hog," explains Mr. McLAUGHLIN, with some contempt.

"Twin-brother—all th'shame," says Mr. BUMSTEAD, as though that made no earthly difference.

Once more, what a strange expedition is this! How strangely the eyes of the two men look, after two or three more applications to the antique flask; and how curiously Mr. Bumstead walks on tip-toe at times and takes short leaps now and then.

"Lesh go now," says BUMSTEAD, after both have been asleep upon their feet several times; "I think th's snakes down here, JOHN McBUMSTEAD."

"Wh'st! monkies, you mean,—dozens of black monkies, Mr. BUMPLIN," whispers OLD MORTARITY, clutching his arm as he sinks against him.

"Noshir! Serp'nts!" insists Mr. BUMSTEAD, making futile attempts to open his umbrella with one hand. "Warzesmarrer with th' light?—ansh'r me t' once, Mac JOHNBUNKLIN!"

In their swayings under the confusions and delusions of the vault, their lanterns have worked around to the neighborhoods of their spines, so that, whichever way they turn, the light is all behind them. Greatly agitated, as men are apt to be when surrounded by supernatural influences, they do not perceive the cause of this apparently unnatural illumination; and, upon turning round and round in irregular circles, and still finding the light in the wrong place, they exhibit signs of great trepidation.

"Warzemarrer wirra light?" repeats Mr. BUMSTEAD, spinning wildly until he brings up against the wall.

"Ishgotb'witched, I b'lieve," pants Mr. McLAUGHLIN, whirling as frenziedly with his own lantern dangling behind him, and coming to an abrupt pause against the opposite wall.

Thus, each supported against the stones by a shoulder, they breathe hard for a moment, and then sink into a slumber in which they both slide down to the ground. Aroused by the shock, they sit up quite dazed, brush away the swarming snakes and monkies, are freshly alarmed by discovering that they are now actually sitting upon that perverse light behind them, and, by a simultaneous impulse, begin crawling about in search of the ladder. Unable to see anything with all the light behind him, but fancying
that he discerns a gleam beyond a dark object near at hand, Mr. BUMSTEAD rises to a standing attitude by a series of complex manoeuvres, and plants a foot on something.

"I'morth'larrer!" he cries, spiritedly.

"Th'larrer's on me!" answers Mr. MCLAUGHLIN, in evidently great bewilderment.

Then ensue a momentary wild struggle and muffled crash; for each gentleman, coming blindly upon the other, has taken the light glimmering at the other's back for the light at the top of the ladder, and, further mistaking the other in the dark for the ladder itself, has attempted to climb him. Mr. BUMSTEAD, however, has got the first step; whereupon, Mr. MCLAUGHLIN, in resenting what he takes for the ladder's inexcusable familiarity, has twisted both himself and his equally deluded companion into a pretty hard fall.

Another interval of hard breathing, and then the organist of Saint Cow's asks: "Di'you hear anything drop?"

"Yshir, th'larrer got throwed, f'rimpudence to a gen'l'm'n," is the peevish return of OLD MORTARITY, who immediately falls asleep as he lies, with his lantern under his spine.

In his sleep, he dreams that BUMSTEAD examines him closely, with a view to gaining some clue to the mystery of the light behind both their backs; and, on finding the lantern under him, and, studying it profoundly for some time, is suddenly moved to feel along his own back. He dreams that BUMSTEAD thereupon finds his own lantern, and exclaims, after half an hour's analytical reflection, "It musht'ave slid round while JOHN MCLAUGHLIN was intosh'cated." Then, or soon after, the dreamer awakes, and can discern two Mr. BUMSTEADS seated upon the step-ladders, with a lantern, baby-like, on each knee.

"You two men are awake at last, eh?" say the organists, with peculiar smiles.

"Yes, gentlemen," return the MCLAUGHLINS, with yawns.

They ascend silently from the cellar, each believing that he is accompanied by two companions, and rendered moodily distrustful thereby.

"Aina maina mona—Mike.
Bassalone, bona—Strike!"

sings a small, familiar voice, when they stand again above ground, and a stone whizzes between their heads.

In another moment BUMSTEAD has the fell SMALLEY by the collar, and is shaking him like a yard of carpet.

"You wretched little tarrier!" he cries in a fury, "you've been spying around to-night, to find out something about my Spiritualism that may be distorted to injure my Ritualistic standing."

"I ain't done nothing; and you jest drop me, or I'll knock spots out of yer!" carols the stony young child. "I jest come to have my aim at that old Beat there."

"Attend to his case, then—his and his friend's, for he seems to have some one with him—and never let me see you two boys again."

Thus Mr. BUMSTEAD, as he releases the excited lad, and turns from the pauper burial-ground for a curious kind of pitching and running walk homeward. The strange expedition is at an end:-but which end he is unable just then to decide.

(To be Continued.)

CLERKS ALL AWAY ON A SATURDAY FROLIC, WHICH ACCOUNTS FOR THE UNFORTUNATE POSITION OF THIS STOUT GENTLEMAN, WHO WAS LEFT ALONE TO LOCK UP HIS STORE.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

Johnny.—Yes, you may offer your arm to your pretty cousin in the country whenever you think she would like it, except when Mr. PUNCHINELLO is present. If that gallant gentleman is at hand, escort duty may, with perfect propriety, be left to him.

Charles inquires whether his handwriting is good enough to qualify him for membership in a base ball club. We think he is all right on that score.

Glaucus.—We have never heard that Newport is a good place for gathering sea-shells, but we presume you can shell out there if you wish.

Chapeau.—Hats will be worn on the head this season. It is not considered stylish to hang them on the ear, eyebrow, or coat collar.

Cit.—The correct dimensions of a Saratoga pocket-book have not been definitely decided. As to sending it, it is doubtful whether the rail-road companies would receive it as baggage. Perhaps you could charter a canal boat.

Aspirant.—We cannot tell you the price of "bored" in Washington "for a few weeks." No doubt you could get liberally bored at a reasonable rate.

Sorosis—It was very wrong for your husband to mention the muddy coffee. However, we advise you to attempt a settlement of such troubles without creating a public scandal.

Butcher Boy.—You cannot succeed as a writer of "lite comidy" if you continue to weave such tragic spells. "The Lean Larder" would not be an attractive title for your play.

C. Drincarty submits the following problem: If one swallow don't make a summer, how many claret punches can a man take before fall? Will some of our ingenious readers offer a suitable solution?

Culturist.—The potato has been grafted with great success on the cucumber tree in some of the Western States. The stock should be heated by a slow fire until the sap starts. The grafts should be boiled in a preparation known to science as vanilla cream.

Truth.—Your information is not authentic. LOUIS NAPOLEON never played marbles in Central Park, nor took his little Nap in the vestibule of WOOD'S Museum.

Fanny inquires whether "ballot girls" are wanted in New York. Wyoming is a better field for them than this city.

Maine Chance has been paying his devoirs with great impartiality to two young ladies. One of them has red hair and a Roman nose, but the paternal income is very handsome. The other is witty and pretty, but can bring no rocks, except possibly "Rock the cradle." Recently he called on the golden girl, and a menial rudely repulsed him from the door. This hurt his feelings. He then went to the dwelling of the Fair, when a big dog attacked him "on purpose," and lacerated his trousers. He wants to know whether he has any remedy in the courts. His best way is the way home.

Rifleman.—You are right; the rival guns—the Dreyse and the Chassepot—are also rifle-guns. Both of them are provided with needles, as you suppose, but, so far as there is any chance of their being put to the test under present circumstances, in Europe, it rather appears that both of them will prove Needless.

Piscator.—No; the weak-fish is not so called on account of any supposed feebleness attributable to it. If you take a round of the markets one of these roaring hot days, your senses will tell you that the weakfish is sometimes very strong.

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.

s a good many persons know, LA GISELLE is a ballet whose hundred legs are nightly displayed on the stage of the GRAND OPERA HOUSE.

The Twelve Temptations have ceased to tempt, and the familiar legs of LUPE no longer allure. But in their place we have KATHI LANNER, and BERTHA LIND, and nearly a gross of assorted legs of the very best quality.

Why do the women clamor for the ballot, when they have almost exclusive possession of the ballet? The latter is much nicer and more useful than the former. The average repeater can obtain only a dollar for his ballot, but the average ballet will find any quantity of enthusiastic admirers at one dollar and a half a head. Would any man pay KATHI LANNER a dollar for the privilege of seeing her with a ballot in her hand?

On the other hand, lives there a man with eyes so dead that he would not cheerfully pay twice that sum to see her in the mazes of the ballet?

But La Giselle? Certainly. I am coming to that in a moment. I have often thought that nature must have intended me for a writer of sermons. I have such a facility for beginning an article with a series of general remarks that have nothing whatever to do with the subject.

Though how can any one be rationally expected to stick to anything in this weather, except, perhaps, the newly varnished surface of his desk? And how can even the firmest of resolutions be prevented from melting and vanishing away, with the thermometer at more degrees than one likes to mention? You remember the old proverb: "Man proposes, but his mother-in-law finally disposes." The bearing of this observation lies in its application.

By the bye, I don't know a better application, in the present weather, than claret punch. Apply yourself continually to that cooling beverage, and apply it continually to your lips, and the result is a sort of reciprocity treat, whose results are much more certain than those of the reciprocity treaty, of which Congress has latterly had so much to say.

To contemplate La Giselle in all its bearings is a pleasure which is peculiarly appropriate to the season. KATHI LANNER and her companions may not be really cool, but they look as though they were. They remind one of the East Indian country houses that are built on posts, so as to allow a free circulation of air beneath the foundation. Anyhow, they look as if they took things coolly.

(A joke might be made on the words coolly and Coolie. The reader may mix to his own taste. It's too hot for any one to make jokes for other people.)

But La Giselle? Yes! yes! I am just ready to speak of it. La Giselle is a grand ballet in which an elaborate plot is developed by the toes of some fifty young ladies. There is a young woman in it who loves a man, and there is another woman who also loves him, and another man who loves the first woman, and meddles and mars as though he were a professional philanthropist.

The woman—the first woman, I mean—goes crazy down to the extremity of her feet, and dies, and then there are more women,—no; these last are disembodied spirits, with nothing but light skirts on,—who dance in graveyards, and make young men dance with them till they fall down exhausted, calling in vain for BROWN to take them home in carriages, and pay for their torn gloves. The first young woman, and a young man—not the other young man, you understand—does a good deal of—Well, in fact, things are rather mixed before the ballet comes to an end, but I know that it's a good thing, for FISK sits in his private box and applauds it, which he wouldn't do if he didn't.

And now, having placed La Giselle plainly before your mental vision, I desire to rise to a personal explanation. For the ensuing four weeks, the places, in PUNCHINELLO, which have heretofore known me, will know me no more. I am going to a quiet country place on Long Island to write war correspondence for the—well, I won't mention the name of the paper. You see the editor of the Na---- of the paper in question, I should say,—wants to have an independent and unprejudiced account of the great struggle on the Rhine—something that shall be different from any other account.—Down on Long Island, I shall be out of the reach of either French or Prussian influence, and will be able to describe events as they should be. I have made arrangements with the "Veteran Observer" of the Times to take charge of this column during my absence. If he can only curb his natural tendency toward frivolity and jocoseness, I am in hopes that he will be able to draw his salary as promptly and efficiently as though he were a younger man. Remarking, therefore, in the words of Kathleen Mavourneen, that my absence "may be four weeks, and it may be longer," I bid my readers a warm (thermometer one hundred and five degrees) farewell.

MATADOR.

JUPITER BELLICOSUS.

Truly, PUNCHINELLO, this is an age of progress. Wars of succession are no more. Absolutism must forever hang its head. Fling a glance at France; peer into Prussia, Vox populi is the voice of the King, and the voice of the king is therefore vox Dei. When a king speaks for his people he must speak sooth; what he says of other peoples must be taken with a grain of salt. Bearing this in mind, the apparent inconsistency between the regal rigmarole and the Imperial improvisation (these epithets are a tribute to the Republic) which I have received by our special wire from Europe were addressed by the monarchs to their respective armies before the grand "wiring in" which is to follow.

WILHELM KOENIG VON PRUSSEN.

Soldaten: The Gaul is at our gates. Vaterland is in danger: my weiss is then for war. France, led by a despot, is about to desecrate the Rhine. His imperial bees are swarming, but we shall send him back with his bees in his bonnet, and a bee's mark (BISMARCK) on the end of his nasal organ. France wars for conquest; Prussia never. When FREDERICK the Great captured Silesia from a Roman without any apparent pretext, was he not an instrument of Providence? When, in company with Austria, we beat and bullied Denmark out of Schleswig-Holstein, were we not victorious, and is not that sufficient justification? When we afterwards beat this Austria, did it not serve her right? And when we absorbed Hanover, &c., was it not to protect them? Yes, our present object is the defence of our country and the capture of Alsace and Lorraine, which mere politeness prevented us from claiming hitherto. On, then, soldiers of Deutchland. Let our law reign in Lorraine, for what is