The island was dumped down anywhere, without reference to its former place.  When the Alabama claims are settled, Mr. P. will go back and adjust it properly.

Mr. P. gained nothing by this trip but the knowledge that there are but 980 of these islands, which an unscrupulous monarchy imposes upon a credulous people as a full thousand, and the gloom which would naturally pervade a man, after an occurrence of the kind just narrated.

On his way home, he stopped for supper at Albany, and there he met CYRUS W. FIELD and Commodore VANDERBILT.  One of these gentlemen was looking very happy and the other very doleful.

(Illustration:  The tall gentleman in the picture is Mr. FIELD—­not that he is really so very tall—­but he is elevated.  The short one is the Commodore—­so drawn, not because he is short, but because he is depressed.)

After the compliments of the season, (warm ones,) Mr. P. asked his friends how the war in Europe affected them.

“Gloriously!” cried Mr. FIELD.  “Nothing could be better.  The messages fly over our cables like—­like—­like lightning.  Why, sir, I wish they would keep up the war for ten years.”

“And you, sir?” said Mr. P. to the Commodore.

“Oh, I hate it!” said VANDERBILT.  “They send neither men nor munitions by our road.  It is an absolute dead loss of hundreds of thousands of dollars to me that my railroad is on this side of the ocean.  I shall never cease to deplore it.”

“But sir,” said Mr. P. “the war may cause a great exportation of grain from the West, and then your road will profit.”

“Don’t believe it,” said the Commodore.  “The war will stop exportation.”

“It goes against the grain with him, any way you fix it,” said Mr. FIELD, with a festive air.  “He can’t carry any messages.”

“On a cabalistic cable,” remarked Mr. P.

CYRUS smiled.

“No, air,” said the Commodore, reverting to his grievances.  “Never has such a loss happened to me, since I went into New York Centrals.”

“Well, I tell you, VANDY,” said Mr. FIELD, “if you and other grasping creatures had kept away from New York’s entrails it would have been much better for the body corporate of the State.”

“Look here!” cried the Commodore, in a rage.

Mr. FIELD looked there, but Mr. P. didn’t.  He thought it was time to go for his train, and he went.

* * * * *

SEVERAL UNSAVORY RENDERINGS.

Why there should be such a thing as a New York Rendering Company is a puzzle to thoughtful minds.  Persons resident in certain districts of the city, that border on the North River, though, are cognizant of that Company.  The North River nose knows the Co., and would close itself to it, only that it is too close upon it to close effectually.