Chapter VIII: Act V: ANNIE, in the midst of misery and a gorgeous silk dress with

lace trimmings, is seen going to bed in her best clothes, and without taking her hair down--this being the well-known custom among fashionably dressed girls_. GEOFFREY _enters and attempts to strangle her, but she is awakened by the considerate forethought of a dumb woman, who loudly calls her, and_ GEOFFREY _conveniently lies down and dies of paralysis. All the rest of the dramatis personae enter, and indulge in exclamations of joy. The curtain falls for the last time, and_ STOEPEL _is removed under the protection of a strong platoon of policemen, to the secret abode where_ DALY _keeps him hidden during the day from the wrath of an outraged public_.

And the undersigned goes home to breakfast--it being now nearly 6 A.M.--reflecting upon the beauty of the theatre, the neatness of the scenery, the general ability of the actors, the capabilities of the play, (after Mr. DALY shall have cut it down to a reasonable length,) the pluck of the young manager, and the unredeemed badness of the orchestra, as it is conducted by Mr. STOEPEL. Tell me, gentle DALY, tell; why in the name of all that is intelligent, do you let STOEPEL transform each _entr' acte_ at your theatre into a prolonged purgatory, by the villainous way in which he plays the most execrable music, for the most intolerable periods of time?

MATADOR.

* * * * *

L. N. IN PRUSSIA.

Yes, I am quite upset;
In fact, I'm dizzy yet
With all that rapid riding, day and night;
But still, two things I see;
They've made an end of Me,
And blown the Empire higher than a kite!

Yes, here I am, at last--
And all my dreams are past.
didn't think to enter Prussia thus!
Confound that "Vorwarts" man!
When first the war began
He seemed as logy as an omnibus.

Faugh! smell the Sweitzer Kaise!
The same in every place, eh?
How these big Germans love an ugly stench!
My! what a taste they've got
For articles that rot;
And can it be, they live so near the French?

I'm in a pretty nest!
And, worse than all the rest,
Is thinking how I got here; there's the rub.
When I have mused awhile
On all my luck, so vile,
I almost wish they'd hit me with a club!

It's very well to say--
"I might have won the day,
If things had only gone this way or that;"
I should have _made_ them go,
And let these Germans know
That _they_ must go, too! or be cut down flat.

They didn't go, it seems;
Except 'twas in my dreams!
And, consequently, I must bid good bye
To titles, power and state,
Which I enjoyed of late,
And curse my dismal fate--poor Louis and I!

* * * * *

THE PLYMOUTH ROCK.

The fact of his having relinquished (at the imperative demand of society) his weekly visits to the watering places, need lead no one to believe that Mr. PUNCHINELLO does not like a little fresh air. And surely a half a day or so by the seaside need jeopardize no one's social standing if the thing is not repeated too often. At least so thought Mr. P., and he determined, one fine morning last week, that he would hurry up his business as fast as possible, and take a trip on Col. FISK'S steamboat to Sandy Hook. A man calling with a bundle of puns detained him so long that he found that he would not be able to reach the 11 A.M. boat without he made unusual haste.

Rushing into the street, therefore, he hailed a passing hack, and ordered the driver to take him, as quickly as possible, to the Plymouth Rock.

When the carriage stopped, and the man opened the door, Mr. P. rubbed his eyes, for he had fallen into a doze, on the way, and sprang hastily out.

But what a sight met his gaze!

Before him was the hack, covered with mud and dust, and the horses in a position indicating utter exhaustion: to his right lay a huge unsymmetrical stone, while behind him rolled the heaving waters of Cape Cod bay! The man had mistaken his directions, and had driven him to JOHN CARVER'S old Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts, instead of JAMES FISK Jr.'s steamboat at Pier 28, North River.

"There's the rock, yer honor," said the man, pointing to the mis-shapen stone, "and an awful time I've had a drivin' yer honor to it."

"How long have you been, coming here?" asked the astounded Mr. P.

"Nigh on to three days, yer honor, and I drove as fast as I could, hopin' to get back by the Sunday in time for the Centhral Park, but I had to stop sometimes for feed and wather, and it's no use me whippin' up afther all, for sorra the good them horses will be for the Centhral Park on the Sunday."

"And how much do I owe you for all this?" asked Mr. P.

"Well, sir," said the man, "I won't charge your honor nothin' for the feed and my victuals, for I'd had to have found them if yer hadn't a hired me; and I'll only charge ye three dollars a hour, for sure yer honor never give me the least thruble, slapeing there as swate as an infant all the time, and that'll be jist two hundred and four dollars, and if yet honor could give me a thrifle besides to drink yer health, I'd be obliged to yer honor."

Mr. P. gazed alternately at the man, the carriage, the horses, and the rock, and then he paid the driver two hundred and four dollars and twenty-five cents. The worthy Milesian pocketed the money and declared his intention of proceeding to Boston, which was only about forty miles away, and taking the railroad for New York

"If I don't, ye see, yer honor, I'll never get back in time for the Sunday; and the horses will be restin' in the cars."

As the man made his preparations and departed, Mr. P. stood and watched him until he slowly faded out of sight.

When he had entirely disappeared, Mr. P. sat down upon the rock and reflected. Now that he was here, what had he best do? He had never seen the rock before, and as it struck him that possibly some of his patrons might be in the same unfortunate condition, he concluded that he would take a few sketches of it for their benefit. But he did not succeed very well. The first drawing he made had a strange appearance. It looked more like an old woman tied to a post, and surrounded by what seemed to be flames, than anything else. This surely was not a correct view of this famous rock, and so Mr. P. commenced another sketch. This, however, looked so much like a man with a broad-brimmed hat, hanging by his neck to a rope, that he concluded to try again.

His next sketch bore a striking resemblance to something that certainly did not seem like a rock, but which, after some deliberation, he found to look very much like a shrinking Southern negro, forced into the ranks to supply the place of a citizen of Massachusetts. Everybody might not be able to see this, but Mr. P. thought he perceived it plainly.

The last sketch made by Mr. P. somewhat resembled one whose connection with "The Plymouth Rock" has certainly been of more practical benefit to the public than that of any of the " old founders," or anybody else--at least so far as Mr. P. can see. If any one doubts this, let him ask General GRANT.

Now should his readers see anything at all suggestive of sober and beneficial reflection in these sketches, Mr. P.'s visit to Plymouth Rock was not made in vain.

* * * * *

A LETTER FROM L. N.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: The Empire is Peace, as usual. If, some time hence, it should be discovered to have been otherwise, at the time of writing this letter, you will please understand that I wasn't there, at that moment, having had a little business to transact with my good friend WILLIAMS, of PRUSSIA. I am at present engaged upon a tour of the German States in the company of a pleasant little excursion party, who met me at Sedan, and received me warmly.

Everybody seems glad to greet me, particularly at this time, and all express regrets that I couldn't have come earlier in the season. They are aware of the interest I have ever felt in the great German people, and I am assured they welcome with enthusiasm my pet theory of the solidarity of nations.

I intend remaining here awhile, feeling sure that there is nothing to call me homeward for the present. The truth is, my friend, I am getting weaned of the French people. So soon as my obligations to my very good friends in Prussia will permit, you may look for me in New York. Yes, dear PUNCHINELLO, greatest and beet of Philosophers! expect to see me walking into your Sanctum one of these fine mornings,--probably with my son LOUIS,--delighted to see you, and glad to turn my back on those scenes so long familiar, which, in their new and popular dress, could hardly be expected to afford me much exhilaration.

From an inferior man, I should expect officious and quite gratuitous commiseration over the fate of the late Empire. You, however, will readily perceive it to be possible that I should rather be congratulated. You would not exchange your dignified leisure, your careless toils, for the best of sovereignties. Why, then, should I, who have made you my exemplar, feel a pang at parting with a sceptre which for years has only tired my hand?

I picture myself seated with my family on the heights at Weehawken, smoking a good cigarette, and musing on the affairs of nations as I watch the flow of that superb river (as much finer than the Rhine, my friend, as wine is finer than lagerbier!) which I have often, in days gone by, admired and extolled by the hour.

I expect they will pleasantly call me Duke Hudson, and my son the Prince of Staten Island. No matter. I can always face the Inevitable.

And that reminds me of the late war, in which the Inevitable that I was always being called upon to face, was the Inevitable Prussian. But I have faced much more terrible things. In your very city of Hoboken, I have stood face to face with a German creditor! Will any one henceforth doubt my fortitude?

I have one rather comforting reflection, apropos to that _rencontre._ I have taken care to arm myself against future assaults of that nature. I am Gold-Plated.

If your highly-gifted corps of artists should wish to depict me in a connection which would satisfy my sense of honor, let them make a sketch entitled: "The Two Exiles,"--one of whom may be,my Uncle at St. Helena; the other, me, at Weehawken, with my family near, a glass of wine at my side, a cigarette in one hand, and a copy of PUNCHINELLO in the other!

But let me not anticipate. Sufficient unto the day is the (d)evil thereof.

Royally yours,

L. N.

* * * * *

Maxim for the next new President.

"A place for everybody, and everybody in his place."

* * * * *

_Cousin Bella, (admiring picture.)_ "HOW IS IT, FRED, THAT YOU PRODUCE SUCH LOVELY COLOR, AND WITH SO MUCH FACILITY?"

_Fred, (thinking of his meerschaum.)_ "I DON'T TELL EVERYBODY THAT, YOU INQUISITIVE TEASE, BUT FACT IS, I PUT THE STUMP OF AN OLD PAINT-BRUSH IN THE BOWL, AND SMOKE THE OILIEST TOBACCO I CAN FIND."]

* * * * *

THE BATTLE AT SEDAN.

Special Correspondence of Punchinello.

(This paper is the only paper on the planet which has a correspondent at the seat of war, wherever that seat may be. The following dispatch was sent to us by cable at a total expense of $21,000.)

It was a still, calm night, the glorious moon was sailing through the sky; the river was running water; the clouds were cloudy; the soldiers were soldiering. I stepped out of my tent and tumbled over VON MOLTKE. He took my arm and invited me to the tent of the Crown Prince.

"MOLTY," said I, "what's your little game?"

"Penny ante," replied he.

"_Trés bien,_" added I.

"You are a French spy. Ha! ha!" said he, grasping my collar. "Ho! Ho!"

"_Das ish goot,_" added I.

"Then you're Dutch," sighed he, dropping me like a hot pair of tongs.

In the tent we found the King, the Crown Prince, Gen. STEINMETZ, Gen. SHERIDAN, and Gen. FORSYTH.

"MOLTY," said I, "introduce me to the King."

"BILL," said he, "this is JENKINS."

BILL held out his foot and I took a suck at his great toe.

Then we went at the game. BILL is pretty good at it, but then he doesn't stand any chance beside MOLTY. The Crown Prince lost at least fourteen cents, and, just as he had a splendid opportunity to retrieve his losses, in came an aide, who announced that the French had squatted.

"Where?" cried VON MOLTKE.

"In Sedan," replied the aide.

"I knew it," said MOLTY. "BILL, I told you they had no horses for a regular carriage."

Then we went out. The King invited me to sit in his carriage with MOLTY and SHERIDAN. We reached the scene of war.

The moon shone; the mountains were mountainous; the trees were treey; and the soft September breeze was breezy. BISMARCK came up and asked the King to let him cut behind.

"BIS," said I, "take my seat; I'll take a trip to the French camp."

So I tripped over to the French camp and found things somewhat mixed. The moon shone. Steadily the Prussian troops advanced; and, with a heroism worthy of a better cause, the French retreated. The Emperor wanted to die in the rear of his men.

"NAP," said I, "you'd better get up and get. The Prussians are coming."

"JENKINS," said he, "kiss me for my mother, I'm betrayed."

"Why didn't you have more cheesepots?" said I.

"I'll surrender," said he, "get out a white flag."

So I took one of EUGENIE'S old pocket-handkerchiefs which I found in the tent, stuck it on the end of the sabre of the nephew of his uncle, put NAP in the carriage, jumped in myself and drove to the Prussian camp. The moon shone; all nature smiled; the rivers were rivery; the Sedans were chairy.

BILL received us very coolly at first, but I gave BIS the wink, and he suggested to his Majesty that he'd better take the Emperor prisoner.

"NAP," said BILL, "is the game up?"

"BILL," said NAP, "you've scored the game. I leave my old clothes to the Regent. I hope she'll like the breeches."

Then he treated to cigarettes, and we all went back to our game of penny ante. NAP wouldn't join us. He said he'd just been playing a game with crowns ante and he was busted. We'd hardly got the cards dealt, when BILL turned to BISMARCK and asked, "I say, BIS, won't you run over and telegraph to the old woman something about our FRITZ?"

"Let JENKINS go," said BIS.

Of course I assented to the proposition.

"Where the devil is FRITZ?" said BILL.

"Oh, he's been sleeping for the last two hours," said MOLTKE.

"Never mind," said BILL, "telegraph a victory by FRITZ."

So I telegraphed,

"A great victory has been won by our FRITZ. What great things have we done for ourselves! We'll keep it up, old woman,

(Signed) BILL."

When I reached the tent everybody was asleep. NAP was reclining gracefully on the breast of BISMARCK, as affectionately as if they were brothers-in-law. The moon shone; the sky was skyey; the hills were hilly; and all nature was getting up.

Anybody who says the above did not come over the cable lies, wickedly, maliciously lies, with intent to deceive. As soon as JACK SMITH'S smack sails, I'll send you a piece of the cable it came over.

* * * * *

* * * * *

HIRAM GREEN TO KONIG WILHELM

He Reviews the Career of a Lunatic. -- A Graduate with Nice Ideas.

KING WILYAM, Most noble Loonatic:

_We gates all der while!_ Accordin' to the Marine Cable, I understand you've given old BONEY a _slosh on der cope mit der Sweitzer case;_ or in good plain United States talk, LEWIS NAPOLEON has taken his Umpire, and shoved it up the spout, without the benefit of Judge or Jewry.

I kinder had an idee that when the now busted up rooler of the Umpire tackled you, that it would have been a ten dollar greenback in his panterloons pocket if he had let the contract out on shares to his nabors.

I've allers heard say that as able-bodied a Loonatic as the French say you be, could handle any 3 ordinary men, "Be be Jost or Gobler damed," to cote from our friend BILLY SHAKESPEER.

We have had evidences here, of the superiority of Loonatics, mor'en once.

If a man can prove that his upper story is crackt, he can wallop his wife to his heart's content; and if anybody interferes, he can popp him off with a six shooter, and the law will stand to his back.

Judges and Jewrys, when tryin' such a man, think he is sum punkins, while all the illustrated papers stick the celebrated Loonatic's fotograf onto their first page.

I would like to ask you, if your insanity is of the melon-colic, (this bein' the season when melons is ripe,) or is it of the _pro temper_ kind?

I shoulden't wonder, between you and I, but that you inherited it from your illustrous Antsister, FREDERICK the Grate, who was about as sassy a Loonatic as you can pick up.

What _we_ need just now, and what _we_ have needed for a good while, is a able-bodied Loonatic to send to England as minister.

With such a crazy Statesman as you be, them 'ere little Alabarmy claims would have been squared up long ago, or else, if this court knows herself intimately, the British lion would have been sent off howlin', with a tin kittle tide to his cordil appendage.

You probly observe, I go heavy on Loonatics. Yes, sir! they are the "Coming man," the 16th Commandment; or Chinese Coolers can't hold a candle to 'em.

When a man ups and does something nobody else can do, if they'd bust their biler tryin', then he is sot down as bein' crazy as a loon by his jelous nabors.

I haven't heard whether BISMARK'S or FRITZ'S upper storys were shaky, or not, but there haint the shadder of a dowt in my mind, but what both of these long headed chaps are madder than GEO. FRANCIS TRAIN any day; and that the Crown Prints employs his spare time strikin' tragic attitoods, and repeatin' the follerin well known verses:

"I am not mad!
I am not mad!
But only on my mussle.
Old NAP'd been glad
If he and King dad
Had never got into a tussle."

My object in riting to you, great Conkeror of the man whose son was so _bully_ at pickin' up _bullocks,_ is to congratulate you.

Speakin' after the manner of men, You are an old Cinnamon bud. Havin' served my country for 4 years as Gustise of the Peece, you can rely on my giving a good sound opinion, from which there haint no repeal to a higher court.

What do you think of my startin' a college here for the purpus of edicatin' Loonatics?

We've got 3 colliges here, Harvard, 'Ale, and the Electoral College, and a skalier lot of week-kneed timber than these institutions sometimes turns out, would make you stick to your stomack to look at.

Stugents are turned out from these asilums with pooty ristocratick idees into their nozzles.

I once knew a chap who was a gradooate of one of these institutions of larning,

He was more ristocratick than a retired church deekin'.

When his wife died, he wanted her to look respectable at the funeral, so he sent to one of his nabors to borrer a silk dress for the corpse to wear, doorin' the funeral services.

Thinks I, that was shovin' a good thing rather too deep in the ground, merely for the sake of pilin' on the agony.

However, that's the way of the world; larnin' will stick out, and you can't atop her.

That son of your'n, FRITZ, is smarter than a 2 year old heifer.

If he haint in that precarious situation which SARY F. NORTON calls "mummery," and the Onida Community says Amen! to, but which good honest folks, like you and I, calls married, then I would say that he mite go further and fare a site wusser, than to come over here and examine my stock of risin' feminine genders.

Mrs. GREEN, the mother of my dorters, is a woman who understands her biz as housekeeper, and anybody who gits one of her gals won't be troubled to death by keepin' a cook to boss 'em around.

Doorin' the prosperous days of Skeensboro, when I was baskin' in the sunshine of offishal life, and had a politikle ax to grind, MARIAR'S biled dinners used to fetch Polerticians to their milk, ekal to the way a big dinner at DELMONICO'S, N.Y., will flop over a New York Alderman.

The surest way of gettin' round a public man, is via his stomack.

Like ALADIN'S lamp, you can
By merely givin' a rub,
Bring around most any man,
By fillin' him up with grub.

But, most noble cuss of the Realm, I must lay aside my goose quil, and go and do the family chores. But afore I close this letter let me speak a word for your noble prisoner, L. NAPOLEON, Esq.

Deal gently with him.

Altho' he plade the wrong card when he pitched into you, recollect the old maxum:

"Never bute a feller when he is down."

France is better, in a good many respects, for things LEWIS done for 'em.

But he has gone to the shades, and SHAKSPEER aptly says:

"The evil which men do,
Lives a darn site longer than
The evil they don't do."

Which sentiment shode that old SHAKE was a hulsail dealer in human nater.

Hopin' that in the days of your prosperity, you wont forgit your poor relations, sich as _mothers-in-law_ and the like, and when they come to visit you, you wont say:

"Nix cum arous,"

I will dry up.

Ewers anon,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

_Lait Gustise of the Peece_

* * * * *

THE LOVERS.

In Different Moods and Tenses.

SALLY SALTER, she was a young teacher, who taught,
And her friend, CHARLEY CHURCH, was a preacher, who praught;
Though his enemies called him a screecher, who scraught.

His heart, when he saw her, kept sinking, and sunk,
And his eye, meeting hers, began winking, and wunk;
While she, in her turn, fell to thinking, and thunk.

He hastened to woo her, and sweetly he wooed,
For his love grew until to a mountain it grewed,
And what he was longing to do, then he doed.

In secret he wanted to speak, and he spoke,
To seek with his lips what his heart long had soke;
So he managed to let the truth leak, and it loke.

He asked her to ride to the church, and they rode;
They so sweetly did glide, that they both thought they glode,
And they came to the place to be tied, and were tode.

Then homeward he said let us drive, and they drove,
And soon as they wished to arrive, they arrove;
For whatever he couldn't contrive, she controve.

The kiss he was dying to steal, then he stole,
At the feet where he wanted to kneel, there he knole,
And he said, " I feel better than ever I fole."

So they to each other kept clinging, and clung,
While Time his swift circuit was winging, and wung;
And this was the thing he was bringing, and brung.

The man SALLY wanted to catch, and had caught--
That she wanted from others to snatch, and had snaught--
Was the one that she now liked to scratch, and she scraught

And CHARLEY'S warm love began freezing, and froze,
While he took to teasing, and cruelly toze
The girl he had wished to be squeezing, and squoze.

"Wretch!" he cried when she threatened to leave him, and left,
"How could you deceive me, as you have deceft?"
And she answered, "I promised to cleave, and I've cleft!"

AMOS KEETER

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE POEMS OF THE CRADLE.