downy bed in the bleak peach and potato fields of the Jerseys. Our printing office was besieged throughout the day, for Alligators, and on our return from Ann street the second time, we found our office stairs so thronged with applicants for Alligators, that we had to meander a dark alley, and ascend a ladder, and enter our office through a window. During the day, several bloody collisions transpired on the stairs, between the newsboys, in their struggles for the Alligators, as they emanated from our electric presses; and in one of the desperate conflicts, the Police were summoned to preserve the public peace. And, altogether it was a most laborious and exciting day for us, and at early twilight we were weary and worn, and retired soon after the curfew strains expired on the evening air. But we had an awful nightmare, in which we soliloquised in tones so stentorian, (about newsboys and Alligators,) as to arouse and terrify a venerable nervous gentleman in the next apartment, who thought we were either fighting or dying, and he rapped against the wall with his poker until he awoke us. While on the eve of our emergence from the nightmare, we dreamed that a colossus spider was devouring our proboscis, at which we levelled a Hyer blow,

When pure blood oozed from our nose,
Like water from Sikesy’s hose,

which aroused us, and we darted into the bath room, and applied the healing Croton without effect, and had to dam our nostrils with putty, which checked the copious effusion of blood, but which made us talk in nosy and twangy accents. In about an hour, the putty became thoroughly saturated and drippy, and we had to make fresh applications, and ultimately the putty dam was victorious. But our eyes are rather crimson, and we have fearful rumbling sounds in our ears, resembling distant thunder, and the bugle in the mountains, and we fear our nostrils are in a state of inundation, and that our blood will effect a passage through our eyes or ears, and rush wildly into the open air. But we checked the blood, and leaped into our couch, and off we went, like a patriotic rocket, into a slumber like that of the pure and sweet Amena, in the chamber of Rudolpho, and was no farther molested with horrible dreams of the newsboys and Alligators.

c7

Fra Diavolo and his Italian Brigands.

Three hundred and sixteen thousand dollars have been drawn from the Municipal Treasury, for printing the worthless Records of the County Clerk’s office, and nearly as much for the Register’s Records. Who got the $550,000 for which there is nothing valuable to show? Can the smooth, and glossy, and sweetly-scented Connolly, or Wetmore, (or Busteed and his kinsman, Doane,) or Nathan, or Nelson tell us? Of course they can, as they were the corrupt disbursers of this prodigious plunder. Speak, then, ye infernal robbers of the toiling millions, whom ye bamboozle, and starve, and disease, and jam, and ram, and smother in cellars and attics and tenement houses, and whose devoted wives and virgin daughters you drive unto prostitution for food and rent and medicine and apparel. You consummate these pernicious wrongs and oppressions through your Janus and Judas professions of democracy, which no more resemble Jefferson’s, Madison’s, Calhoun’s and Jackson’s political creed, than your sleek hair, and fancy apparel, and thievish propensities resemble the simple garb and integrity of those democratic legions, whose votes you literally steal through your honied political heresies, and the lavish expenditure of the very money you steal from the people, through such jobs as the Record printing. With fast horses, wines, and costly gluttony, and daubed all over with pomatum, you revel high in your dazzling Persian Pavilions, whose construction and gilded furniture, and luscious viands, are stolen directly from the honorable and deluded millions. These are truths, and we will proclaim them from the steeples of the metropolis, and strive to arouse a people who slumber on the confines of volcanoes, while thieves, and rapes, and incendiaries, and midnight assassins are softly crawling towards their throats. Your perjured alienage we might extenuate, but your robbery of the honest and laborious masses we will expose and combat, if we rot in the dungeons of Blackwell’s or Sing Sing. The purest editors of this thievish age are too pliable, and politic, and mercenary for the public welfare; but we will dissect your robbery, if we are crucified with spikes, and our limbs are chopped and hacked with a butcher’s axe, and our flesh, blood, bones and marrow burned to cinders, and our ashes cast upon the whirlwind for annihilation. The axe and faggot we defy. God only do we fear. So, come on, ye teeming caverns of infernal thieves, and seize, and incarcerate, and butcher, and strive to annihilate our mortal scabbard, but you shall not have the soul, which will elude your wicked and revengeful grasp, and have eternal succor in the realms of purity and bliss, if, in its mortal pilgrimage, it be true to God and his pilfered, oppressed, and misanthropic children.

c7a

Ice Cream.

Under the genial, affable, and generous Joseph Gales, of the National Intelligencer, James Watson Webb is the senior editor of our country, and James Gordon Bennett is close at his heels, whose venerable and majestic forms will soon descend the dismal steps of the tomb, and their extraordinary souls appear in the awful presence of a Judge, from whom there is no appeal. Solemn thought! and almost paralysing in its contemplation. Webb was born in America, and Bennett on the mountains of Scotland, where one of his parents survives, to enjoy the success and protection of her faithful son. With James Watson Webb we never exchanged a word, which we can scarcely realise in view of our intimate relations, for twenty years, with other metropolitan editors. But with James Gordon Bennett we have had the closest relations, and we proclaim, with no ordinary emotions of pleasure, that he has treated us more like a brother than a stranger. In our memorable mnemotechnic controversy with Professor Francis Fauvel Gouraud, in 1843, when almost every editor in America was arrayed against us, and eternal ruin seemed inevitable, James Gordon Bennett came to our rescue, and, with George W. Kendall, of the New Orleans Picayune, George D. Prentice, of the Louisville Journal, and Mrs. Walters, of the Boston Transcript, we were sublimely victorious in that scholastic disputation. In consideration of his magnanimous conduct, we wrote to the Herald about one hundred columns from Panama and California, when the civilized world was rocked, to its profoundest basis, with the dazzling gold discoveries, and on our return, he gave us money, and ever cheered us in our illness and penury. When we wrote the inflammatory Report of the noble Alfred Carson, against the Common Council of 1850, we gave it to Mr. Bennett, to the exclusion of the other editors, because he had been true in our adversity, when the hands of all mankind seemed uplifted to annihilate our pale and feeble frame. We had boarded with Horace Greeley, for seven years, at the Graham House, in Barclay street, and all our relations had been of the most friendly character; and yet we deemed it our sacred duty to send our Pilgrim letters to Mr. Bennett, and also give him Carson’s famous Report, to the exclusion of Greeley, because Bennett’s fidelity was next to our Father’s. Greeley was a formidable candidate for the Mayoralty, when Carson’s