This was nothing! When we entered the building the international surgeons came down upon us like--like--like “a wolf on the fold.” This was the first case, and they were spoiling for a job. Our cousin looked in their eager and varied faces, he gazed upon the assortment of cutlery flashing around him--his lip quivered--he closed his eyes--and fainted. In less than two seconds that UNFORTUNATE COUNTRYMAN would have been dissected, and the doctors engaged in mortal strife above his severed limbs, had not a most diabolical uproar outside suddenly distracted their attention. We all rushed to the grounds, and a blood-freezing scene of terror met our eyes. [“LONE SHIRT” ON THE CHINESE QUESTION.] Mr. Lone Shirt, Mr. Full o’ the Rye, and Man with the Seven Big Bunions, Esq., the Chiefs of the Indian encampment, had been illustrating their native customs by a sudden RAID ON THE CHINESE LAUNDRY. They had attired themselves in the napkins, towels, and nightcaps there contained, painted themselves with the washing blue, burnt down the building, and were just about finishing up things by scalping the startled celestials when we burst out upon them. The Chinese doctors took one glance at affairs, swallowed their lizards, and jumped into the lake north of Machinery Hall. The Exhibition Military, led by the Marine Cavalry, hurried towards the fearful scene. Would they be in time? The tomahawks of the Indians were raised, their hands grasped firmly the pigtails of their victims--when suddenly--behold!--The savages grew rigid as though turned to stone, motionless they stood with tomahawks still elevated, their hands still pigtailentwisted--Oh providential chance!--They had swallowed the starch contained in the laundry, and this stiffening was the fortuitous result. The managers released the half dead Chinamen, and pointed out to Messrs. Lone Shirt, Full o’ the Rye, and Man with the Seven Big Bunions, the impropriety of their conduct. When the chieftains thawed limber, they promised solemnly not to repeat anything of the kind, and smoked the liberty bell pipe with the laundrymen. This incident saved our cousin’s life. When we returned to the hospital, he had vanished, much to the sorrow and chagrin of the disappointed M.D.’s. We did not feel like returning to the Main Hall immediately after this. We thought a stroll through Memorial Hall might be soothing to our system, and so we took it. Philadelphians familiar with that CHAMBER OF HORRORS in old Fairmount Park, which the Park Commissioners persist in styling an Art Gallery, have been bred up to a proper appreciation of the “pageant which rose like an exhalation” before our admiring eyes; upon others, especially foreigners, the effect must have been tremendous.