the proscenium boxes; and triumphant falling of a new act-drop. STOEPEL, having thought of a sweet passage for the fife, in a Chinese opera, plays it uninterruptedly for forty-five minutes. A deaf old gentleman approvingly remarks that this is really classical music.

ACT II.—A storm at the inn on the Moor. Miss SYLVESTER waits for her GEOFFREY and her tea. Enter ARNOLD.

ARNOLD. " GEOFFREY can't come, so he has sent me. I know your situation, and shall have to feel for you if it gets much darker and they don't bring candles. That is, if I'm to shake hands with you. I have told everybody here that you are my wife. Let's have a little game of seven-up, and pass the time profitably."

ANNIE. "Oh, villain (I mean GEOFFREY,) you have de-ser-er-erted me. Oh, rash young person, (I mean you, ARNOLD,) I'm inclined to think that you've married me by Scotch law, without having meant it. If so, you'll have to go to America and see BEECHER about a divorce." (Curtain subsequently falls, and STOEPEL orders the big drum to beat for an hour, while the musicians take advantage of the noise to tune their instruments.) Deaf old gentleman remarks again that he does like WAGNER'S music. Half the audience hold their ears, while the other half flee madly away until the entr' acte is over.

ACT III.—GEOFFREY boxes with his trainer, and slings Indian clubs and wooden dumb-bells.

GEOFFREY. "There! Thank heaven I didn't break anything. The scenery, the footlights, or a bloodvessel will get broken before the week is out, however, if this prize-ring business isn't cut out. Here comes ARNOLD."

ARNOLD. "How's Miss SYLVESTER?"

GEOFFREY. "If you say anything more about her, I'll put a head on you. She's your wife. You're a married man."

ARNOLD. "Married! You infamous editor of a two cent daily paper; I deny it. (Curtain again falls, and STOEPEL plays the entire opera of ERNANI for two hours. Deaf old gentleman remarks that music is the STOEPEL entertainment at this theatre, and that he really likes it. The rest of the audience look at him with horror, as though he were a sort of aggravated and superfluous cannibal.)

ACT IV.—Sir PATRICK proves that GEOFFREY is married to ANNIE, and that ARNOLD isn't. GEOFFREY takes his weeping wife home with him. Everybody finds out that GEOFFREY is an enormous liar and an unmitigated blackguard. Through the open windows are seen the editors of the Sun and the Free Press, each determined to be the first to offer GEOFFREY a place on the staff of his respective journal. The curtain falls and STOEPEL directs each member of the orchestra to play the tune that he may like best. After three hours of this sort of thing a humane person in the audience brings in a saw and begins to file it. The rest of the audience are thereupon gently lulled to sleep by the music of the file—so soft and soothing does it sound by contrast with STOEPEL'S demoniac orchestra.

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.

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."

ON COLOR.

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