PUNCHINELLO, pondering over the vast sums that have been forwarded to Cuba, in aid of the insurrectionary movements there, and struck with the disadvantages under which the promoters of liberty labor in that sunny isle, blesses his stars that, thanks to the enterprise of Miss SUSAN B. ANTHONY, he can raise a Revolution in New York City, at any time, for ten cents. Let those whom it may concern take heed.

Bluff King Bill.

L.N. declared his determination to kick old King BILLY, of Prussia, off from French territory. Well, it would only have been a new illustration of "footing the Bill."

Query.

As soon as the abominable fat-boiling nuisances have been abolished, will it be right to say that they have fallen into de-suet-ude?

A Seasonable Conundrum.

Why is New York City like the ex-Emperor of the French? Because it has just got rid of its Census.

A Suggestion.

In consideration of the splendid jewels worn by him, might not Colonel JIM FISK be more appropriately called Colonel GEM FISK.

THE SPIRIT OF THE WAR.

A Sketch In the Bowery.

Small Frenchman. "WHAT FOR YOU HIT ME WITH YOUR DAMBABY VEN YOU PASS?"

Big German. "WANTS TO FIGHT?—DINKS YOU CAN WHIP ME, EH?"

Small Frenchman. "NO—BUT I CAN GIVE YOUR DAMBABY ONE BLACK EYE!"

BY GEORGE!

LAKE GEORGE, August 30.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO:—I arrived here last Saturday, and as I would be the last person to allow a commendable enterprise to languish for want of proper encouragement, and in order to put the Hotel proprietors out of suspense, I thought I would let you know without further delay that I consider Lake George a success.

Not being expected, as I supposed, I must admit I was somewhat gratified to find a full band playing on the veranda as the coach I was in drove up.

It was a sort of delicate attention, you know.

I notice, however, that they continue playing in the afternoon since then, I suppose it struck them as a good idea at the time.

The Fort William Henry Hotel is a gorgeous affair in every respect. It is situated very near the old original Fort, just where the French troops advanced to capture it, and made their celebrated charges.

Perhaps the present proprietor can't discount them at that sort of thing.

Perhaps not!

Looking over one's bills reminds you a good deal of the Police Courts, five dollars fine, twenty-five dollars costs.

The costs they make here are very good, however, altho' they do put a little too much mint in them, I must say.

L.G. is all right, though. It is supplied with all the modern conveniences. It isn't within five minutes walk of the post office, but its water conveniences are apparent to all. There is no end to its belles, and as for its ranges, it has two of them—both Adirondacks.

Yesterday I took a trip up the Lake and across to its neighbor, Champlain.

Everybody takes this trip because its "the thing," and it is therefore particularly necessary to take it. Ostensibly, you go to view the scenery, really, to be inveigled into paying for a low comedy of a dinner at the other end.

The first place our boat stopped at is called the "Trout Pavillion," principally, so far as I can learn, on account of the immense number of pickerel caught there, and from the fact that it is unquestionably a good site for a Pavillion whenever the esteemed Proprietor turns up jacks enough, at his favorite game, to build one.

The next place was set down in the Guide Book as the "Three Sisters" Islands, an appellation arising from the fact that there are precisely four of them.

I mentioned this apparent discrepancy to the boat clerk.

This young man, who belongs to a Base Ball Club, informs me that these islands invariably travelled with a "substitute," as one occasionally got "soaked."

This certainly seems a little curious, but as the young man says he was born here, I suppose he knows.

This same young man pointed out a beautiful spot called Green Island and asked me if I wouldn't like to live there.

He said he thought it would just suit me.

The attention of these people is really delightful.

Some of these places, however, have very inappropriate names, for instance another little gem is called "Hog Island." No one knows why it was so called. The clerk of the boat don't either.

He wanted to know if I had ever dined there.

I always make it a point to get on the right side of these Steamboat fellows, always.

About half way up the Lake is a place called Tongue Mountain.

A long time ago a colony of strong-minded women settled there.

That may have had something to do with its name.

Nobody ever goes there now.

People go very near the mountain in boats, however, as it is noted for something very extraordinary in the Echo line.

It has what is called a "Double Echo."

I fully expected something of this kind.

Now if there is anything I am particularly down on, it is those unmitigated frauds known as Echoes. And if I ever throw four sixes, it is when I am tackling some unsuspecting old ass of a watering place echo.

I consider them "holler mockeries."

Of course we steamed within proper distance, and I seized the opportunity to "put a head on" this venerable two-ply nuisance, as follows:

First, I read a page of a Patent Office Report I go armed with.

This the Echo, with very little hesitation, repeated in duplicate as usual. From one side of the rock in English, and from the other in fair French.

I saw at once that old EK was pretty well filled.

Next I sang "Listen to the Mocking Bird," which it repeated very creditably indeed, dropping but two notes on the third verse. This it made up for, I am bound to admit, by throwing in some original variations in the chorus.

But I hadn't played from my sleeve yet, so I recited HAMLET'S Soliloquy.

From the wooded slope on our right came the familiar "To be" of BOOTH, while from the sloping woods on our left proceeded a finely rendered imitation of the Teutonic FECHTER, in the same.

This staggered me!

I had one more jack in my cuff, however. I pulled out a copy of the Tribune and read a few paragraphs of GREELEY'S "What do I know about Farming."

That settled him!

He never got to the first semi-colon. It knocked the breath right out of him!

The poor old fossil had to quit. He changed his repeater to a leaver. But then you see he had held the office a good while.

He hasn't left the business to any one, either.

In future no one will go fooling round there except the fishermen. The sign is down.

In my next I will finish the Lake trip, and give you some account of the celebrated "Roger's Slide."

SAGINAW DODD.

[To be continued.]

RAMBLINGS.

BY MOSE SKINNER.

POPULARITY.

Next to talk, popularity is the cheapest thing I know of. It is achieved by three classes—those who have brains, those who have money, and those who have neither. The first earn it; the second buy it; and the third stumble into it, perhaps by waving their hat at an engineer just in time to prevent the train from dashing over a precipice, or by chopping off somebody's head with a meat axe and burning the remains up afterwards, in which case the next day's paper gives a faithful account of their pedigree, and their photograph can be purchased at any respectable news-dealers, at a price within reach of all.

The most common-place sayings of popular men are handed down to posterity, and a casual remark about the weather is often framed and hung up in the spare-bedroom.

It behooves every public man to keep a sentence or two on hand, with a view to embalming them for future reference. I wish to state, in confidence, that if any prominent man who can't think of anything that sounds well, will address me, I will furnish him at the low price of one dollar a sentence. My stock is entirely fresh and original, and embraces such gems as—"Don't give up the ship," "Such is Life," "How's this for high?" "I die happy," "A stitch in time saves nine," &c., &c.

I am also prepared to furnish "last words of eminent men," at a moderate compensation.

General GRANT has taken time by the forelock in this matter. His "Let us have Peace," was a most brilliant effort, because nobody ever thought of it before. "I propose to move on your works immediately, if it takes all summer," was also a happy thought.

When General GRANT was in Boston he said he liked the way they made gravy in Massachusetts. Now this in itself would not, perhaps, be called deep, because others have said the same thing before, but, coming from a man like GRANT, it set folks to thinking, and it is not surprising that something of this sort went the rounds:

We have the best authority for stating that General GRANT, during his recent visit to Boston, remarked that he was gratified at the manner in which gravy was produced in Massachusetts. Our talented Chief Magistrate is a man of few words, but what he does say is spicy, and to the point."

At the Peace Jubilee, GRANT said he "liked the cannon best;" but the reporters, being confidentially informed that the remark wasn't intended for posterity, it didn't get out much. I didn't hear of his saying anything else.

If a popular man takes cold, the whole public sneeze. His opinions must go into the papers any how, though perhaps no better than anybody's else. Thus—from a daily paper:

"The Hon. MONTGOMERY BLAIR recently said in a private conversation, that the present war would probably end in victory for the Prussians, and the overthrow of Napoleon."

Supposing he did? I heard JOHN SMITH say the same thing in an eating saloon over a month ago, and out of twenty gentlemen present, four were reporters, but they didn't take out their note books in breathless haste and put down the Hon. JOHN SMITH'S opinion, how Mr. SMITH looked when he said it, and if he said it as though he really meant it, and in a manner that thrilled his listeners.

But JOHN hasn't any popularity, you see, and the Hon. MONTGOMERY has—though it may be a little mildewed.

Soon after the war, I wrote an article on the Alabama Claims. It was a masterly effort, and cost me a month's salary to get it inserted in a popular magazine. If that article had proved a success, I could easily have gulled the public all my life on the popularity thus achieved.

But I made a wretched mistake to start with. Instead of heading it "The Alabama Claims," "By CHARLES SUMNER," or "HORACE GREELEY." I said "By MOSE SKINNER."

I will not dwell on the result. Suffice it to say that I soon after retired from literature, a changed being, utterly devoid of hope.

MORAL SUASION.

A friend of mine, an eminent New York philanthropist, relates the following interview with a condemned criminal. The crime for which this wretched man was hung is still fresh in our memories. One morning at breakfast his tripe didn't suit him, and he immediately brained his wife and children and set the house on fire, varying the monotony of the scene by pitching his mother-in-law down the well, having previously, with great consideration, touched her heart with a cheese knife.

I will now quote my friends' own words:

"He was pronounced a hard case, manifesting no sorrow for his act, and utterly indifferent to his approaching doom. A score of good people had visited him with the kindest intentions, but without making the smallest impression upon him.

"Without boasting, I wish to say that I knew I could touch this man's heart. I saw a play once in which the most blood-thirsty and brutal ruffian that ever existed was melted to tears at the mention of his mother's name, and childhood's happy hours, and everybody knows that what happens on the stage happens just the same in real life.

"I naturally congratulated myself on having seen this play, for it gave me power to cope with this relentless disposition.

"He resisted all attempts at conversation, however, in the most dogged manner, barely returning surly monosyllables to my anxious wishes for his well being.

"At last, laying my hand on his shoulder, and throwing considerable pathos into my voice, I said:

"My friend, it was not always thus with you. There was a time when you sat upon your mother's knee, and gathered buttercups and daisies?"

"Ah! I had touched the right chord at last. His brow contracted and his lips twitched convulsively."

"And when that mother put you in your little bed," I continued, "she kissed you, and hoped you would grow up a—"

"You lie," said he, "she didn't. The old woman was six foot under ground afore I could chaw. Now, look a here, you're the fourth chap that's tried the 'mother' dodge on me. Why don't you fellers" he added with a malicious grin, "go back on the mother business, and give the old man a chance, jest for a change?"

"After the above scurvy treatment I was naturally anxious to witness the man's funeral, which I understood was to be a gorgeous affair, six respectably-attired females having been sworn in to kiss the body, amid the hysteric weeps of three more in the background."

PRACTICAL.

Housewife. "VAKE YOU UP, HANS—HERE'S ANODER BRUSSIAN VICTORY."

Hans, (dreamily.) "ANODER BRUSSIAN VICTORY?—DEN LET US HAVE ANODER BRUSSIAN BIER."

Hot and Cold.

The sensational paragraph writers had better "let up" on the question of an imminent dearth of ice. There is no real probability that we shall be without ice before winter sets in. It is only for the purpose of keeping us in hot water that the newspaper men say we shan't have cold water.

NOT JUST YET!

Mr. Greeley. "PRAY, TAKE A SEAT, MR. WOODFORD; I WOULDN'T ON ANY ACCOUNT DEPRIVE YOU," etc., etc.

Mr. Woodford. "No! NO!—TAKE IT YOURSELF, MR. GREELEY; THE LAST THING I SHOULD THINK OF WOULD BE," etc., etc.

Governor Hoffman. "DON'T TROUBLE YOURSELVES, GENTLEMEN: I SHALL PROBABLY CONTINUE TO OCCUPY THE CHAIR FOR A COUPLE OF YEARS, YET."

COMIC ZOOLOGY.

Genus, Phoca.—The Seal.

This is the common name of the inoffensive and fur-bearing members of the Phocidæ family. The word seal is derived, radically, from the German Siegel, so that to say a man has "fought mit SIEGEL," is equivalent to remarking that he has assailed a harmless and timid seal.

The Phocidæ, without distinction of sex,