SIGERSON (Dr.) of the Royal Irish Academy, has gone and said some mighty unpleasant things about the Atmosphere.  How he found them out, we can’t say, (and we hope he can’t:) but nevertheless, he declares, with the most dreadful calmness, that if you go to visit the Iron Works, you will inevitably breathe a great many hollow Balls of Iron, say about one two thousandth of an inch in diameter!  What these rather diminutive ferruginous globules will do for you, we do not know; but you can see for yourself, that with your lungs full of little iron balls you must certainly be in a “parlous” state.  We should say that we had quite as lief have the air full of those iron spheres, termed Cannon Balls, as it is now in France.  It is true, one couldn’t get many of these inside one with impunity; and equally true, that foundry men do manage to live, with all that iron in their lungs; but we can’t say we desire to “build up an Iron Constitution,” as the P-r-n S-r-p folks say, by the inhaling process.

But SIGERSON is not content to render the neighborhood of Iron Works questionable to the delicate and apprehensive; in “shirt-factory air” he declares, upon honor, “there are little filaments of linen and cotton, with minute eggs” (goodness gracious!) “Threshing machines,” he more than insinuates, “fill the air with fibres, starch-grains and spores,” (spores! think of that;) and (what is truly ha(i)rrowing,) in “stables and barber’s shops” you cannot but breathe “scales and hairs.”  Good Heavens!

What he says of printers and smokers is simply horrible; in short, this dreadful SIGERSON has gone and made life a wretched and lingering (to quote the sensitive Mrs. GAMP,) “progiss through this mortial wale.”

* * * * *

THE WATERING PLACES.

Punchinello’s Vacation.

When we visit ordinary places of summer resort, we require no particular outfit, (it being remembered that the “we” alluded to comprehends only males,) excepting a suitable supply of summer clothes.  But when we go to the Adirondacks,—­certainly a most extraordinary place of summer resort,—­we require an outfit which is as remarkable as the region itself.  Thoroughly understanding this necessity, Mr. PUNCHINELLO made himself entirely ready for a life in the woods before he set out for the Adirondack Mountains.  Witness the completeness of his preparations.

The railroad to the heart of this delightful resort is not yet finished, and when Mr. P. had completed his long journey, in which the excellence and abominabitity,—­so to speak,—­of every American form of conveyance was exhibited, he was glad enough to see before him those charming wilds which are gradually being tamed down by the well-to-do citizens of New York and Boston.  He found that it was necessary, in order to enter the district, to pass through a gate in a high pale-fence, and, to his surprise, he was informed that he must buy a ticket before being allowed to proceed.  On inquiry, he discovered that the Reverend Mr. MURRAY, of Boston, claiming the whole Adirondack region by right of discovery, had fenced it entirely in, and demanded entrance money of all visitors.