(Signed) Sporting Spec, vice PUNCHINELLO.

After waiting for Mr. BENNETT’S gig, or water-buggy, to row up and award the prize, your special nodded majestically to the Oar-acular, who thereupon steamed slowly up the bay again, arriving at the Battery in the rosy dawn.

* * * * *

PRUSSIA’S POSITION PHILOSOPHICALLY PUT.

German metaphysicians have settled so completely to the satisfaction of their countrymen that “being” and “not being” are identical, that this may serve to explain how, while holding possession of her share in the partition of Poland, Prussia professes to be virtuously indignant at France for retaining Alsace and Lorraine.

* * * * *

OUT OF THE PAN INTO THE FIRE.

What with BISMARCK’S pangerrmanism, the CZAR’S panslavism, NAPOLEON’S panlatinism, the spread of pantheism, the threatened metamorphosis of pantalettes into pantaloons, ANDREWS’ pantarchy, and Fox’s pantomime, the old regime seems going precipitately to pot.

* * * * *

A JUDICIOUS JEW.

Such was the one who wished to contract for the sweepings of Steinway Hall when he heard that NILSSON showered throughout the room her precious tones.

* * * * *

EXIT “SUN.”

The newsboys in the streets no longer cry The Sun, with stentorian voices, but in gentle whispers, fearing to disturb the repose of that waning luminary.

* * * * *

TAPPING THE TILL.

Is there any connection between the quite common offence in New York of “tapping the till,” and the nomination of a Mr. TAPPAN for Comptroller by the JOHN REAL Democracy?

* * * * *

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS

Pretty Fraeulein Margarat asks me to go to church with her.  She is not a New Yorker—­or, as Webster would probably say,—­a New Yorkeress.  She is rural in her ways and thoughts, a daisy of the fields.  Never having seen the interior of a city church, she asks me to go with her to any Protestant church that I may select.  So we go to the shrine of St. APOLLOS, which, I am told, is regarded as one of the most fashionable houses in the city.

It is a matinee service that we elect to attend.  A long procession of carriages is drawn up beside the building as we enter, and I recognize in the coachmen the familiar faces that wait outside the ACADEMY on opera nights.  The organ overture is already begun, and the audience is rapidly assembling.  We enter the parquette—­I should say, the body of the church—­and, standing in picturesque attitudes against the wall, wait for the coming of the usher.  We continue to wait.  Evidently the usher, in common with his kind, despises those who are not holders of reserved seats.  He welcomes with a smile the owners of private boxes—­pews, I mean—­and shows them politely up the aisle; but for us, who have not even an order from the mana—­, sexton, I should say—­he has neither smile nor glance.