_Patient_—Well, Doctor, the _Herald_, _Times_, and _Tribune_ have cured me. I swow, Doctor, how Bennett, Greeley, and Raymond can lie. I read their fibs, white and black, and their billingsgate of each other, and their abuse of private citizens, and contractors, and politicians, (which seemed like polite invitations for interested parties to walk up to their gilded offices and settle,) until my blood run cold, and icicles formed in my veins, and my zig-zag circulation flew about and rushed from my toes, fingers, nose, ears, heart, and liver, into my skull, until my dysentery was reduced from ten to four times a day; and then I put ice on my head, and a poultice over my navel, and bathed my spleen with brandy, and went to bed, and slept like Rip Van Winkle, and I now feel as well as I did at my birth,—and I have come to express my gratitude, and pay you a standing fee for disclosing the important secret, that I can always cure the piles and dysentery by reading the abominable lies and black mail editorials of the _Herald_, _Times_, and _Tribune_. _Doctor_—I am of a costive nature, and never have the piles nor dysentery, and therefore never read those disreputable newspapers; but if I ever should have the cholera, or violent diarrhœa, I should read those public journals for my life, as I have cured dysentery patients for years by recommending the perusal of those journals for only half an hour. And I shall always recommend _Branch’s Alligator_ for costiveness. _Patient_—Don’t mention the _Alligator_, if you please, Doctor, because I fear it will start my bowels, and again set them in a terrible and dangerous commotion. So, good night, Doctor, and may God forever bless you. _Doctor_—Good night, sir. _Patient_—Remember me kindly to your wife and children, Doctor. _Doctor_—I will. _Patient_—Good night. _Doctor_—Good night. [_Exeunt._] The Doctor closes the door, and Patient skips up the street, singing, _a la Bayadere_: Happy am I, From piles I’m free, Why are not all Merry like me? Stephen H. Branch’s Alligator. NEW YORK, SATURDAY, JUNE 12, 1858. War with Great Britain. Don’t let the grannies and daddies get dangerously nervous over the bloody rumors from Washington. Drink your tea, good matrons, and take your snuff, old gentlemen, as strong as ever, and talk as serenely and happily of other days, as though we were to have perpetual peace. There will be no war between parent and child, so long as New York and Liverpool exist in mutual interest and brotherly affection. For these two cities, with their mighty commerce, are the peaceful arbiters of nations, and will be, after all who now behold the Universe have returned to ashes, and coming generations cannot find their mortal caverns. Tremendous Display of Crinoline. [WALLACK’S THEATRE JUST OUT—A DRIZZLING RAIN.] _Omnibus Driver_—Broadway—ride up? _Dad_ (on sidewalk)—I say, driver, have you got room for all my family? _Driver_—How many have you got?