Prisoner, on being asked by the magistrate whether he had any references respecting character to give, replied in the negative, whereupon orders were issued to lock him up, pending the appearance of Mr. PUNCHINELLO, who will have some statements to make about him at a future day. A reward of $5,000 has been offered for any information about the pewter squirt, and particularly as to when, and by whom it was made; and, as detectives are now engaged in working up the case, there can be but little doubt that the vile instrument will ere long be identified. * * * * * DISTRESSING. Some awful smasher of cherished notions is trying to make out that ROUGET DE LISLE was not the real author of the famous _Marseillaise_, but that he stole it from the Germans. It pains us to contemplate the possibility of the charge being true, but, should it prove to be so, we suggest that the name of the accepted author be changed from ROUGET to ROGUEY DE LISLE. * * * * * [Illustration: "WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT?" _Servant._ "MASSA FENTON AND MASSA CONKLIN HAVE SENT DIS YERE FOUNDLIN' TO YER, TO TOOK KEER OF FOR A FEW WEEKS." _Matron Greeley._ "O: DEAR, DEAR! AND IF IT SHOULD DIE ON MY HANDS, WHO'S TO PAY THE FUNERAL EXPENSES?"] * * * * * HIRAM GREEN AMONG THE FAT MEN. The "Last Gustive" attends the Annual Clam-Bake. Empires may totter and Dienastys pass in their checks. Politicians may steal the Goddess of Liberty poorer than JOB'S old Maskaline Gobbler. J. FISK, Jr., may set the heel of his bute down onto the neck of Rail Rodes--Steambotes--ballet gals, and all that sort o' thing, and this mundane speer will jog along, as slick as a pin, and no questions asked. But deprive a Fat man of his little clam-bake, and it would be full as pleasant as settin' down onto a Hornet's nest, when the Hornet family were all to home. That's so. Another cargo of clams has gone to that born whence no clam returns, onless you ram your finger down your throte, or take an Emetick. In the words of Commodore PERRY, who is, alas! no more. "The misfortenit bivalves meet the Fat man, and they're his'n." Altho' I'me not much on the fat order myself, I received an invitation to attend the grate Clam-bake. Mrs. GREEN put me up a lunch to eat on the cars, and robin' myself in a cleen biled shirt, I sholdered my umbreller and left Skeensboro. The seen at Union Park was sublime with plenty of Ham fat. If all flesh is grass, thought I, when old _tempus fugit_ comes along with his mowin' masheen to cut this crop of fat men, I reckon he will have to hire some of his nabor's barns, to help hold all of his hay. Great mountins of hooman flesh were bobbin' about like kernals of corn on a red hot stove, remindin' me of a corn field full of punkins set up on clothes pins. The little heads on top of the great sweating bodies, looked as if they were sleev buttons drove in the top of the Punkins.