HIRAM GREEN AT SARATOGA.

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The season when everybody who can sport a 3 story trunk full of store close, and a fine assortment of Californy diamonds, and rush to a waterin' place, has got heer.

The venerable head of a family pegs away at biziness all winter, and when summer comes his wife and dorters pile off to Niagary, Longbranch, Saratogy, or somewhere else, where they make the Govenor's calf skin wallet cry for quarter, as they rag out in their most celubrious manner.

I'm stoppin' heer at Saratogy, baskin', as it were, in the melliflous sunshine of earth's fairest flowers.

That the reeders of PUNCHINELLO may understand how the season is openin' heer, let an old Stateman, who has served his country for 4 years as Gustise of the Peece, consine his thoughts and observashuns to paper.

The season is openin' rather encouragin'.

The only openin' I know of that can beat it, was openin' clams at a clam-bake down at Coney Iland.

With Hotel proprieters heer it is a good deal like eatin' clams.

When a person has lickt out the meet of a clam he throws the shell away.

So it is with the a-4-sed Hotel Keeper. When he licks all the sweet meet out of his border's calf-skin pocket-book, he has no further use for the empty shell, and consekently chucks him out of the winder as lively as Wall street hussles out a lame duck.

The biggest houses heer are the Congris and Union.

These institushins are toterry fermer, what NOER'S Ark and the grate Eastern was to commerce.

These taverns, bein' mammoth, perserve their mammothness by chargin' mammoth bord bills. Ten cents a breth and fifteen cents a sneeze, any ordinary member of Congress can stand; but when a wooden tooth-pick costs you Twenty-five cents, and a cleen napkin half a dollar, a visitor size for an app'intment as Revenoo Officer in a good fat whiskey district.

There is quite a heep of people at Congress haul.

This bildin' is surrounded by piazas, where the fare sects slam out, araid in gushin' apparel and stoopin' and tremblin' under their lode of false hair, like an Irishman under a hod full of bricks.

In this stoopin' posture their hands hangs down, and the picter seen in nateral history, of a Kangeroo trying to stand ereckt, gives us what is called the Greshun bend.

When the fair bell strikes an attitood, with fore paws danglin' at half-mast, to be admired by a dandifide lot of Tommynoodles of the opposite sects, the opinion of this ere cort is, that insted of Greshun bend, it had orter be called Kangaroo bend.

I notis that old wimmin heer, as well as young ones, sport pretty gorgeous harnesses. Last evenin' I was passin' a fashionable House heer and I saw an anshient femail who was fixed with ribbins, satins, etc. She looked like an advertisement for some glass factory, for she was covered with a small waggin lode of glass diamonds.

She held a poodle purp in her lap. On her head was a lose nite cap from which ringlets and spit curls was danglin', like a lot of fish-worms crawlin' over the top of a bait box.

Thinks I, she was the old woman of the period and no mistake.

It is fashinable heer to go to the Springs and swill down Congress water by the gallon—called Congress water from the fact that it will take the kinks out of a Congressman's hair, mornin's, after indulgin' in a shampain supper, and any Inn Keeper heer, altho' they theirselves may have several diseases hitcht onto them, will assure yon that "Saratogy waters is the waters of life," and is "a sertain cure for any disease ever invented."

From my own observashuns it takes a person about 3 days to begin relishin' Saratogy mineral water. The first day it tastes like the juice of an old soked bute.

The second day it reminds you of brine out of an old musty pork barrel.

The third day it tastes like See water near a New York dock.

Afterwards it begins improvin' until bimebye I would as leave have it as Gin and Tansy.

All the Springs heer are well patronized. Neerly as much so as the bars at the Drinkin' Saloons.

The High Rock Spring is a first-class curiosity.

A good comfortable income could be got out of a quarry which prodooced such stuns as the one from which High Rock water flows.

One oftheinstitushuns of this summer resort is Mister MORRISSEY'S Club-house.

The Hon. JOHN is more of a success at Congress hauls, Saratogy, than he is at the Halls of Congress, Washington, D.C.

When other members git on their high-heeled butes at Washington, debatin' about the admishun of another State, JOHN'S voice is silent.

When debatin' the grate public question of

"Heads I win, tails you lose,"

JOHN is the most elokent man in Saratogy.

If any individual don't beleeve what I say, let him buck agin Mr. M., and he will diskiver that the product of his experience will "Bite like a Jersey skeeter, and sting like one of Recorder HACKETT'S sentences."

As my wife's second cuzzin lives heer, I shall be heer occashonly doorin' the summer seesun, a visitin' her.

I like it heer as a visitor—at Mrs. G's. cuzzin's house, altho', in her eccentricity, she sumtimes doesn't have dinner while I am around, and often she locks the door when I am out after dark.

I sometimes think her family would enjoy theirselves full as well if I wasent there.

Still, that is their look-out, not mine.

A nawin' sensashun withinto me announces the hour of dinner. I must close.

As NAPOLEON remarkt, when he herd that thePlebiscotumhad come out ahead:

"Rest a cat in pase, Hunc e doreo" which is a furrin tongue.

Ewers,

HIRAM GEEEN, Esq.

Lait Gustise of the Peece.

Bach.—A courtship should continue at least two weeks before an offer of marriage is made.

An engagement should not last longer than from two to five days; marriage for an indefinite period.

We will answer your inquiries about divorce in our next.

X.Y.Z.—JACK is the common abbreviation for the name JOHN.

R.—If a man has a number of small children, (waifs,) would it be too thin to call him a wafer?

Answer.—Are the children male or female?

Cris Pin.—We do not know that the Chinese have ever been distinguished as manufacturers of shoes. It is possible, however, that they excel in making slippers, as they are known to be a very slippery people.

Macaroni.—You are right in supposing that the queer little birds by which our parks have been enlivened for some few years past are improperly called English sparrows. That they are German is obvious from the fact of their preferring a Diet of Worms to any other kind of Grub.

Canadianasks us three questions.—1st. Who were the MACDONALDS, when Canada was discovered? 2nd. Who were the CARTIERS? 3d. Is the Government of Ontario a Liberal Government?

Answers.—1st. The name is Italian; the founder of the family was MACRINUS DIONALDI, (who came over with CARTIER,)—which became corrupted by political influence to MACDONALD.—2nd. JACQUES CARTIER was the discoverer of Canada, but the present CARTIER is no relation of his.—3d. The term "Liberal," in connection with the Ontario Government, is merely a figure of speech, as there is no liberality in the concern, which is "run" by SANDFIELD MACDONALD on a cheap plan.

A.B.C. inquires how it is that the editor of theSunhas allowed that journal to become a vehicle of vituperation, respecting Messrs. A.T. STEWART, RIDLEY, and other leading merchants of this city. To this query we reply that the spots on the Sun are increasing so in number and magnitude as to baffle our telescopic investigations. A suggestion in the case is furnished, however, by the fact that the columns of theSunare not lighted up with advertisements from any of the establishments against which it has been discharging its meteoric sneezes. And this may account for the dearth of the milk of journalistic courtesy in the cocoa-nut of the DAN PHOEBUS who "runs the machine."

TheStandardeditorials.

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As everybody knows, PUNCHINELLO absolutely beams with benevolence toward the human race, and a further proof of his disinterested and self-sacrificing generosity is about to be displayed. PUNCHINELLO has been pained to notice the wretched material with which, for want of a well-posted New York correspondent, the country editor of the period (amusingsui generis) is forced to fill his scanty columns under the much-displayed caption, "Our New York Letter.—From Our Own Correspondent." To obviate this difficulty, the following interesting and important items of New York news, which are believed to have never before been published, are gratuitously furnished, and the copyright which applies to the rest of the paper is generously taken off from this particular column.

PUNCHINELLO is forced to admit, with due humility, his unfitness to embellish his letters with the gorgeous and pyrotechnic lavishness of "fancy writing" which graces the letters of the New York Correspondents, but he is sure that the items which follow are infinitely more truthful than are the most of the statements furnished by those highly erudite and ornamental gentlemen. And in infusing such an element of comparative truthfulness into the current statements about New York city, PUNCHINELLO experiences the proud satisfaction of having done his duty.

Items.—The recent unpleasantness between HUGH HASTINGS and THEODORE TILTON has culminated in a duel with howitzers, in which the former had his head carried away, and the latter had both legs shot off.

The fact has leaked out, that the recently reported BEETHOVEN Centennial Jubilee was a myth. There is no such building in New York as was described, and no concerts have taken place. The reports in the local papers were written by unscrupulous Bohemians in the pay of the musicians whom they puffed.

The New York police are notoriously inefficient. They are generally to be found lying drunk across the sidewalk, and 623 carriages are sent around every evening to gather them up.

HORACE GREELEY has joined the Red Stocking Base Ball Nine.

I am a musician. I constitute one twenty-fourth of the orchestra at BOOTH'S. I nightly blow the drum. Thus much by way of introduction to the dear public, whose devoted servant I am, preliminary to a recital of my woes. Whoever has been inside the theatre named has probably noticed the peculiar construction, or rather location, of the enclosure wherein we manipulators of melody are penned up. I know not what cause or provocation the architect of BOOTH'S Theatre may have had, but certain it is that he entertains a horrible spite against musicians. He may have been distracted by diabolical hand-organs, or driven wild by bungling buglists, but why should he include worthy and unoffending artists in his hatred? The revenge of a BORGIA was not more terrible or cruel than that of this architect. He has put the orchestra so far below the stage that no part of the latter is visible to the poor musicians.

Fearful that some unusually tall one should catch an occasional glimpse of the apex of some equally tall performer, he has made the front of the stage project, like an overhanging Table Rock, above the devoted orchestral heads. And there we sit, like a row of human Stoughton bottles, having eyes, yet seeing not the plays that we hear enacted. I am disgusted. I am mad about it. It is a way of "coming it over us," that is contemptible.

What I want to know is, how can I derive any satisfaction from HAMLET'S death when I don't see him die? How can I sit quietly there and see the audience go into convulsions over Major WELLINGTON DE BOOTS, when I can by no possibility see the point of the joke?

Alas! There are no convulsions for me! Every night for two weeks has the Huguenot slain the hectoring HECTOR, and I remain in blissful (no, not blissful) ignorance of the manner of his taking off. It has gone far past endurance, and I humbly trust that the public, or Mr. BERGH, or somebody imbued with philanthropic feelings, will do something for that suffering body—BOOTH'S orchestra.

A SUFFERER.

People are dying of cholera in New York at the rate of 353 a day. Six emigrant ships arrived this morning, having on board 374 cases of small-pox, 685 of cholera, and 897 of yellow fever. No alarm is yet felt, however.

We learn from newspapers that Mrs. GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN drives a splendid four-in-hand turnout at Newport.

Well, Mr. GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN has been driving four-in-hand, too, for years past, and the names of his horses-are Fenianism, Buncombe, GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN, and Blatheremskite.

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Of a certainty Mr. WATTS PHILLIPS made a mistake when he fancied himself a dramatist. Possibly he may have inherited some small share of the poetical talent of his well-known maternal grandfather,—the author of "Divine and Moral Songs for Children," but he has shown no sign of the eminent histrionic genus which has made his elder brother, Mr. WENDELL PHILLIPS, so popular a Reformer. Still, if he was bent upon writing plays he should have confined himself to dramatizing the more quiet and domestic of Dr. WATTS'S poems. "How doth the little busy bee"—for example—could have been turned into quite a nice little five-act drama, had Mr. PHILLIPS condescended to grapple with so simple a subject. But no, he must indulge in battles, and Sepoys, and Butchers of St. BARTHOLOMEW, and dancing girls and things. He will write sensational plays, let the consequences be what they may. Hence we are made to suffer fromNot Guilty, The Huguenot, and similar harrowing spectacles. TheHuguenot, which has just died a lingering death at BOOTH'S Theatre, is an aggravated case of dramatic misdemeanor on the part of the author, since it is wantonly stretched out into five acts, when it could properly be compressed into three. A strict compliance with the old maxim, "De mortuis nil desperandum nisi prius," (I haven't quite forgotten my Latin yet,) would oblige me to refrain from abusing it, now that it is happily dead; but, as another proverb puts it, "The law knows no necessity," and I therefore can do as I choose. Here, then, is its corpse, exhumed as a warning to those who may be about to witness any other of Mr. PHILLIPS'S dramas. I flatter myself that the disinterested public will agree with me, that if all the Huguenots were as tedious as Mr. WATTS PHILLIPS'S privateHuguenot, the massacre of St. BARTHOLOMEW was a pleasing manifestation of a very natural and commendable indignation on the part of their much-suffering fellow-citizens not of Protestant descent.

ACT I.—Scene, a tavern in the outskirts of Paris. RENE,the Huguenot, is pretending to sleep on an uncomfortable wooden bench. A drunken villain insults a lovely gipsy. RENEgets up and kills him, and escapes his pursuers by falling over a convenient precipice. Curtain.

Mr. WALLER. (Soliloquizing behind the scene.) "To-morrow I'll have a comfortable bench to sleep on, if I have to take MACGONIGLE'S sofa. I won't play RENE again if I have to lie for twenty minutes on that infamous board bench!"

COMIC MAN. (Who is believed to readHARPER'S "Drawer.'") "You know WATTS PHILLIPS is a grandson of old Dr. WATTS. Now here's a genealogical joke. If TOM'S father is DICK'S son, what relation is DICK to TOM?"

ACCOMPANYING FRIEND. "Nephew? niece? mother-in-law?—I give it up!"

COMIC MAN. "I thought you would. Well, he is—Upon my word I forget the answer, but it's a first rate one. I've got it down at the office, anyhow!"

ACT II.—Scene, the interior of a Duchess's drawing-room. EnterRENEthrough the window.

RENE. "I have killed a man and am pursued. Save me!"

DUCHESS. (Aside.) "Perhaps he is an influential politician, and may get my son an office in the Street Department." To RENE.—"Sir, I will save you. Get behind the curtain." (Enter mob of drunken soldiers.)

FIRST SOLDIER. "Your Grace's son has just been killed. I see the murderer's legs behind the curtain."

DUCHESS. "You can't have him, for I have promised to save him. Get out, the whole lot of you. Come here, you murderous wretch. I've saved you this time, but I won't do it again. Here comes the officer to seize you." (He is seized. Curtain.)

FIRST CRITICAL PERSON. "How do you like it?"

SECOND CRITICAL PERSON. "I hardly think the unities are fixed up just the way they should be, but the scenery is fair, and WALLER isn't so bad."

COMIC PERSON. "Now here's another joke which you can't guess. Said a little four-year-old boy, 'My father and mother have a daughter who is not my sister.' Now what relation was she to the boy?"

ACCOMPANYING FRIEND. (Looking in vain for a policeman, but finding None.) "I don't know, I'm sure."

COMIC PERSON. "Give it up, do you? Why, she was his sister; the boy lied, you see. Ha! ha! ha!"

ACT III.—Scene, the outside of a prison in whichRENEis confined. A confederate breaks in and sets it on fire. RENEescapes. Curtain.

YOUNG LADY. "Pa, why did you come here, if you intended to sleep all the time, and never speak a word to me."

PA. "Because, my dear, I am troubled with inability to sleep. Morphine won't help me, but WATTS PHILLIPS will. My physician tells me that he always prescribes one of PHILLIPS'S plays in cases like mine."

COMIC PERSON. "Now here's another one. This will tickle you, for it's first rate. You ought to read the "Drawer," and remember the anecdotes, so that you can repeat them when you're in company. That's the way I get up all the good things I say. O! this is the question I was going to ask you. Said a man, 'Father and mother have I none, but this—'"

ACCOMPANYING FRIEND. (With great precipitation.) "Excuse me, but I see a friend in a box whom I must speak to." (Flies.)

COMIC PERSON. "Never mind, I'll tell it to the usher the first time he comes this way."

ACT IV.—RENEis discovered, disguised as a monk.

RENE. "The hounds of justice dog me. Therefore I will keep in their way until I have seen the lovely niece of the Duchess. She must love me when she learns that I have killed her cousin."Curtain.

ONE-HALF OF THE AUDIENCE. "Is that really the whole of the act?"

THE OTHER HALF. "Thank goodness! it really is."

ACT V.—Scene, the palace of the Duchess. EnterRENEand theLOVELY NIECE.

RENE. "The hounds of justice are laying for me just outside the door. Fly with me, my beloved!" (Enter theDUCHESS.)

DUCHESS. "She will not fly if I am at all acquainted with myself. Gyurll, this fellow murdered my son, and I will give him up to justice." (EnterCOURT PHYSICIAN.)

COURT PHYSICIAN. "Your Grace is mistaken. True, your son lay dead for a month or two, but by a judicious application of four dozen bottles of my "Universal Hair Restorer and Consumption Cure," he has recovered. Here he comes."

DUCHESS. "'Tis he! 'Tis my son, though rather thin about the legs. RENE, I forgive you. Marry the gyurrll if you wish. Bless you, my children."Curtain.

FIRST USHER. "Go round, somebody, and wake the people up. If you don't, they'll sit here and snore all night"

SECOND USHER. "No they won't. They'll wake up, now the play is over."

And the event proves that he is right. Slowly and gapingly the audience arises, strolls sleepily out of the door, and entering wrong stages, is carried to all manner of wrong destinations. So strong is the soporific influence of the Phillipic drama, that not until hours after the play is over, does the average spectator become sufficiently wakeful to express an intelligible regret that Mr. WALLER and Mrs. MOLLENHAUER should not have made their reappearance on the stage in some drama in which they could have had an opportunity to act, and in which the public could have taken some little interest.

MATADOR.

Messrs. BROCKWAY, brewers, have lately been subjected to law process for the impropriety of "cleansing" revenue stamps connected with the ale business, with the view of using them over again.

In one point of view there seems to have been a hardship in the case referred to. Millions of people are daily occupied in dirtying our lovely currency stamps, as well as in "using them over again," and yet nobody has ever been "brought up" for the diabolical act.

Weekly meetings are being held by the Department of Docks, to hear suggestions from inventors. It is expected, of course, that the latter will be willing to be tried by their Piers.

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It is rather a pleasing recreation, when no other is at hand, to read the letters of some of the New York correspondents who do the heavy Trite and the small Horrible for the outside barbaric folios. Standing on the shore of their Firth of Froth, so to speak, we watch with considerable interest the unique soarings and divings of "Our Own." One of these writers informs the readers of a Boston paper that "There is a great deal of business talent in New York," and that "There is a great deal of what is called fashionable society in New York."Thereis wisdom in solid chunks. It is highly important that such facts as these should be stated seriously in State street and be conned in Beacon street. "Our Own," be it remembered, is speaking of the "Tone of Society," and he proceeds to remark, with great pertinence, that in our unfortunate city, "There is a coarse, rude, uncivil way of doing business, so general as to attract attention. If you do not take a hack at the impertinent solicitation of the driver, he will unquestionably curse you." "The telegraph operator grabs your message and eyes you as if you were a pickpocket." Now, Mr. PUNCHINELLO does not offer himself as an apologist for the abusive and obstreperous hackman, but he wishes to say that in the course of his active and eventful career he has had various conferences with those servants of the sidewalk, and he has never yet been unquestionably cursed by any one of the whole bad lot. Only yesterday he had occasion to intimate to one of these tide-waiters, that vehicular aid was not desired. There was a merry twinkle in the eye of the Rejected, and he added, as an additional persuader, "Baggage Smashed!" Mr. PUNCHINELLO felt gratified at sincerity in an unexpected direction.

"Our correspondent" is also exercised on the old-time grievance of ladies in the horse-cars. He declares that "It is the rarest thing in the world for a New York lady to return the slightest acknowledgement for a seat tendered to her. She takes the seat as if it were her right,and gives the gentleman a withering look for his impertinence in being in it when she entered."

PUNCHINELLO has been more fortunate. He has been crowded by sitters, and punched with umbrellas; his eloquent nose has been offended by filthy straw, full often, in his Avenue travel, until he hopes fervently that we may have a new method of getting up and down town; it isn't pleasant to beknockeddown; but he has never yet beenwithered.

Oh, no. He does not require a lady to genuflect before him to show her appreciation of a gentlemanly act. Mr. PUNCHINELLO, being a gentleman of the old school, and of several colleges and universities, is quite satisfied by a nod and a smile, or "Thank you." And one or the other he is pretty certain to receive. He never encounters the withering look which madam gives to other men to mad 'em. But alas for "our own" unlucky correspondent!

PUNCHINELLO has often had occasion to confer with the gentlemen who "blow messages on the hollow wire," as they say out at Fort Laramie,—but he disclaims ever having been looked upon as a pick-pocket. Behold his smiling face and say if any telegraph operator could be so slow as to believe him a fingerer of other men's fobs.

Why does the Ocean Commerce of America remind one of the railings of a gallery? Because, just now, it is simply Ballast Trade.

A citizen of Dubuque is said by a newspaper itemizer to have lately developed a tail. We do not believe it; but that the author of the story is a tale-bearer, himself, is a matter beyond question.

ANTONIA. A Novel. By GEORGE SAND. Boston: ROBERTS BROTHERS.

The popularity of Madame DUDEVANT'S writings is now at its zenith, and the present volume is a very welcome addition to those already so well set forth by Messrs. ROBERTS. It has been translated into excellent idiomatic English by Miss VIRGINIA VAUGHAN.

POEMS. By DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. Boston: ROBERTS BROTHERS.

Comparatively new to the public as a poet, Mr. D. G. ROSSETTI has yet evinced so much of the poetic fire in his contributions to magazine literature, from time to time, as to warrant the reproduction of them in book form, and this has been done in a very tasteful manner by Messrs. ROBERTS.

By an error in our notice of "The Men who Advertise," (see PUNCHINELLO No. 13,) the name of the publishers of that useful volume, Messrs. G.P. ROWELL & Co., was omitted.

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