from the bows aft, and there attached to the boat-hook, held by your representative. Upon this impromptu clothes-line was crowded all the canvas, velvet, linen, and other dry-goods appertaining to the gallant captain and his self-sacrificing crew. The latter gentleman might have been seen under this gay cloud of drapery working fitfully but energetically to and fro. But 't was all in vain! The Dauntless passed the mark-boat, and the race was won. Won? But by whom?

The daily papers, with their usual inaccuracy, have made it appear that the Dauntless was the winner, but among thinking men there is but one opinion in regard to the matter, an opinion fully explained and corroborated in the following, published by Mr. ASHBURY, immediately on the Punchinelletto passing the mark-boat:

Card.

I take this opportunity of saying that whatever misunderstanding may have arisen in the early part of this race as to the position of the Punchinelletto, it is now but just to admit that she has shown herself worthy, both in point of speed and management, to take rank among the first-class yachts of the fleet, and I hereby challenge, &c., &c.

(Signed) ASHBURY.

This was further supplemented by a

Card from Mr. BENNETT.

In token of my concurrence in the brilliant success of the Punchinelletto, and my personal esteem for her commander, I hereby beg to place at his disposal my yacht Dauntless, together with all her stores, ordnance, by-laws, and small arms.

(Signed) BENNETT.

In reply to both of which your reporter circulated the following:

Reply.

It is my express desire that no public mention shall be made of the part by which the Dauntless was permitted apparently to win the race. It is the duty of him who might have been victor to display a magnanimous spirit to those who in that case would have been the vanquished. I must, however, regret that circumstances of a peculiar nature prevent my availing myself of Mr. BENNETT's kind offer. Though this will not stand in the way of my accepting with pleasure—nay, even with alacrity—the $250 silver cup appointed for the winner of to-day's race, as the just meed of one who, though of a naturally retiring disposition, is forced on the present occasion to acknowledge himself facile princeps.

(Signed) Sporting Spec, vice PUNCHINELLO.

After waiting for Mr. BENNETT'S gig, or water-buggy, to row up and award the prize, your special nodded majestically to the Oar-acular, who thereupon steamed slowly up the bay again, arriving at the Battery in the rosy dawn.

PRUSSIA'S POSITION PHILOSOPHICALLY PUT.

German metaphysicians have settled so completely to the satisfaction of their countrymen that "being" and "not being" are identical, that this may serve to explain how, while holding possession of her share in the partition of Poland, Prussia professes to be virtuously indignant at France for retaining Alsace and Lorraine.

OUT OF THE PAN INTO THE FIRE.

What with BISMARCK'S pangerrmanism, the CZAR'S panslavism, NAPOLEON'S panlatinism, the spread of pantheism, the threatened metamorphosis of pantalettes into pantaloons, ANDREWS' pantarchy, and Fox's pantomime, the old régime seems going precipitately to pot.

A JUDICIOUS JEW.

Such was the one who wished to contract for the sweepings of Steinway Hall when he heard that NILSSON showered throughout the room her precious tones.

EXIT "SUN."

The newsboys in the streets no longer cry The Sun, with stentorian voices, but in gentle whispers, fearing to disturb the repose of that waning luminary.

TAPPING THE TILL.

Is there any connection between the quite common offence in New York of "tapping the till," and the nomination of a Mr. TAPPAN for Comptroller by the JOHN REAL Democracy?

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS

retty Fräulein Margarat asks me to go to church with her. She is not a New Yorker—or, as Webster would probably say,—a New Yorkeress. She is rural in her ways and thoughts, a daisy of the fields. Never having seen the interior of a city church, she asks me to go with her to any Protestant church that I may select. So we go to the shrine of St. APOLLOS, which, I am told, is regarded as one of the most fashionable houses in the city.

It is a matinee service that we elect to attend. A long procession of carriages is drawn up beside the building as we enter, and I recognize in the coachmen the familiar faces that wait outside the ACADEMY on opera nights. The organ overture is already begun, and the audience is rapidly assembling. We enter the parquette—I should say, the body of the church—and, standing in picturesque attitudes against the wall, wait for the coming of the usher. We continue to wait. Evidently the usher, in common with his kind, despises those who are not holders of reserved seats. He welcomes with a smile the owners of private boxes—pews, I mean—and shows them politely up the aisle; but for us, who have not even an order from the mana—, sexton, I should say—he has neither smile nor glance.

By and by I pluck up courage and pluck him by the sleeve. So, with a severe air of suppressed indignation, he shows us to a couple of ineligible seats, where the draft disarranges MARGARET'S hair, and the charity children drop books of the op—, that is to say, prayer-books, and molasses candy in unpleasant proximity to our helpless feet.

Neither MARGARET nor I possess a libret—, a prayer-book I mean. However, that is a matter of no consequence, as we are both familiar with the dialog—, or rather the service. The organist having ended his overture, the service begins. Not even the wretched method of the tenor—I refer of course to the clerk—and his miserably affected execution of the recitative passages, can mar the beauty of the words. The audience evidently feels their solemn import. The young lady and the young male person who sit immediately in front of me clasp surreptitious hands as they bow their heads to repeat the confession that they are miserable sinners, and she whispers by no means softly to him of the "frightful bonnets the SMITH girls have on." Presently the recitative of the clerk is succeeded by a contest in chanting—probably for the championship—by two rival choruses of shrill-voiced boys, who hurl alternate verses of the Psalms at one another with the fiercest intensity. MARGARET is betrayed into an inadvertent competition with them, by reading a verse aloud, as had been her custom elsewhere, but the charity children smile aloud at her, and the usher frowns, so she sits down again with reddened cheeks.

I say to her, "that this choir contest is an excellent feature, one that is sure to draw." But she answers nothing, and busily reads the libret—, the psalm, to herself.

Then comes the litany. And here again MARGARET betrays her rural habits, by repeating audibly the first response, thus encroaching on the province of the choir-boys, who have now united, and form a fine and powerful chorus, less picturesque perhaps than the Druidical chorus in the first act of Norma, but quite as religious in its effect. After which comes a hymn, executed by a soprano, who is really a deserving little girl, and whom I little expected to find doing the leading business in a first-class church, when I first saw her in the chorus at the Stadt Theatre, seven years ago. MARGARET, warned by experience, does not venture to interfere with the singing, to the evident disappointment of the usher, who is watching her with the intention, plainly expressed on his face, of peremptorily putting her out, if she sings a single note. Then comes a recitation of the commandments by the leading male perfor—, that is to say, by the rector, supported by the double chorus, and the orches—, the organ, I should say; and then we have the sermon.

I like the sermon. It is delivered with admirable effect, and is, on the whole, more soothing than the average syrup of the apocryphal Mrs. WINSLOW. The rector compliments us all on our many virtues, and contrasts us with the supposititious sinners who are presumed to abound somewhere in the vicinity of rival houses. The middle-aged men evidently feel that he will make no mistake worth noticing, and so go to sleep as calmly as though they were at BOOTH'S THEATRE. The middle-aged ladies contemplate the dresses of their neighbors, and the young people flirt with cautious glances. When the curtain—when it is over, I mean—we go cheerfully away, like an audience that has slept through a Shakesperean play, and feels that it has done its duty. And when we are once more in the street, I say to MARGARET: "This has been a delightful performance. There has been nothing said to make one feel disagreeably discontented with one's self, nor has there been any impolite suggestions as to the undesirable future of anybody, except the low wretches who, of course, don't go to any church. How much better this is than the solemn service, and, the unpleasantly personal sermons that we used to hear at your little rural church."

MARGARET.—"I do not like it. Why should boys be hired to pray, and women to sing for me? Why should I be told by the preacher that I am perfectly good, when I have just confessed that I am a 'miserable sinner?' Why do you call this service religious, and Rip Van Winkle theatrical? Believe me, St. APOLLOS deserves a place among your 'Plays and Shows' quite as much as does BOOTH'S or WALLACK'S."'

And I to her—"St. APOLLOS shall take its proper place in PUNCHINELLO'S show. But permit me to say that you are very unreasonable. What do you go to church for? To be made uncomfortable and dissatisfied with yourself?"

MARGARET,—"To be made better."

MATADOR.

A PASTOR ON POLITICS.

The Reverend Mr. CREAMCHEESE congratulated the hearers of his last sermon upon the encouraging religious aspects of the time, remarking how pleasant it was in this fall season to find all the political parties in the country so interested in making their election sure. We maybe mistaken, but we think the Rev. gentleman's zeal outruns his discretion. The preying of politicians is of a kind which we trust the clergy will never seek to imitate; but now that Congress has undertaken to supervise this matter of election, there no knowing what it may become in the future.

AN EVASIVE REPLY.

A Correspondent suggests that in No. 30 our artist has given Mr. C. A. DANA, in representing him as refusing a bribe with virtuous indignation, a two-cent-imental an expression. In reply, Mr. PUNCHINELLO—although his own opinion is that the mistake has been in making it rather dollar-ous than cent-imental—would refer his correspondent to the artist.

A QUERY FOR SOL-UTION.

Is it a fact that, because Sol is the Latin for Sun, being on the Sun is therefore equivalent to being a SOLON?

TO THE DIPLOMATISTS OF THE HUB.

Whether the Boston dip is a penny one or not, it is nevertheless scandalous.

POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO IX.

Behold the gentle Poet, now in the midst of the tumult of war. How calmly he surveys from his elevated position the situation of the hosts and the signs of the times. He hears the drums beat and the bugle call to arms, and his soul is filled with martial ardor. Unable to wield the sword, he seizes his poetical pen, resolved to become the Chronicler and Historian of the war, and thus add his little mite for the improvement of future generations. He decided that it must be characteristic, and in keeping in style with his other productions: short, pithy, and comprehensive; simple and amusing enough for a child; deep and sarcastic enough for the most astute mind.

He begins by describing in graphic style the sounds that first struck on his ear and fired his manly soul—the beat of the rolling drum. Then comes a description of the terrible conflict that occurred in his native village, between the three most prominent men of the day. This, not to be too verbose, he simply likens to being "in a tub."

BILLY the butcher, stout, red-faced, and pugilistic, with his particular friend MARC the baker, having become jealous of the beautiful shop and immense patronage of JOHNNY the candlestick-maker, resolve to put an end to it in some way, even if they have to fight him.

That showy candlestick shop, with its gay trimmings and beautiful ornaments, open every day before their face and eyes, and attracting crowds of idlers who stand gazing in at the windows, or lounging around the doors, is a little too much for the Butcher, who in vain displays before his door the fresh-cut meat and the tempting sausage. True, he has plenty of customers; but they come because they need what he has to sell; they come of necessity, not for pleasure. The Baker experiences the same vexation, as he sees his loaves passed by and mockingly made light of.

They bear awhile in silent envy the annoying sight of the rollicking crowd and the joyful JOHNNY with his troop of apprentices, who have all they can possibly do to attend to their numerous customers, and who receive their broad pieces of money with a careless ease that makes the fingers of the lookers-on tingle.

At last human nature can stand it no longer. The two malicious storekeepers put their heads together, and resolve to draw their prosperous enemy into a fight that will ruin him and enable them to smash his windows. Accordingly, they throw stones and dirt at him, but he, intently interested in his store, notices them not. His noisy apprentices and loungers around see and point out the insult, and urge him to avenge himself. But no; he has no time to pay attention to petty annoyances; he is too busy getting up a huge candlestick for the Fair, and so, to smooth matters over, he sends his two enemies an invitation to view the magnificent candlestick that is to throw so much light on the world.

"He is either too stupid or too sharp for us," sighs the Baker; "we can't do anything in that way. Suppose we set up an opposition store, with one of your sons for Proprietor, and see what effect that will have."—"Good, it shall be done," says the Butcher.

Soon an empty store adjoining is hired, and being put in order, when the hitherto blind Proprietor wakes up to the fact that there is a coalition against him, and that he had better be stirring or he will lose his trade. Accordingly he writes a remonstrance to his friend the Butcher, telling him "he wishes no rival in the trade. He has always had a monopoly, and he intends to keep it." His apprentices back him up in his assertions, and declare they are ready to die for him and their candlesticks. The advent of the messenger is noticed with inward rejoicing by the twain, but, when he presents his remonstrance, he is immediately kicked out of doors.

That is the last feather, the one straw too much, and the excitable little Candlestick-maker at once challenges his opponents to deadly combat.

The Poet, with a sublime contempt for the mysterious and wonderful intricacies of war, significantly calls this rush to arms a "jumping into a rotten potato."

Alas! it proves a rotten potato to the poor