It seems, however, that
      while digging in the centre of the emperors garden, (which, you
      know, covers the whole island), some of the workmen unearthed a
      cubical and evidently chiseled block of granite, weighing several
      hundred pounds. It was in good preservation, having received,
      apparently, little injury from the convulsion which entombed it. On one of its surfaces was a marble slab with (only think of it!) an inscription—a legible inscription. Pundit is in ecstacies. Upon detaching the slab, a cavity appeared, containing a leaden
      box filled with various coins, a long scroll of names, several
      documents which appear to resemble newspapers, with other matters
      of intense interest to the antiquarian! There can be no doubt
      that all these are genuine Amriccan relics belonging to the tribe
      called Knickerbocker. The papers thrown on board our balloon are
      filled with fac-similes of the coins, MSS., typography, &c., &c.
      I copy for your amusement the Knickerbocker inscription on the
      marble slab:—

          This Corner Stone of a Monument to
                  The Memory of
                GEORGE WASHINGTON
          Was Laid With Appropriate Ceremonies
                    on the
             19th Day of October, 1847
          The anniversary of the surrender of
                 Lord Cornwallis
          to General Washington at Yorktown
                 A. D. 1781
            Under the Auspices of the
          Washington Monument Association of
                the city of New York

      This, as I give it, is a verbatim translation done by Pundit
      himself, so there can be no mistake about it. From the few words
      thus preserved, we glean several important items of knowledge,
      not the least interesting of which is the fact that a thousand
      years ago actual monuments had fallen into disuse—as was all very
      proper—the people contenting themselves, as we do now, with a
      mere indication of the design to erect a monument at some future
      time; a corner-stone being cautiously laid by itself “solitary
      and alone” (excuse me for quoting the great American poet
      Benton! ), as a guarantee of the magnanimous intention. We
      ascertain, too, very distinctly, from this admirable inscription,
      the how as well as the where and the what, of the great surrender
      in question. As to the where, it was Yorktown (wherever that
      was), and as to the what, it was General Cornwallis (no doubt
      some wealthy dealer in corn). He was surrendered. The inscription
      commemorates the surrender of—what?—why, “of Lord Cornwallis.”
      The only question is what could the savages wish him surrendered
      for. But when we remember that these savages were undoubtedly
      cannibals, we are led to the conclusion that they intended him
      for sausage. As to the how of the surrender, no language can be
      more explicit. Lord Cornwallis was surrendered (for sausage)
      “under the auspices of the Washington Monument Association”—no
      doubt a charitable institution for the depositing of
      corner-stones.—But, Heaven bless me! what is the matter? Ah, I
      see—the balloon has collapsed, and we shall have a tumble into
      the sea. I have, therefore, only time enough to add that, from a
      hasty inspection of the fac-similes of newspapers, &c., &c., I
      find that the great men in those days among the Amriccans, were
      one John, a smith, and one Zacchary, a tailor. Good-bye, until I see you again. Whether you ever get this letter
      or not is point of little importance, as I write altogether for
      my own amusement. I shall cork the MS. up in a bottle, however,
      and throw it into the sea. Yours everlastingly,
       PUNDITA. THE DUC DE L’OMELETTE. And stepped at once into a cooler clime.—_Cowper_. Keats fell by a criticism. Who was it died of “The Andromache”? {*1} Ignoble souls!—De L’Omelette perished of an ortolan. _L’histoire en est brève_. Assist me, Spirit of Apicius! A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting,
      indolent, to the _Chaussée D’Antin_, from its home in far Peru. From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De
      L’Omelette, six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird. That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau
      he reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his
      loyalty in outbidding his king—the notorious ottoman of Cadêt. He buries his face in the pillow. The clock strikes! Unable to
      restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this
      moment the door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo! the most delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men! But what inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of
      the Duc?—“_Horreur!—chien! Baptiste!—l’oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet
      oiseau modeste que tu as déshabillé de ses plumes, et que tu as
      servi sans papier!_” It is superfluous to say more:—the Duc
      expired in a paroxysm of disgust. “Ha! ha! ha!” said his Grace on the third day after his decease. “He! he! he!” replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with
      an air of _hauteur_. “Why, surely you are not serious,” retorted De L’Omelette. “I
      have sinned—c’est vrai—but, my good sir, consider!—you have no
      actual intention of putting such—such barbarous threats into
      execution.”

      “No _what?_” said his majesty—“come, sir, strip!”

      “Strip, indeed! very pretty i’ faith! no, sir, I shall _not_
      strip. Who are you, pray, that I, Duc De L’Omelette, Prince de
      Foie-Gras, just come of age, author of the ‘Mazurkiad,’ and
      Member of the Academy, should divest myself at your bidding of
      the sweetest pantaloons ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest
      _robe-de-chambre_ ever put together by Rombêrt—to say nothing of
      the taking my hair out of paper—not to mention the trouble I
      should have in drawing off my gloves?”

      “Who am I?—ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took
      thee, just now, from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou
      wast curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent
      thee,—my Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou
      sayest were made by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen
      drawers, and thy _robe-de-chambre_ is a shroud of no scanty
      dimensions.”

      “Sir!” replied the Duc, “I am not to be insulted with
      impunity!—Sir! I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging
      this insult!—Sir! you shall hear from me! in the meantime _au
      revoir!_”—and the Duc was bowing himself out of the Satanic
      presence, when he was interrupted and brought back by a gentleman
      in waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrugged
      his shoulders, reflected.