OUR PORTFOLIO.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: You may have heard of a slight breeze recently stirring at the Custom House, consequent upon the removal of Mr. GRINNELL and the appointment of the Hon. THOMAS MURPHY. The savage feelings which this event aroused have sufficiently subsided to allow a plain statement of the causes which led to it. At the time, it was the opinion of many that our worthy Chief Magistrate, convinced that things were getting along too smoothly in this State, had determined to infuse new life into both men and measures here. He didn't find it such a hard job "infusing" the measures, but when he came to the men all the usual machinery failed, and he had to get out a new patent battering-ram to wake them up. Such, I say, at least, was the popular impression, confirmed by the subsequent appearance of the persons against whom its operations were directed; but the initiated knew better. A few months ago a private commission, whose expenses were defrayed out of the Secret Service Fund, was sent to California to explore the region thereabouts for any hitherto undiscovered connection of the GRANT genealogical tree. For a long time the search was in vain, but finally the commission unearthed a chap in the mining district, who hadn't heard of LEE'S surrender yet, but whose sister had married a nephew of Mrs. GRANT'S brother-in-law. The poor fellow was promptly captured, combed and curried, and shipped East via Pacific Railroad, with a label across his back inscribed,

"Care of HIS EXCELLENCY, U. S. GRANT,
C.O.D."
Washington, D.C.

On his arrival the express charges were duly paid, and he was billeted at the White House, while orders were sent to the heads of the different departments to report what vacancies existed. Brief replies were returned from each, to the effect that another straw laid on the camel's back would break it, and, moved by a constitutional antipathy to breaking camel's backs, the President desisted from his efforts in those quarters. In this dilemma, the usual recourse was had to the New York Custom House, and Mr. GRINNELL was sounded as to what he could do for the last of the GRANTS. This is what he wrote:

"Not even standing-room left. I have more branches of your genealogical tree now than would serve to thatch the Capitol. The federal turkey at this port is stuffed to bursting. You may think that the old Exchange Building, which we now occupy, is a secure building, and so it is, but I don't think it could hold me if another 'connection' is coming. My blue book divides these family contributions to the service of the country into three orders, viz.: 'GRANT,' 'DENT,' and 'SHARPE.' Of the order 'GRANT' I have fifteen in the cellar, forty-seven on the first and second floors, and ten in the attic; of the order 'DENT, 'nineteen on the two floors, seven in the attic, and seventeen in the cellar, and of the order 'SHARPE,' so many that I have engaged the Lightning Calculator of the World to compute them. Your Excellency will perceive that my situation is something like that of a commander who is troubled with too many officers, and if I should be attacked you will Grant that it would take some pretty Sharp practice to make even a Dent in the armor of my adversary.

"The best I can do is to request you to authorize the creation of a new office, such as Supervision of Custom House Cobwebs, Keeper of the Water Tanks, or Statistician of Distilled Spirits consumed by Revenue Officers during the ensuing fiscal year, and then, on condition that he will never show his face in my office again, I will appoint your California offering to the place.

Your disgusted friend and servant,

MOSES."

When the President read this epistle, he was so agitated that he put the lighted end of his segar in his mouth, but did not discover his mistake until Secretary FISH observed the ashes coming from his nose, and with an air of mock solicitude asked:

"Does your Excellency experience any internal symptoms of a volcanic character, for I perceive that the crater is working?" pointing to the Presidential olfactory, while the owner sneezed a fresh volley of ashes through it.

"It don't make any difference if I do," tartly responded ULYSSES, "but I tell you what it is, FISH, I'm going to build a little volcano under MOSE GRINNELL'S chair that'll 'hist' somebody when it breaks out." Saying which he threw the late Collector's missive towards the piscatorial premier, and hurriedly left the room.

The above is a genuine narrative, collected from authoritative data, and may be relied upon when all other means of ascertaining the truth fail.

Yours, historically,

DICK TINTO.