don’t make a millionth as much on their paper and advertisements, as they do on black mail. They are the source of all governmental evil.

Patient—Them’s my sentiments exactly. Good morning. Doctor.

Doctor—Good morning, patient. [Exeunt.]

THIRD INTERVIEW.

Patient—Good evening, Doctor.

Doctor—Good evening.

Patient—Well, Doctor, the Herald, Times, and Tribune have cured me. I swow, Doctor, how Bennett, Greeley, and Raymond can lie. I read their fibs, white and black, and their billingsgate of each other, and their abuse of private citizens, and contractors, and politicians, (which seemed like polite invitations for interested parties to walk up to their gilded offices and settle,) until my blood run cold, and icicles formed in my veins, and my zig-zag circulation flew about and rushed from my toes, fingers, nose, ears, heart, and liver, into my skull, until my dysentery was reduced from ten to four times a day; and then I put ice on my head, and a poultice over my navel, and bathed my spleen with brandy, and went to bed, and slept like Rip Van Winkle, and I now feel as well as I did at my birth,—and I have come to express my gratitude, and pay you a standing fee for disclosing the important secret, that I can always cure the piles and dysentery by reading the abominable lies and black mail editorials of the Herald, Times, and Tribune.

Doctor—I am of a costive nature, and never have the piles nor dysentery, and therefore never read those disreputable newspapers; but if I ever should have the cholera, or violent diarrhœa, I should read those public journals for my life, as I have cured dysentery patients for years by recommending the perusal of those journals for only half an hour. And I shall always recommend Branch’s Alligator for costiveness.

Patient—Don’t mention the Alligator, if you please, Doctor, because I fear it will start my bowels, and again set them in a terrible and dangerous commotion. So, good night, Doctor, and may God forever bless you.

Doctor—Good night, sir.

Patient—Remember me kindly to your wife and children, Doctor.

Doctor—I will.

Patient—Good night.

Doctor—Good night. [Exeunt.]

The Doctor closes the door, and Patient skips up the street, singing, a la Bayadere:

Happy am I,
From piles I’m free,
Why are not all
Merry like me?

Stephen H. Branch’s Alligator.

NEW YORK, SATURDAY, JUNE 12, 1858.

c7a

War with Great Britain.

Don’t let the grannies and daddies get dangerously nervous over the bloody rumors from Washington. Drink your tea, good matrons, and take your snuff, old gentlemen, as strong as ever, and talk as serenely and happily of other days, as though we were to have perpetual peace. There will be no war between parent and child, so long as New York and Liverpool exist in mutual interest and brotherly affection. For these two cities, with their mighty commerce, are the peaceful arbiters of nations, and will be, after all who now behold the Universe have returned to ashes, and coming generations cannot find their mortal caverns.

c7b

Tremendous Display of Crinoline.

[WALLACK’S THEATRE JUST OUT—A DRIZZLING RAIN.]

Omnibus Driver—Broadway—ride up?

Dad (on sidewalk)—I say, driver, have you got room for all my family?

Driver—How many have you got?

Dad—Myself and two female children—two girls in their teens, and my wife and mother.

Driver—Yes, daddy, I can accommodate you, as I have just got room for yourself, old boy, and your two female children, and two kegs, and your two girls in their teens, and two barrels, and for your wife and mother, and two hogsheads. Jump in, old cock, with all your tribes and trappings.

Dad—Thank you, driver, thank you,—but darn your impudent reflections about crinoline. But it rains, and I’m anxious to get home, and I’ll forgive your facetious comments this time. There, now, get in wife, and mother, and girls, and children—get in as fast as possible, and get out of the rain, and save your bonnets, and shawls, and silks, and kegs, barrels, and hogsheads, that our waggish driver prates of with such truthful severity.

Driver (peeping through the hole)—Are you all right inside, daddy? Crinoline all nicely arranged and tucked in? eh? old cock?

Dad—Go ahead, you rascal. I’ll tell Mayor Tiemann and Peter Cooper of your didos, and have you arrested.

Driver—Laughs, and snaps his whip, and away they go.

c7c

A Queer Letter.

New York, May 28th, 1858.

Stephen H. Branch, Esq.—

Dear Sir,—As a reader of your rapacious Alligator, and a warm sympathiser with you throughout your misfortunes, I think I am entitled to make a suggestion, which I believe to be for your own good. I want to praise the manner in which you have conducted your Journal thus far, and it is because I do not, wish to see it unworthy of consideration that I have taken the liberty to write to you—a perfect stranger, as far as personal acquaintance goes. Your sanguinary and characteristic fearless attacks on the magnates of Tammany and the City Hall have won you great favor among the honest and peaceful citizens of New York, as well as elsewhere, but I am of opinion that an attack on the city press would only be productive of serious mischief to yourself. In your latest number, you mention the apparent slight of the Alligator by Bennett, Greeley, and Raymond, and avow your intention to “let up” on them in your next. I seriously advise you not to do it. It will hurt you. Only a week since you spoke of your unwillingness to attack and expose Russell, because he is Bennett’s friend, who aided you in your misfortunes. It may hurt the man’s feelings somewhat to see his friends or relations calumniated or condemned, but it is much worse (and savors of ingratitude in the assailant) to be set upon himself. Besides, if you wake the wrath of these three Leviathans, it will take a bigger and stronger animal than the Alligator to extinguish it. It is therefore a matter of policy in you not to weaken yourself by entering into a war with the Herald, Times, or Tribune. You are yet weak, and need all the help you can possibly obtain. You know yourself that newspapers are not established in a day, however high their aim or select their contributions, and to be drawn into a controversy with the papers named, will be almost fatal to your editorial prospects.

Again: they may have reasons for not noticing your paper, as a press of business, neglect, overlooking, and so forth, and may, when a more convenient season presents itself, give you a highly flavored puff. Would it not be better to ask them privately to speak favorably of your new enterprise, than to attempt to force them to do it by a public attack in your paper?

Yours very respectfully, and with