Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 14, July 2, 1870
by
Various
Produced by Cornell University, Joshua Hutchinson, Sandra Brown
and PG Distributed Proofreaders
[Illustration: Vol. I. No. 14.]
PUNCHINELLO
SATURDAY, JULY 2, 1870.
PUBLISHED BY THE
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY.
83 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD,
By ORPHEUS C. KERR,
Continued in this Number.
[Sidenote: See 15th Page for Extra Premiums.]
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* * * * *
DICKENS
The homage of our world to thee,
O Matchless Scribe! when thou wert here,
Was all that's loving in a Laugh,
And all that's tender in a Tear.
So, if with quiv'ring lip we name
The fellow Mortal who Departs,
A Smile shall call him back again,
To live Immortal In our Hearts.
O. C. K.
* * * * *
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.
AN ADAPTATION.
BY ORPHEUS C. KERR,
CHAPTER VII.
MORE CONFIDENCES THAN ONE.
"You and your sister have been insured, of course," said the Gospeler to
MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON, as they returned from escorting Mr. SCHENCK.
"Of course," echoed MONTGOMERY, with a suppressed moan. "He is our
guardian, and has trampled us into a couple of policies. We had to
yield, or excess of Boreal conversation would have made us maniacs."
"You speak bitterly for one so young," observed the Reverend OCTAVIUS
SIMPSON. "Is it derangement of the stomach, or have you known sorrow?"
"Heaps of sorrow," answered the young man. "You may be aware, sir, that
my sister and I belong to a fine old heavily mortgaged Southern
family--the PENRUTHERSES and MUNCHAUSENS of Chipmunk Court House,
Virginia, are our relatives--and that SHERMAN marched through us during
the late southward projection of certain of your Northern military
scorpions. After our father's felo-desease, ensuing remotely from an
overstrain in attempting to lift a large mortgage, our mother gave us a
step-father of Northern birth, who tried to amend our constitutions and
reconstruct us."
"Dreadful!" murmured the Gospeler.
"We hated him! MAGNOLIA threw her scissors at him several times. My
sister, sir, does not know what fear is. She would fight a lion;
inheriting the spirit from our father, who, I have heard said,
frequently fought a tiger. She can fire a gun and pick off a State
Senator as well as any man in all the South. Our mother died. A few
mornings thereafter our step-father was found dead in his bed, and the
doctors said he died of a pair of scissors which he must have swallowed
accidentally in his youth, and which were found, after his death, to
have worked themselves several inches out of his side, near the heart."
"Swallowed a pair of scissors!" exclaimed the Reverend OCTAVIUS.
"He might have had a stitch in his side at the time, you know, and
wanted to cut it," explained MONTGOMERY. "At any rate, after that we
became wards of Mr. SCHENCK, up North here. And now let me ask you, sir,
is this Mr. EDWIN DROOD a student with you?"
"No. He is visiting his uncle, Mr. BUMSTEAD," answered the Gospeler, who
could not free his mind from the horrible thought that his young
companion's fearless sister might have been in some way acscissory to
the sudden cutting off of her step-father's career.
"Is Miss FLORA POTTS his sister?"
Mr. SIMPSON told the story of the betrothal of the young couple by their
respective departed parents.
"Oh, _that's_ the game, eh?" said MONTGOMERY. "I understand now his
whispering to me that he wished he was dead." In a moment afterwards
they re-entered the house in Gospeler's Gulch.
The air was slightly laden with the odor of cloves as they went into the
parlor, and Mr. BUMSTEAD was at the piano, accompanying the Flowerpot
while she sang. Executing without notes, and with his stony gaze fixed
intently between the nose and chin of the singer, Mr. BUMSTEAD had a
certain mesmeric appearance of controlling the words coming out of the
rosy mouth. Standing beside Miss POTTS was MAGNOLIA PENDRAGON, seemingly
fascinated, as it were, by the BUMSTEAD method of playing, in which the
performer's fingers performed almost as frequently upon the woodwork of
the instrument as upon the keys. Mr. PENDRAGON surveyed the group with
an arm resting on the mantel; Mr. SIMPSON took a chair by his maternal
nut-cracker, and Mr. DROOD stealthily practiced with his ball on a chair
behind the sofa.
The Flowerpot was singing a neat thing by LONGFELLOW about the Evening
Star, and seemed to experience the most remarkable psychological effects
from Mr. BUMSTEAD'S wooden variations and extraordinary stare at the
lower part of her countenance. Thus, she twitched her plump shoulders
strangely, and sang--
"Just a-bove yon sandy bar,
As the day grows faint--(te-hee-he-he!)
Lonely and lovely a single--(now do-o-n't!)
Lights the air with"--(sto-o-op! It tickles--)
Convulsively giggling and exclaiming, alternately, Miss POTTS abruptly
ended her beautiful bronchial noise with violent distortion of
countenance, as though there were a spider in her mouth, and sank upon a
chair in a condition almost hysterical.
"Your playing has made SISSY nervous, JACK," said EDWIN DROOD, hastily
concealing his ball and coming forward. "I noticed, myself, that you
played more than half the notes in the air, or on the music-rack,
without touching the keys at all."
"That is because I am not accustomed to playing upon two pianos at
once," answered BUMSTEAD, who, at that very moment, was industriously
playing the rest of the air some inches from the nearest key.
"He couldn't make _me_ nervous!" exclaimed Miss PENDRAGON, decidedly.
They bore the excited Flowerpot, (who still tittered a little, and was
nervously feeling her throat,) to the window, for air; and when they
came back Mr. BUMSTEAD was gone. "There, Sissy," said EDWIN DROOD,
"you've driven him away; and I'm half afraid he feels unpleasantly
confused about it; for he's got out of the rear door of the house by
mistake, and I can hear him trying to find his way home in the
back-yard."
The two young men escorted Miss CAROWTHERS and the two young ladies to
the door of the Alms-House, and there bade them good-night; but, at a
yet later hour, FLORA POTTS and the new pupil still conversed in the
chamber which they were to occupy conjointly.
After discussing the fashions with great excitement; asking each other
just exactly what each gave for every article she wore; and successively
practicing male-discouraging, male-encouraging, and chronically-in-different
expressions of face in the mirror (as all good young ladies always do
preparatory to their evening prayers,) the lovely twain made solemn
nightcap-oath of eternal friendship to each other, and then, of course,
began picking the men to pieces.
"Who is this Mr. BUMSTEAD?" asked MAGNOLIA, who was now looking much
like a ghost.
"He's that absurd EDDY'S ridiculous uncle, and my music-teacher,"
answered the Flowerpot, also presenting an emaciated appearance.
"You do not love him?" queried MAGNOLIA.
"Now go 'wa-a-ay! How perfectly disgusting!" protested FLORA.
"You know that he loves you!"
"Do-o-n't!" pleaded Miss POTTS, nervously. "You'll make me fidgetty
again, just thinking of to-night. It was too perfectly absurd."
"What was?"
"Why, _he_ was,--Mr. BUMSTEAD. It gave me the funniest feeling! It was
as though some one was trying to see through you, you know."
"My child!" exclaimed Miss PENDRAGON, dropping her cheek-distenders upon
the bureau, "you speak strangely. Has that man gained any power over
you?"
"No, dear," returned FLORA, wiping off a part of her left eyebrow with
cold cream. "But didn't you see? He was looking right down my throat all
the time I was singing, until it actually tickled me!"
"Does he always do so?"
"Oh, I don't know what he always does!" whimpered the nervous Flowerpot.
"Oh, he's such an utterly ridiculous creature! Sometimes when we're in
company together, and I smell cloves, and look at him, I think that I
see the lid of his right eye drop over the ball and tremble at me in the
strangest manner. And sometimes his eyes seem fixed motionless in his
head, as they did to-night, and he'll appear to wander off into a kind
of dream, and feel about in the air with his right arm as though he
wanted to hug somebody. Oh! my throat begins to tickle again! Oh, stay
with me, and be my absurdly ridiculous friend!"
The dark-featured Southern linen spectre leaned soothingly above the
other linen spectre, with a bottle of camphor in her hand, near the
bureau upon which the back-hair of both was piled; and in the flash of
her black eyes, and the defiant flirt of the kid-gloves dipped in
glycerine which she was drawing on her hands, lurked death by lightning
and other harsh usage for whomsoever of the male sex should ever be
caught looking down in the mouth again.
CHAPTER VIII.
A DAGGERY TYPE OF FORTALKRAPHY.
The two young gentlemen, having seen their blooming charges safely
within the door of the Alms-House, and vainly endeavored to look through
the keyhole at them going up-stairs, scuffle away together with that
sensation of blended imbecility and irascibility which is equally
characteristic of callow youth and inexperienced Thomas Cats when
retiring together from the society of female friends who seem to be
still on the fence as regards their ultimate preferences.
"Do you bore your friends here long, Mr. DROOD?" inquired MONTGOMERY; as
who should say: Maouiw-ow-ooo-sp't! sp't!
"Not this time, Secesh," is the answer; as though it were observed,
ooo-ooo-sp't! "I leave for New York again to-morrow; but shall be off
and on again in Bumsteadville until midsummer, when I go to Egypt,
Illinois, to be an engineer on a railroad. The stamps left me by my
father are all in the stock of that road, and the Mr. BUMSTEAD whom you
saw to-night is my uncle and guardian."
"Mr. SIMPSON informs me that you are destined to assume the expenses of
Miss POTTS, when you're old enough," remarks MONTGOMERY, his eyes
shining quite greenly in the moonlight.
"Well, perhaps you'd like to make something out of it," says EDWIN,
whose orbs have assumed a yellowish glitter. "Perhaps you Southern
Confederacies didn't get quite enough of it at Gettysburgh and Five
Forks."
"We had the exquisite pleasure of killing a few thousand Yankee
free-lovers," intimates MONTGOMERY, with a hollow laugh.
"Ah, yes, I remember--at Andersonville," suggests EDWIN DROOD, beginning
to roll back his sleeves.
"This is your magnanimity to the conquered, is it!" exclaims MONTGOMERY,
scornfully. "I don't pretend to have your advantages, Mr. DROOD, and
I've scarcely had any more education than an American Humorist; but
where I come from, if a carpet-bagger should talk as you do, the cost of
his funeral would be but a trifle."
"I can prepare you, at shortest notice, for something very neat and
tasteful in the silver-trimmed rosewood line, with plated handles,
dark-complexioned Ku-klux," returns Mr. DROOD, preparing to pull off his
coat.
"Who would have believed," soliloquizes MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON, "that even
a scalawag Northern spoon-thief, like our scurrilous contemporary, would
get so mad at being reminded that he must be married some day!"
"Whoever says that I'm mad," is the answer, "lies deliberately wilfully,
wickedly, with naked intent to defame and malign."
But here a heavy hand suddenly smites EDWIN in the back, almost snapping
his head off, and there stands spectrally between them Mr. BUMSTEAD, who
has but recently found his way out of the back-yard in Gospeler's Gulch,
by removing at least two yards of picket fence from the wrong place, and
wears upon his head a gingham sun-bonnet, which, in his hurried
departure through the hall of the Gospeler's house, he has mistaken for
his own hat. Sustaining himself against the fierce evening breeze by
holding firmly to both shoulders of his nephew, this striking apparition
regards the two young men with as much austerity as is consistent with
the flapping of the cape of his sun-bonnet.
"Gentlelemons," he says, with painful syllabic distinctness, "can I
believe my ears? Are you already making journalists of yourselves?"
They hang their heads in shame under the merciless but just accusation.
"Here you are," continues BUMSTEAD, "a quartette of young fellows who
should all be friends. NEDS, NEDS! I am ashamed of you! MONTGOMERIES,
you should not let your angry passions rise; for your little hands were
never made to bark and bite." After this, Mr. BUMSTEAD seems lost for a
moment, and reclines upon his nephew, with his eyes closed in
meditation. "But let's all five of us go up to my room," he finally
adds, "and restore friendship with lemon tea. It is time for the North
and South to be reconciled over something hot. Come."
Leaning upon both of them now, and pushing them into a walk, he
exquisitely turns the refrain of the rejected National Hymn--
"'Twas by a mistake that we lost Bull Bun,
When we all skedaddled to Washington,
And we'll all drink atone blind,
Johnny fill up the bowl?"
Thus he artfully employs music to soothe their sectional animosities,
and only skips into the air once as they walk, with a "Whoop! That was
something _like_ a snake!"
Arriving in his room, the door of which he has had some trouble in
opening, on account of the knob having wandered in his absence to the
wrong side, Mr. BUMSTEAD indicates a bottle of lemon tea, with some
glasses, on the table, accidentally places the lamp so that it shines
directly upon EDWIN'S triangular sketch of FLORA over the mantel, and,
taking his umbrella under his arm, smiles horribly at his young guests
from out his sun-bonnet.
"Do you recognize that picture, PENDRAGONS?" he asks, after the two have
drunk fierily at each other. "Do you notice its stereoscopic effect of
being double?"
"Ah," says MONTGOMERY, critically, "a good deal in the style of
HENNESSY, or WINSLOW HOMER, I should say. Something in the school-slate
method."
"It's by EDWINS, there!" explains Mr. BUMSTEAD, triumphantly. "Just look
at him as he sits there both together, with all his happiness cut out
for him, and his dislike of Southerners his only fault."
"If I could only draw Miss PENDRAGON, now," says EDWIN DROOD, rather
flattered, "I might do better. A good sharp nose and Southern complexion
help wonderfully in the expression of a picture."
"Perhaps my sister would prefer to choose her own artist," remarks
MONTGOMERY, to whom Mr. BUMSTEAD has just poured out some more lemon
tea.
"Say a Southern one, for instance, who might use some of the flying
colors that were always warranted to run when our boys got after yours
in the late war," responds EDWIN, to whom his attentive uncle has also
poured out some more lemon tea for his cold.
"For instance--at Fredericksburgh," observes MONTGOMERY.
"I was thinking of Fort Donelson," returns EDWIN.
The conservative BUMSTEAD strives anxiously to allay the irritation of
his young guests by prodding first one and then the other with his
umbrella; and, in an attempt to hold both of them and the picture behind
him in one commanding glance under his sun-bonnet, presents a phase of
strabismus seldom attained by human eyes.
"If I only had you down where I come from, Mr. DROOD," cries MONTGOMERY,
tickled into ungovernable wrath by the ferule of the umbrella, I'd tar
and feather you like a Yankee teacher, and then burn you like a
freedman's church."
"Oh!--if you only had me _there_, you'd do so," cries EDWIN DROOD,
springing to his feet as the umbrella tortures his ribs. "_If_, eh?
Pooh, pooh, my young fellow, I perceive that you are a mere Cincinnati
Editor."
The degrading epithet goads PENDRAGON to fury, and, after throwing his
remaining lemon tea about equally upon EDWIN and the sun-bonnet, he
extracts the sugar from the bottom of the glass with his fingers, and
uses the goblet to ward off a last approach of the umbrella.
"EDWINS! MONTGOMERIES!" exclaims Mr. BUMSTEAD, opening the umbrella
between them so suddenly that each is grazed on the nose by a whalebone
rib, "I command you to end this Congressional debate at once. I never
saw four such young men before! MONTGOMERIES, put up your penknife
thizinstant!"
Pushing aside the barrier of alpaca and whalebone from under his chin,
MONTGOMERY dashes wildly from the house, tears madly back to Gospeler's
Gulch, and astounds the Gospeler by his appearance.
"Oh, Mr. SIMPSON," he cries, as he is conducted to the door of his own
room, "I believe that I, too, inherit some tigerish qualities from that
tiger my father is said to have fought so often. I've had a political
discussion with Mr. DROOD in Mr. BUMSTEAD'S apartments, and, if I'd
stayed there a moment longer, I reckon I should have murdered somebody
in a moment of Emotional Insanity."
The Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON makes him unclose his clenched fist, in
which there appears to be one or two cloves, and then says: "I am
shocked to hear this, Mr. PENDRAGON. As you have no political influence,
and have never shot a _Tribune_ man, neither New York law nor society
would allow you to commit murder with impunity. I regret, too, to see
that you have been drinking, and would advise you to try a chapter from
one of Professor DE MILLE'S novels, as a mild emetic, before retiring.
After that, two or three sentences from one of Mr. RICHARD GRANT WHITE'S
essays--will ensure sleep to you for the remainder of the night."
Returning the unspeakably thankful pressure of the grateful young man's
hand, the Gospeler goes thoughtfully down stairs, where he is just in
time to answer the excited ring of Mr. BUMSTEAD.
"Dear me, Mr. BUMSTEAD!" is his first exclamation, "what's that you've
got on your head?"
"Perspiration, sir," cries BUMSTEAD, who, in his agitation, is still
ringing the bell. "We've nearly had a murder to-night, and I've come
around to offer you my umbrella for your own protection."
"Umbrella!" echoes Mr. SIMPSON, "why, really, I don't see how--"
"Open it on him suddenly when he makes a pass at you," interrupts Mr.
BUMSTEAD, thrusting the alpaca weapon upon him. "I'll send for it in the
morning."
The Gospeler stands confounded in his own doorway, with the defence thus
strangely secured in his hand; and, looking up the moon-lighted road,
sees Mr. BUMSTEAD, in the sun-bonnet, leaping high, at short intervals,
over the numerous adders and cobras on his homeward way, like a
thoroughbred hurdle-racer.
(_To be Continued_.)
* * * * *
THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.
[Illustration: 'M']
Many plays of various sorts have been explained and commented upon in
this column. Now for the first time a show claims attention. The
BEETHOVEN Centennial Festival has just ceased its multitudinous noise,
and the several shows connected with it--such as GROVER'S blue coat,
GILMORE'S light gymnastics on the conductor's stand, the electric
artillery and the plenteous PAREPA, have vanished away. Time and space
and patience would fail to tell the story of the ten successive showers
of noise that inundated the Rink during last week. Let us then content
ourselves with a reminiscence of the opening night.
As the sun was understood to be descending the Western horizon (in some
rural locality that possesses a horizon,) last Monday afternoon, three
horsemen--who had doubtless left their horses at a convenient
stable,--might have been seen descending from a Third Avenue car. Before
them stood the Rink, glittering with rows of lamps--the last rows--not
of summer--but of the American Institute Fair. Passing these lines of
Rinkéd brightness long drawn out, (SHAKESPEARE) the three dismounted
horsemen entered the building and seated themselves. A mighty murmur of
applause rose from the chorus, as BERGMANN stepped to the front and
ordered his orchestral army to advance upon BEETHOVEN'S Sympony in C.
This what they heard and saw:
FIRST HORSEMAN. "What a noise they make tuning their fiddles When's this
thing going to begin?"
SECOND HORSEMAN. "Begin! Why, it has begun. This is BEETHOVEN'S Symphony
in C."
THIRD HOUSEMAN. "Don't you know the Symphony at Sea? It represents a
storm, you know."
YOUNG LADY FROM BOSTON. "How divinely beautiful! It ought to be played,
however, by GILMORE'S Band. They do not understand classical music in
New York."
ACCOMPANYING FRIEND. "Hush. PAREPA is going to sing."
There is a tremulous motion felt throughout the vast building. It is the
approach of PAREPA, who skips lightly--like the little hills mentioned
by the Psalmist--across the stage. She curtseys, and her skirts expand
in vast ripples like the waves of a placid sea when some huge
line-of-battle ship sinks suddenly from sight. She smiles a sweet and
ample smile. She flirts her elegant fan, and gallant little CARL
ROSA--who can lead an orchestra better than the weightiest German of
them all--is swept swiftly away, whirling like a rose-leaf before the
breath of the gentle zephyr. Then she sings.
What is the grand orchestra compared with the exhaustless volume of her
matchless voice! What the chorus of three thousand singers or the
multitudinous pipes of the great organ! Far above chorus or orchestra or
organ soar her clear notes, full, rich, ringing. Her voice, like her
majestic presence, was made expressly for Boston Jubilees and BEETHOVEN
Centennials. The former can fill the largest building the continent has
ever seen; the latter--well, the latter is perceptible at quite a
distance.
The "_Inflammatus_" is sung, and sung again, and then the programmes
rustle, as the audience looks to see who has the rashness to follow
PAREPA the peerless.
RURAL PERSON. "Now we're goin' to hear somethin' like. The New Jersey
Harmonic Society is agoin' to sing 'When first I saw her face in 1616.'
I don't like none of your operas. That 'inflammation' may be a big
thing,' but give me some old-fashioned toon."
Accordingly the New Jersey Society sings, and sings extremely well. The
simple melody sung by these gentle rustics pleases the people. They
demand its repetition, and it is generally conceded that the native
Jerseyman has more music in what he regards as his soul, than the wilder
aborigines who follow SPOTTED TAIL and SWIFT BEAR.
YOUNG LADY FROM BOSTON.--"How sweet these old madrigals are. That piece,
however, ought to have been played by GILMORE'S Band. These New Jersey
people know nothing about any music that is above OFFENBACH'S melodies."
And then everybody is seized with an impulse to whisper to everybody
else, "Now we are to have the Star Spangled Banner."
It is evident that the American nation hungers and thirsts after
something over which it may wax patriotic and loyal. It has no monarch,
and the absurdity of becoming enthusiastic over GRANT'S cigar is only
too manifest. It is therefore obliged to content itself with simulating
a frantic admiration of the Flag.
Now the flag is rather a pretty one, and to people north of MASON and
DIXON'S line, possesses many interesting associations. But the doggerel
which the late Mr. KEY attempted to celebrate it, is not altogether
above reproach. Beginning with the Bowery interrogative "Sa-ay," and
ending with a reference to the "land of the free and the home of the
brave," which the late ELIJAH POGRAM, or the present NATHANIEL BANKS
might have written, it is simply the weakest of rhymed buncombe wedded
to the cheapest of pinchbeck music. And yet we fancy ourselves inspired
when we hear it.
Fortunately, as sung at the BEETHOVEN festival, the words are drowned by
the music, and the music by the artillery. It thus becomes an
inarticulate patriotic "yawp," of tremendous ear-splitting power. But
the public likes it.
They greet it with tremendous roars of applause. The artillery,
discharged with uniform promptness several seconds in advance of time,
renders them wild with delight. PAREPA'S voice, rising at intervals
above even the combined din of instruments, voices, and cannon, is
hardly heeded by them. Noise is what they want, and they have a surfeit
of it. It is only after the performance is ended that the vision of
GILMORE'S ecstatic coat-tails, as they danced to the wild whirling of
his maniacal baton, comes back to their memory. Then they smile and say,
"Curious fellow that GILMORE. Knows how to make himself a pleasing and
prominent feature."
But the Boston young lady says in a serious tone, "GILMORE'S band should
have played that piece without any assistance. These New York people do
not understand the potentialities of brass."
Perhaps we don't. And then again perhaps we do.--Boston may have a
monopoly of virtue, but it has hardly a monopoly of brass.
After the patriotic noise comes the _Oberon_ overture, led by CARL ROSA
so daintily that it is the best performance of the evening. By and by
everybody attempts to leave in advance of everybody else, with a view to
a seat in the cars; and the first night of the Centennial is over.
And nine-tenths of the people remark that it is "bully."
And several of the remainder speak patronizingly of it.
And the critics go up to the "Press Room" for another glass of--in
short, for a sandwich:
And the Boston young lady expresses her firm conviction, that GILMORE
should have managed the whole affair, without the interference of those
uncultivated New-Yorkers.
And the fat lady from the Fifth Avenue remarks that "nothing has
occurred to mar the misanthropy of the occasion."
And a wretch who does not consider Miss KELLOGG the "Nightingale of
America," smiles a fiendish smile as he thinks that her pretty little
voice is to be heard by the conductor and the nearest chorus singers on
the following day.
And the undersigned goes home to calm his mind by an hour's perusal of
Dr. WATTS, and then to dream of star-spangled GILMORES and electric
PAREPA batteries until morning.
MATADOR.
* * * * *
[Illustration: GETTING--A FOOTHOLD IN CANADA.]
JOTTINGS FROM WASHINGTON.
WASHINGTON CITY, June 4, 1870.
DEAR PUNCHINELLO: I have noticed with pleasure your bold and generous
championship of Philadelphia. I have witnessed, with genuine delight,
your expose of the designs of the Iron Legislature upon that most
unhappy of rectangular cities; and I have been emboldened thereby to
hazard a petition to you to fly still higher in your philanthropic
endeavors to do and dare still more for the oppressed of your
race--to--to--in short, to attempt the defence of Washington and the
Washingtonians!!
There! it is out! But that I know you of old; but that, knowing you, I
regretted with a great regret your former withdrawal from affairs of
State; but that I welcomed your return to the arena of which, in former
years, you were the acknowledged victor; but that I knew your unlimited
compassion, I would not, though a bold man, have dared to ask so much.
Yet, I have reason for my request. For, if Philadelphia be rectangular,
Washington has greater claims, seeing that she is scalene, crooked,
trapezoidal, and, in general terms, catacornered. If Philadelphia be
legislature-ridden, Washington is Congress-burdened. It Philadelphia
suffers under an infliction of horse-railroads and white wooden
shutters, Washington groans under the pangs and pains of unmitigated
CHRONICLE!
This last is our greatest grievance. Fortunately for you, dear P., you
know not what it is to be Congress-burdened, _but we do._ Alas! too
well. It means mud and dust; it means unpaved streets pervaded by
perambulating pigs and contemplative cows, and rendered still more rural
in its aspect by the gambolings of frolicsome kids around grave goats.
It means an empty treasury, high rents, extraordinary taxes, and poor
grub. In short, it means WRETCHEDNESS. But to be "Chronicled"--
"----_That_ way Madness lies"
In this connection, dear PUNCHINELLO, let me hasten to disclaim any
intention of abusing or "pitching into" the renowned "Editor of Two
Newspapers, Both Daily." Everybody has been doing that for the past five
or six years, and I do not wish to be vulgar. Besides, to do the
gentleman justice, we do not think he is to blame for much of our
misery; as he confines his editorial connection with our incubus to
writing a weekly letter to the Press, and publishing it in both dailies.
At the same time we do wish that he would, out of compassion for our
suffering souls, exercise a little supervision over the small boys whom
he employs to write the _Chronicle_, and thus spare us something of what
we are now obliged to stand.
Let me give you one or two instances of the course pursued by this
tyrannous newspaper.
It frightens timid citizens by its narratives of horrible outrages in
the South, especially in Georgia and Tennessee; and my wife, who has
relatives in the former place, was in chronic hysterics until it was
discovered that the "outrages" were, to use a vulgar expression, "all in
my eye." To this day she trembles at the word "loil," (I believe I spell
it correctly,) knowing, as she does, that the dreaded and mysterious
syllables, Ku-Klux, will most assuredly follow it.
Why, did we not have a great scare here a week or two ago, when it was
announced that the mysterious chalk-marks on the pavements were
significant of the presence of the awful K.K. in our midst--at our very
doors? Did we not sleep with revolvers under our pillows, and dream of
cross-bones and coffins? Did not Mayor BOWEN receive a dread missive
warning him to evacuate Washington, lest he be made a corpse of in less
than no time? Had not several colored gentlemen and white men received
similar missives? And does it repay us for our fright and alarm, when it
is discovered that the mysterious marks are cunning devices of a
gentleman engaged in the oyster trade? By no means. We have suffered our
terrors, and no amount of oysters can alleviate them. To such straits
has the _Chronicle_ reduced the citizens of Washington.
But we have other causes of complaint against this extraordinary
newspaper. Here is one:
It may not be unknown to you that the _Chronicle_ has a habit of
identifying itself with the people and subjects which it discusses. Does
it put forth an article on naval matters--straightway it becomes salter
than Turk's Island, and talks of bobstays and main-top-bowlines and
poop-down-hauls in a manner that, to put it mildly, is confusing, and
would, if you read it, make you jump as if all your strings were pulled
at once! Are financial matters under discussion--behold even JAMES FISK,
Jr., is not so keen and shrewd, nor Commodore VANDERBILT so full of
"corners." And only the other day, it discussed the Medical Convention
which lately met here, and lo! we are amazed by the amount of knowledge
displayed by the omniscient journal! In a long article, after mildly
remonstrating with the doctors for refusing to admit their colored
brethren of the District of Columbia to a share in their deliberations,
it closes with this obscurely terrible remark:
"Better die of nostalgia in exile abroad, than remain at home to suffer
from ossification of the pericardium--"
or words to that effect, as the lawyers say.
On reading this, with what strength I had left I secured a dictionary,
and found that "nostalgia" means homesickness;--a disease not known to
Washingtonian exiles--but what "ossification of the pericardium" means I
cannot discover. Not only have I searched every dictionary in the
Congressional Library, but I have pervaded all the bookstores, and made
myself a nuisance to every medical man of my acquaintance--in vain!
Nobody ever heard of such a disease, if disease it be. It may be
something more dreadful! And not only I, but those whom I have
persecuted with my inquiries, are on the verge of insanity; and for all
this the _Chronicle_ is responsible.
Now, this can't be endured; and I have come to you for help. Either tell
us what is the meaning of this terrible phrase, or else open your
batteries on the malicious genius who pens those _Chronicle_ papers,
and--squelch him!
As yet,
"I am _not_ mad--but soon shall be!"
if you don't answer.
Yours, in tribulation,
ALONZO TARBOX.
P. S.--Be sure and see that the printer spells my name rightly, and
don't transmogrify it into "TREEBOX," as a beast of a Treasury Clerk did
the other day. "There _are_ chords--" you know.
A. T.
* * * * *
THE EASTERN QUESTION.
Egypt and Turkey--the Nile and the Bosphorus--seem coming to blows. But
if hostilities are happily averted, with what propriety can it be said
that _Nihil fit_?
* * * * *
THE EARTHLY PARADISE.
I wish the Editor would put a little note in large letters right here,
requesting readers not to run off and read Mr. MORRIS'S poem, after
gazing on the above title. My very respectable reader, you're smart,
very smart indeed, but let me assure you that you haven't discovered
from the float which I have placed on the surface, which way my string
is drifting, so, if you get on a string don't complain.
As, at this season of the year, everybody who is anybody either goes
into the country or else shuts up his front windows and lives in the
back area, in order to create the impression that he is to be found in
the rural districts, PUNCHINELLO must of course follow the universal
example. His front windows, however, must never be shut, so he must fall
to packing his trunks at once. But where shall he go? List! oh, list! I
will give a list of spots present.
They say the seas-on has commenced at Long Branch. This place is peopled
by the foolish men of whom we have heard, who built their houses on the
sand. The chief amusement of visitors is thus: you put on some old
clothes, which have evidently just retired from the coal-heaving
business, stand in the water up to your ankles, and grasp manfully, with
both hands, a rope; then a watery creature, named Surf, climbs upon you
and gets down on the other side; you rush to a neighboring shanty, put
on your store clothes, and feel twice as warm as you would have felt if
you hadn't wrestled with Surf. The reports from Boston are that the
Pilgrim Fathers have ceased to enjoy their coffins and shrouds, since
Jubilee JIM has commenced to carry pleasure-seekers to the seaside on
Plymouth Rock.
Saratoga is still the place for SARA to patronize. The chief objection
to that place is that the water is so muddy that they call it Congress
Water. However, you soon become infatuated with it. I once saw a very
stout lady imbibe sixteen glasses of the water, and as I left the scene
of dissipation she was screaming for more. I concluded that she was a
sister-in-law to BOREAS. A young and tender Sixteenth Amendment, who was
a three-quarter orphan, (she had only a step-father,) has been known to
drink, unaided, thirty glasses of Saratoga water in twenty-four hours.
Can Mr. WESTON beat that? I forgot to say that she survived. The
difference between Long Branch and Saratoga is, that at the former you
take salt water externally, while at the latter you take salt and water
internally.
Newport is still appropriately situated on Rowed Island. None but the
select deserve Newport. However, they say Old Gin is the next best
thing. You can rent a cottage by the sea and see what you can. (I may
add that you can also rent a cottage by the year, though I believe the
view is not any finer on that account.) Beware of the tow! This is not a
warning against _blondes_, but against rolls.
The proper thing to do at Newport is thus: A scented youth, with a
perfumed damsel resting on his arm, wanders at eventide down to the sea
to hear the majestic waves roll upon the beach. Having selected a
suitable spot, the pair sit down and then make night hideous with "What
are the wild waves saying?"
Niagara is perched upon its Erie. To a man of a reflective mind this is
an unpleasant place. As he gazes on the rushing flood he thinks of the
waste of raw material. Water being thrown away and no tax being
collected. As a rule in this place cheat your carriage-driver, for if
you don't, he'll cheat you for your negligence.
Of course, as it is now June, no one will visit Cape May. The White
Mountains, having received a new coat of paint, are ready for summer
visitors. A few stock quotations, such as, "cloud-capped towers," "peak
of Teneriffe," &c., are very useful here. Also a large supply of breath.
Lake Mahopac may be packed, of course, but any one of a romantic turn of
mind, who loves to float with fair women idly upon a summer sea, (in a
boat, of course,) 'mid crocuses and lilies, while the air is filled with
the melodious sounds from a bass-drum and that sort of thing, and is
redolent with the perfume of a thousand flowers, will find solace here.
(I flatter myself that period is well turned.)
All over the land you may find choice little spots, farm-houses, over
which the woodbine and the honeysuckle clamber, while the surrounding
wheat fields--(I have lost my volume of WHITMAN, and forget what the
wheat fields do, poetically.) Perhaps it is my duty to here introduce
some remarks about farming, but, as the Self-made Man is struggling with
that subject, and as a certain innocent, who has been abroad, proposes
to handle it, I refrain.
I very nearly forgot Coney Island. This is the favorite resort of clams
and little jokers. Here you may daily fill your bread-basket with
bivalves, and then observe the mysteries of that mystic game, now you
see it, now you don't.
Of course I don't propose to state which of these places is the Earthly
Paradise. You pays your money and you takes your choice. What hurts my
feelings is, that any one should have supposed that I intended to write
a criticism of Mr. MORRIS'S poem. Do people imagine that my time is
entirely valueless, and that I can afford to waste it in criticising
poetry?
LOT.
* * * * *
PLUCKILY PATRIOTIC, STILL.
A few years since the City of Portland, upon a certain Fourth of July,
was nearly consumed by fire, the origin of which was the well-known
Cracker. But Portland is undaunted, and proposes this year to have a
finer Independence Day than ever. If Mr. PUNCHINELLO might advise, he
would recommend to the Portlanders, festivities of a decidedly aquatic
character--swimming-matches, going down in diving bells, the playing of
fountains, battles between little boys with squirt-guns, regattas, and
floating batteries. Mr. P. himself intends to celebrate the coming
Fourth upon water--with something in it, of course, to kill the insects.
The Maine Liquor Law being in full force in Portland, there will be no
difficulty in obtaining ardent spirits on the Fourth; and Mr.
PUNCHINELLO therefore the more confidently recommends a full aqueous
infusion of the Down East toddies.
* * * * *
SHOCKING
In Tipton, Indiana, has originated the secret order, with rituals, signs
and grips, called the "Earthquake." Were its object not altogether
earthly, we might regard it as merely a new set of underground Quakers.
The remarkable quiet of Friends' Burying-grounds is a guarantee against
all possible disturbance from Earth-Quakers, now that the Underground
Railroad has ceased to run.
* * * * *
A TRIUMPH OF HOUSEKEEPING.
All honor to the gentlewoman in Aroostook, Maine, who put out a fire the
other day, first by pouring water on it, then all her milk and cream,
and finally all the pickle in her meat-barrels. 'Twas only applying
wholesale an old woman's cure for burns; but the point of the matter was
that she pickled a fire, and preserved her life.
* * * * *
COMPLICATIONS AHEAD.
WHAT OUR CRIMINAL COURTS ARE COMING TO.
_Extract from Speech of Counsel for Defence_.
"Ladies of the Jury, I appeal to you; _should_ such whiskers be hung?
True, he killed his wife; but, as you know, she was a horrid jealous
thing, and led her poor husband _such_ a life. In _my_ opinion, killing
was too good for her. Ladies, be merciful; the prisoner hangs upon your
lips. Consider his eyes; consider his nose. Were I married to a woman
who called me an unprincipled wretch, wouldn't I kill her? Wouldn't I?
Ladies, be generous." And so forth. (Jury retire, but return immediately
with a verdict of _Not Guilty_; Judge, Jury, Counsel, and all shed tears
and kiss indiscriminately. They take up a collection for the prisoner,
who, next day, marries the Forewoman of the Jury, out of gratitude.)
[Illustration: PRISONER.]
[Illustration: PRISONER'S COUNSEL.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE NEW PARASOL.
A PROSPECTIVE GLIMPSE OF THE PLEASURES OF PROMENADING WHEN THE PARASOL
SHALL HAVE ATTAINED TO A SIZE JUST A TRIFLE LARGER THAN IT NOW IS.]
* * * * *
A LETTER OF ADVICE.
STANDISH FOUR CORNERS, June --, 18--
EDITOR OF PUNCHINELLO:
SIR: I wish to call your attention to certain defects in the journal
conducted by you, and to make a few suggestions, which, if followed,
will greatly improve it. I have talked with several eminent gentlemen on
the subject, among whom are the Rev. EZEKIEL DODGE, pastor of the
Sandemanian Church in our town, and also the Hon. PELEG SMITH, our
Representative in Congress. Both fully agree with me in the ideas which
I am about to lay before you.
In the first place, I object to the name PUNCHINELLO. It is too
frivolous, and suggests no food to the thoughtful mind. You should have
called your paper the _Banner of Progress_. This would have at once
enlisted the sympathy of all earnest men in your enterprise. Rev. Mr.
DODGE says that he wrote to you some weeks ago, proposing that you
change the name to that of the _Friend of Truth,_ while Mr. SMITH thinks
that the _Pig Iron Review_ would be the best possible name. He is,
however, a high tariff man, and his judgment may be influenced by that
fact. Either of these latter names would unquestionably be preferable to
PUNCHINELLO, but the name which I have suggested is the one which you
ought to adopt.
Then the shape of your paper is all wrong. Any one can see that if it
were only shorter and broader, it would closely resemble the shape of
_Punch_. Now, sir, we Americans don't want anything that looks like
anything British or European. Our country is bigger, and consequently
better than any other. We have bigger rivers, bigger cataracts, bigger
steamboats, and bigger jimfisks than any other people, and, therefore,
our newspapers ought to be original in shape. You should make your paper
octagonal in form, otherwise everybody will justly accuse you of
imitating some effete and monarchical British journal.
And I must strongly object to the spirit of levity which I find in your
paper. This is an Earnest Age, sir, and we cannot afford to joke. The
Rev. Mr. DODGE has been greatly grieved at the light way in which you
have treated such serious subjects as the Divorce Question. He will
forward to you a sermon of his own on the topic of "The Jewish Marriage
Law compared with that of the Amalekites and the Jebusites, together
with Remarks on the construction of the Ark, including an Inquiry into
the origin of the Edomites, and a Dissertation upon the Levitical law of
Tithes." This sermon would occupy from four to six pages of your paper
every week, if published in weekly instalments, for a period of about
ten weeks, and would give a tone to PUNCHINELLO which it now lacks.
Besides publishing this sermon, you would do well to print, every week,
a speech of the Hon. Mr. DODGE, who is one of the most eloquent members
of the House, and whose views on finance are greatly respected by such
men as Mr. KELLEY and Mr. CHANDLER.
You ought also to have a definite purpose in view. At present you have
no Mission. The earnest men and women who look to you for aid and
counsel, find nothing in your paper bearing upon the great questions of
the day. You should make your paper the organ of some influential party.
There are the friends of Pig Iron, for example. Devote the greater part
of your space to the advocacy of their lofty cause, and there is not an
iron manufacturer in the United States who would not borrow PUNCHINELLO
from some one of his acquaintance, and read everything in it relating to
the contest now going on between the fearless champions of freedom, and
American pig iron, against the bloated upholders of British interests.
As it is, you appear to advocate no single practical measure which
concerns the welfare of this country and the perpetuity of our glorious
Union. PUNCHINELLO is the favorite paper of careless young men, depraved
middle-aged men, who care nothing for Progress and Humanity, and young
girls who prefer dress and admiration to addressing their Earnest
sisters from the platform of Reform meetings. The Rev. Mr. DODGE tells
me that all the young people of his congregation read it, and he fears
that they prefer it to his sermons. A paper read by this class of
readers must be radically wrong. You must change its character at once.
One thing more. You must cease to publish pictures of the character of
those which now appear in your paper. In their place you might
substitute drawings of practical value, such as the _Scientific Yankee_
publishes. If you do this, in addition to making the other changes which
I have suggested, you will find that PUNCHINELLO will make a very
different impression from that which I fear it has already made. In that
case I will become a subscriber, and will send you a few sound, earnest
articles of my own. I am, Yours, in behalf of Progress,
AN EARNEST MAN.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "WHAT I KNOW ABOUT FARMING."
_Fast Bear (to Officer from Fort.)_ "YOU TELL ME PLANT CORN IN THE
SPRING, THEN GO 'WAY HUNT AND COME BACK GATHER CORN IN THE FALL. UGH!--I
PLANT CORN, AND WHEN I COME GATHER IT YOU SHOOT BULLET IN MY SIDE!"
(_Fact, related by one of the Brulé Sioux Chiefs at Washington._)]
* * * * *
[Illustration: FRUITLESS PERSEVERANCE.
_Earnest Suitor, who has just received a final and flat refusal._ "WOULD
A TOWER IN YURRUP MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE?"
_Julia._ "IT'S USELESS. I DON'T LIKE YOU, AND I WON'T MARRY YOU."]
* * * * *
THAT INDIAN TALK.
How, how, Great Father, how.
Me Spotted Tail; me Rattling Cow;
Me Red Cloud; whiskey time now?
How, Great Father? How? How?
Me Ogallala; me Brulé Sioux.
How, Great Father, how do?
Bed children come long way, ugh!
Big Whiskey love. Great Father too?
Poor Injun tired; peace Injun try.
War-paint no good; no whiskey buy;
Treaty no want; treaty all lie.
Great Father's whiskey Injun no spy.
No whiskey give, no have pow-wow.
Poor Injun dry; dry Injun row.
When whiskey time? Whiskey time now?
Father no tongue? How! How! How!
* * * * *
INTERESTING TO THE P. R.
A paragraph states that a "piece of Spar, seven feet long, and weighing
two hundred pounds, has been taken from the great Spar Cave near
Dubuque." We were not previously aware that O'BALDWIN, the "Irish
Giant," was serving out his term of imprisonment, in the Spar Cave, but
the thing has a fitness about it.
* * * * *
A CON FOR COCKTAILERS.
WHEN do topers like to make a raid upon the rural districts?
When the herbage is "lush."
* * * * *
REMARK BY A MARKSMAN.
Moose, as well as other members of the cervine family, live mostly on
the shoots of trees, but they die mostly by the shoots of hunters.
* * * * *
OUR PORTFOLIO.
PUNCHINELLO hears with sincere regret that the notorious Miss CRAIG, of
Chicago, once more threatens the unhappy SPRAGUE with another suit for
breach of promise of marriage. We had thought that the forty thousand
dollars awarded by the jury in the first trial were a plummet heavy
enough to reach the lowest depths of "AMANDY'S" affections, and so in
fact they were; but "ELISHA'S" lawyers, utterly disregarding the claims
of true love, have interposed the absurd claims of what they call
"justice to ELISHA," and so the thing will have to be all done over
again.
It seems a cruel exercise of power to compel this delicate and shrinking
female to stand once more in the pillory of the law; or, to put
"ELISHA'S" orthography to a second test by a crucial and censorious
public. Whatever may be the result of all this indifference to the
sanctity of private character and correct spelling, PUNCHINELLO wishes
to put upon record his total disapproval and abhorrence of it.
It is strange, yet nevertheless true, that a woman's glances are not
always her own property. The old proverb, that "a Cat may look at a
King," goes a-begging when applied to a woman; and this enables us to
present to the Sorosis a subject for examination, at least as
metaphysical as the philosophy of the MCFARLAND verdict.
Only last week a New York Judge committed an unsuspecting female because
she did not look at him, while giving her evidence. The consideration
that the unhappy creature was cross-eyed does not seem to have affected
in the least the judicial aspect of the matter, and although counsel
particularly directed the Judge's attention to the fact that even if the
witness looked as straight as she could, her lines of vision would meet
at an angle far short of the tip of his Honor's nose, still this
pocket-edition of Lord Chief-Justice JEFFRIES "blinked" the point sought
to be made, and absolutely insisted that she should suffer the penalty
of her alleged disrespect.
PUNCHINELLO has a heart which warms naturally toward the sex, but he has
also a cat-o'-nine-tails, which longs to warm the back of such a Judge,
and if he will come down from his woolsack he can both see and feel what
that cat-o'-nine-tails is like. Whether she be blue-eyed, or black-eyed,
or cross-eyed, makes no difference to PUNCHINELLO, for he is, under all
circumstances, the champion of the sex.
* * * * *
"Y. M. C. A."
These much printed initials, which (as our intelligent readers are
aware,) belong to certain modern Associations that combine Religion and
Business in a highly prosperous manner, have sometimes a kind of
secondary meaning, which may vary according to circumstances.
When, for example, the Young Men's C. A. of Iowa City, after having
regularly engaged Miss OLIVE LOGAN in their lecture course, concluded to
back out, the cabalistic letters seemed to read--
"Y-ou M-ust C-ancel A-rrangements."
But when the spirited OLIVE--perceiving rather more of Business than of
Religion and Honor in this despatch--replied promptly that they might
expect her without fail, according to programme, prudence suggested a
quite different version of their initials, which now signified--
"Y-ou M-ay C-ome A-long!"
We forbear to comment on the dramatic and touching picture here
afforded.--We suggest still another reading of their abbreviation,--one
that may serve as a permanent interpretation for _that_ latitude at
least.--
"Y-outh M-ade C-onscientiously A-cute."
* * * * *
GREENISH-BLACK.
Chicago boasts having sent a colored Fenian to Canada. But is he a
true-blue O'SAMBO or MCCUFFEE? Or is he recognized as colored only in
respect to his peculiar wearin' of the grin?
* * * * *
AT THE WATERING PLACES.
PUNCHINELLO'S VACATIONS
It need not be supposed that Mr. PUNCHINELLO intends to work himself to
death this summer.
By no manner of means!
He guarantees that the paper shall come out regularly, and get riper and
lovelier every week, but he will have his good little times,
notwithstanding.
Every week during the season he expects to slip off somewhere, for a day
or two, and hopes to have something worth telling when he comes back.
Last week he ran down to Long Branch. It's early yet, but folks like Mr.
P.; CHILDS, of the Philadelphia _Ledger;_ THOMPSON, of the Pennsylvania
Central; and other rich fellows always do go early. The big bugs always
fly the soonest. Mr. P. went directly to the West End Hotel--the old
Stetson House, you know. He went there because he always did like a
hotel that had three men to keep it. What you can't get out of one of
them is pretty certain to be screwed out of one of the others. "When Mr.
P. drove up, Messrs. PRESBURY, SYKES, and GARDNER, were all sitting out
on the front piazza, smoking seventy-five-cent cigars. They arose in
chorus, and assured Mr. P. that the house was not yet quite ready for
occupancy,
"But, sir--" said Mr. PRESBURY, "the Girard House, my hotel in
Philadelphia, is always open. If you would like to go there--" And here
SYKES struck in.
"But, sir," said he, "my hotel, WILLARD'S, in Washington, is always
ready for guests, and if you could go there for a while--"
But forward sprang GARDNER, and says he:
"But, sir--if you would like to run down to Cape May, you will find my
hotel--the Stockton House--" And here Mr. P. interrupted.
"Gentlemen," said he, "I would not have you quarrel, and you shan't
split on my rocks. Good evening to you all," and he drove directly to
General GRANT'S thirty-two thousand dollar cottage in the Park. GRANT
was not there yet, but Mr. P. did not expect that he was. There being a
butler and some cooks on hand, Mr. P. considered them sufficient, and
had his baggage taken right up to the second story back room.
The butler looked a little astonished at first, but when Mr. P.
explained about the hotel, and how he didn't want to go about any
more--for from riding in the salt evening air he had already got a
little hoarse--the man brightened up immediately.
"Oh, a little horse!" said he. "If that's what you come about you'll be
welcome here. The General isn't here yet, but till he comes the rooms is
yours."
And they were!
If any one feels inclined to follow Mr. P.'s example, he begs to
recommend the President's "Old Yarns,"--the hind box on the top shelf of
the library closet.
The next morning, Mr. P. wandered on the sands. Fond memories flocked
around him, as he stood gazing on the corruscating waves.
But they were mostly memories of sheepsheads and flanneled bathers and
'tis not for these that the poet gazes into the emerald depths whence
the pearly scum, like tears of mermaids--Ah! Mermaids! Mr. P. had never
seen a mermaid. These were not among his memories He deeply woulded that
he could--and lo! he did! The creature came gliding to his very feet,
and he had barely time to bound back before she reached the shore.
Shaking the water from her spectacles, she came up, and stood before
him.
Twas SUSAN B. ANTHONY.
"How do, PUNCHY?" said she; "I've left the _Revolution_. Yes, left it
now, and we've got a new editor, and she's beautiful and don't charge a
cent."
"Why, that's like me!" said Mr. P.
"Oh, PUNCHY!" said the gentle SUSAN, wringing the water out of her
flannel skirts, "none of your joking here. Come, take my arm."
Here Mr. P. drew back in apprehension.
"Why, what's the matter?" said SUSAN. "Are you afraid of a little water,
and you a man, too? See me! I'm as wet as sop. Don't keep me waiting
here, now, or I'll feel like saying "Damn" again, and that sort of thing
won't do too often. I want you to come along with me up to LESTER
WALLACE'S place--the 'Hut,' you know. I'm stopping with him. It's two or
three hours yet before lunch-time, and we can have a good talk."
Just at this minute Mr. PUNCHINELLO saw a sea-gull skimming past, and he
said he would like to catch it and give it to LESTER for his menagerie.
So he hurried after it.
The next day, Mr. P. went out fishing. He hired a boat, and a man to
sail it, and while the man was getting ready to put off, Mr. P. took his
seat in the bow and began to fix his lines. He always likes to sit in
the bow. The tiller don't knock him so often in the back, and the boom
don't bother his head so much. What he particularly wanted was to catch
a devil-fish! He thought to himself what a splendid thing it would be to
catch one of the big, VICTOR HUGO kind, and to take it home with him to
Nassau street! Wouldn't all his editors jump, when they saw him come
into the office with that! And he would get STEPHENS to draw it for the
paper.
STEPHENS has drawn nearly everything on earth, but Mr. P. did not
believe that he ever drew a devil-fish. Not from life, anyway.
As they sailed out to sea, Mr. P.'s heart beat faster, and his brain
throbbed with delight as he thought of his great possible triumph.
He fished for two hours and never got a bite. There was too much talking
at the stern. Mr. P. looked around, and there were three men there,
beside the sailor-man! "Confound it!" thought Mr. P.; "they must have
got on while I was fixing my lines, before we started." After this wise
reflection, he objurgated the sailor-man, but the latter wanted to know
if he wasn't to make any profit out of his stern and his mid-ships, as
well as his bow, and he objurgated back with such force that Mr. P. gave
him no further attention, but, turning to the interlopers, he said:
"I'm not so much surprised to see you, Mr. DELANO, for if any man in the
country pushes himself and his hirelings where neither he nor they are
wanted, it's you; but why you, HORACE GREELEY, and you, JIMMY HAGGARTY,
should be here, I'm sure I don't know."
"Oh, we're all in the same boat, PUNCHY, said DELANO, knocking off his
ashes to the windward of the Philosopher.
"That's a lie," remarked HORACE, rubbing the ashes deeper into his eyes
with his handkerchief.
J. HAGGARTY grunted at this emphatic denial of such a self-evident
proposition, and DELANO went on to say, "Yes, we're all alike"--all
'going through' our fellow-men. I with my assessors and collectors;
HORACE with his protection schemes, and JIMMY, there, with his nimble
fingers."
"That's so," said the good JAMES, and he shifted his quid.
The sailor-man, who had been objurgating straight ahead all this time,
now weighed anchor and put the boat in towards shore. Silence fell upon
the company. They seemed very shy of each other, and did not amalgamate
at all. Mr. P. went out to the extreme end of the bowsprit and gazed
down into the deep blue sea, wondering whether its color was really due
to excess of salt, or the presence of cuprate of ammonia. HORACE climbed
to the top of the mast, where he sat sadly, observing the swindling
waves, which came all the way from Europe, and didn't pay a cent of tax
when they landed. Mr. HAGGARTY went to the stern, where he employed his
time in cleaning out the sailor-man's pockets, while DELANO dived into
the hold, to see if he couldn't find an old worm-box, or a rope's-end,
which had no revenue stamp upon them.
That evening Mr. P. strolled up to the Pavilion, and Governor MORRIS
told him all the news. When he heard that the Prince ERIE, of the Heavy
Ninth, was coming down with his six-in-hand, (being only half his usual
number of Temptations,) Mr. P. found that if he wished to shine at Long
Branch, he had better keep away until he could come down with some of
his pet seven-thirties in hand. So he picked up his $8.00 valise; put on
his $9.00 hat; buttoned up his $35.00 coat; took his $12.00 umbrella
under his arm; stuck his $00.00 free pass in his hatband, and went home
to Nassau street.
* * * * *
A MARINE MIXTURE.
There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip. When the Berton
excursionists were taken by the Californians to the Cliff House, Mr.
RICE brought out a bottle. Of course the Californians were wide awake
for the drawing of the cork. "Whiskey, perhaps!" they murmured, "Brandy,
possibly!" they sweetly sighed. "Rum, maybe!" they conjectured.
"Schnapps, possibly," they surmised. But when Mr. RICE had drawn the
cork, it was discovered that there was nothing in the bottle except a
pint of salt water, taken from the Atlantic Ocean, which the bottle
holder (as a rare joke) proceeded to empty into the Pacific Ocean, thus
making (as he observed) "a literal blending of the waters." Very pretty,
indeed; but not the sort of witticism which a dry man would be likely to
appreciate--and Californians are sometimes extremely dry!
* * * * *
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
Employing female clerks in the Treasury Department because they will
work for small wages.
* * * * *
A SIMPLE INQUIRY.
May not a pretty actress, when playing a page part, appropriately be
called a "belle boy"?
* * * * *
NINETY-NINE IN THE SHADE.
A. MIDSUMMER ODE.
Oh for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers!
Oh for an iceberg or two at control!
Oh for a vale which at midday the dew cumbers!
Oh for a pleasure-trip up to the Pole!
Oh for a little one-story thermometer,
With nothing but Zeros all ranged in a row!
Oh for a big, double-barrelled hygrometer,
To measure this moisture that rolls from my brow!
Oh that this cold world were twenty times colder!
(That's irony red hot it seemeth to me.)
Oh for a turn of its dreaded cold shoulder!
Oh what a comfort an ague would be!
Oh for a grotto to typify heaven,
Scooped in the rock under cataract vast!
Oh for a winter of discontent even!
Oh for wet blankets judiciously cast!
Oh for a soda-fount spouting up boldly
From every hot lamp-post against the hot sky!
Oh for proud maiden to look on me coldly,
Freezing my soul with a glance of her eye!
Then oh for a draught from a cup of "cold pizen!"
And oh for a resting-place in the cold grave!
With a bath in the Styx, where the thick shadow lies on
And deepens the chill of its dark-running wave!
* * * * *
BOW-WOW!
One may discern a new argument for the removal of the National Capital
to St. Louis, in the Capital style of doing things in that accomplished
city. Supposing you have a business, we naturally admire you as a
business man, in proportion to your ingenuity in developing that
business, and your energy in prosecuting it. Now this genius for
business seems to characterize all grades of society in St. Louis,--even
so far down as to the "City Dog-Killer." This talented functionary so
developed his art, that he is able to kill the same dog a great many
times--at an average profit of twenty-five cents each execution. He has
a way of stunning the beast so that for all purposes of a canine nature
it is apparently quite dead. By the next day, however, the late defunct
has revived sufficiently to be susceptible of another killing, which is
accordingly administered, and so on, we suppose, all through the season.
The inferiority of the East, in matters of this kind, may be justly and
satisfactorily inferred from the fact that in Philadelphia, lately, they
attempted to execute their dogs with carbonic acid gas. When the box or
tub was opened, the irrepressible spirits of the animals confined
therein were perceived to be at the topmost heights of jollity, and the
police were obliged to go back to first principles and shoot the
exhilarated curs.
* * * * *
DRAINAGE UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
It is generally known to the world that Chicago needs draining. In order
that it may be drained, Mr. Sanitary Superintendent RAUCH has made a
report which is extremely figurative and which quite bristles with the
nine digits. Mr. PUNCHINELLO has read it until perfectly bewildered by
the intricacy of the computations; but what he does understand is that
if Chicago be not drained immediately, the amiable cholera may be
expected to put in an early appearance. Mr. Superintendent RAUCH prints
an aggravating table to show, by multiplication, addition, subtraction,
division, and the rule of three, that if you don't drain you will have
cholera, while if you do drain you will escape it. Under the
circumstances, we should advise Chicago to drain.
* * * * *
"LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE."
A resolution has been introduced into one of the Southern Legislatures,
that any member sleeping during service hours shall forfeit his per
diem. The trouble with our fellows at Washington is that they keep too
wide awake.
* * * * *
CONDENSED CONGRESS.
SENATE.
[Illustration: 'C']
Catching an idea, Mr. NYE objected to the bill which some wretch had
introduced, to abridge the privileges of Senators under the Franking
laws. He knew that it would be a fearful tax upon Senators to send the
_harmless_ necessary editions of two or three hundred thousand copies of
the _Congressional Globe_ to their constituents at their own expense,
and of course the constituents could not be expected to pay. What would
be the result? The _Globes_ would accumulate in vast and useless numbers
over all the land, to such an extent as to impede traffic, and they
could, in that condition, kindle neither patriotic enthusiasm nor
private fires. Somebody had suggested that these copies need not be
sent. They all saw the folly of such a suggestion. True, constituents
never read their speeches, but it was natural for the constituents to be
gratified at having a representative thoughtful enough to tell his
secretary to make out a list of eminent idiots in his district, and send
them a _Globe_ apiece. This secured the idiotic element, which, he was
proud to say, was the chief support of his political life.
Mr. SUMNER said that a bookseller in Boston was getting out an edition
of his speeches in thirty-seven volumes. He was, accordingly, quite
indifferent upon the Franking privilege, since it was certain that no
constituent who read one of the speeches in the book would ever yearn to
read another in a newspaper, and since no constituent would ever survive
the reading of the entire series thus published.
Mr. CHANDLER said he would be Frank. He always had been Frank. It was
his Franking Privilege. He was in favor of declaring a war with every
nation which would not allow matter franked by Senators of this glorious
Republic to pass their post-offices. He had sent copies of all his
speeches to the effete and loathsome monarchs of Europe, with his frank
neatly lithographed in one corner. But he had since heard that the
minions of tyranny in foreign post-offices had stopped those documents,
upon the paltry pretence that the postage was not paid. Thus he had been
prevented from freezing the monarchical marrow and curdling the royal
blood, since nobody could be expected to derive instruction or
admonition from a speech which was used to feed the fire, or stuff the
window, of one of his petty tools. He called upon the Senate to do him
justice.
Mr. CARPENTER observed that justice would never be done to Mr. CHANDLER
until the occurrence of a public execution. But still he considered that
the franking privilege ought to be retained. The party that he belonged
to was the party of intelligence. Strange as this might seem, it was
true, and it was also true that, in spite of their intelligence, they
would read his speeches. Let the Senate have pity upon these misguided,
but not wilfully wicked men.
HOUSE.
Mr. BANKS said he would offer a few observations upon Cuba.
The Speaker (who is coming out very strong as a comic presiding
officer,) said he would rather see BANKS square a circle than a Cuba
root. (He meant a cigar.) This sally was greeted with sickly smiles by
the members who wanted the floor.
Mr. BANKS went on to say that our course towards Cuba was not what was
due to her.
The Speaker begged to correct Mr. BANKS. His nautical friends assured
him that our course towards Cuba was due South to her.
Mr. BUTLER. This is bosh. Let us annex San Domingo. Nobody does anything
for another country without bonds--BANKS had Cuban bonds--he had the
bonds of San Domingo. Annex San Domingo, or else give him San Domingo.
The Comic Speaker said BUTLER ought to be put under bonds to keep the
peace. But perhaps it was superfluous, inasmuch as he always kept a
large piece anyhow.
The House, at this, put crape on its left arm and adjourned.
* * * * *
COMIC ZOOLOGY.
GENUS, FALCO. SPECIES, BIRDOFREEDOM.
This magnificent American fowl, like the more domestic weathercock, may
often be seen wheeling through the air on the approach of a storm, and
exhibits unmistakable signs of exultation when it is going to thunder.
It is not a bird of song, but is unsurpassed as a screamer. To the
common Kite, a plebeian member of the genus, has been ascribed an
attribute which in fact belongs exclusively to this Banner species. The
Kite, according to Dr. FRANKLIN, draws the lightning from the clouds,
but this, in reality, is the proud prerogative of the Great American
Eagle, the noblest of the falcon tribe, which may often be seen with a
sheaf of flashes in its talons, rushing through the skies as a lightning
express. It feeds on all the inferior birds, but its principal food is
the American Bunting, which it bears fluttering aloft in its powerful
mandibles. Strange to say, its feats with the electric fluid, and its
fondness for the Bunting, have not been noticed by any of the great
naturalists; but as innumerable artists have depicted the bird in the
very act of scattering the one and carrying off the other, the omission
is not, practically, of the slightest consequence.
The habitat of the Birdofreedom was originally limited to about twelve
degrees of latitude, but being like the Imperial Eagle of Italy (now
extinct,) given to Roam, it has within the last fifty years greatly
enlarged the area of its feeding grounds. It is now found as far North
as the Border of the Arctic Sea, where it cultivates amicable relations
with the hyperborean humming-bird, and Professor GRANT is at present
attempting to naturalize it in Saint Domingo. The time is probably not
far distant when it will prune its morning wing on the upper pole, and
go to roost on the equator. It is, upon the whole, a grasping bird, and
inspires the weaker tribes with terror; yet, notwithstanding its
fierceness, it perches familiarly on the Arms of the American people.
Although the Birdofreedom makes a magnificent appearance at all seasons,
it is in its fullest feather about the Fourth of July. Its truculent
disposition is then manifested by a threatening attitude toward the
Anglo-Saxon Lion, (_Leo Britannicus,_) which it has twice worsted in
single combat, and to whose well-knit frame it is prepared at any moment
to administer a third sockdologer.
There are many varieties of the Eagle--as the Russian and Prussian,
(which, singularly enough, have two heads,) the bald Eagle, the Osprey
or Sea Eagle, the Golden Eagle, &c. The Golden species was formerly
quite common in the United States, but has now almost entirely
disappeared. Of the smaller species of the genus Falco, it is only
necessary to say that, like the Eagle, they are inedible. In other
words, though excellent for hawking, they are too tough for spitting.
* * * * *
CURRENT FABLES.
THE CENTAUR.
At one time the animals living on either side of a river which ran
through the middle of a vast tract of land, supplied in profusion with
everything necessary to make their lives comfortable and happy, got into
a terrible conflict with each other, which was waged with great
bitterness for a long time, and caused the loss of a great many lives.
At last an enormous Centaur appeared, and, putting himself at the head
of the animals on the colder side of the river, led them in an attack on
their opponents, which was so destructive that the latter were fain to
surrender and promise to live in peace under the dominion of their
stronger neighbors. Then the animals that had conquered were so pleased
that they met together and agreed to make the Centaur ruler over the
whole land, and when he was made ruler he made a speech, and all the
animals thought they were going to have peace, and everybody was happy.
But after the Centaur became ruler, and when it was too late to do any
good, his subjects repented of their choice, because he grew so fat that
he could hardly move himself, and became indifferent to everything but
his own amusement. He made the animals bring him presents of the
choicest products of the country, and those that brought presents he
made rulers under him, until there were so many idle rulers that the
unhappy subjects could barely get enough to eat, and became so thin and
weak that other animals, of whom they had before been the envy, now
pitied and despised them.
_Moral by_ PUNCHINELLO.
It is disastrous for both the employer and the employed to change an
individual's occupation from one for which he is adapted to another
about which he knows nothing.
* * * * *
A. T. Stewart & Co.
Have largely replenished and greatly reduced the
prices of the goods in all their various departments,
Viz.:
MOZAMBIQUE POPLINS, 12-1/2 cts. per yard.
PRINTED ALPACA LUSTERS, 15 cts. per yard.
WIDE CHENE POPLINS, 25 cts. per yard, and upward
BROCHE GRENADINES, 25 cts. per yard, reduced from 40 cts.
EXTRA FINE PRINTED JACONETS, only 20 cts. per yard.
EXTRA FINE PRINTED ORGANDIES, only 25 cts. per yard.
REAL INDIA BLACK AND SCARLET PLAIN
CENTER CAMELS' HAIR SHAWLS, WITH WIDE
BORDERS, only $35 and $44, formerly $60 and $70.
PARIS-MADE SILK CLOAKS AND SACKS, richly
embroidered.
BREAKFAST JACKETS.
BROADWAY,
4th Ave., 9th and 10th. Sts.
* * * * *
A. T. STEWART & Co.
OFFER
(In Order to Close,)
Extraordinary Bargains
IN
CHILDREN'S LINEN, LAWN, AND PIQUE SUITS
TRIMMED OR BRAIDED, $1.50 each upward.
LADIES' LINEN AND CRETON SUITS, $5 each upward.
LAWN WALKING AND EVENING DRESSES, ELEGANTLY
TUCKED, PUFFED, FLOUNCED, &c.
$8 each upward.
LADIES' AND CHILDREN'S UNDERWEAR, WEDDING
TROUSSEAUX, INFANTS' WARDROBES,
BATHING SUITS, BOYS' CLOTHING, LADIES
PARIS AND DOMESTIC-MADE HATS AND
BONNETS, TRIMMED, $5 each upward. UNTRIMMED,
$1.25 each upward.
Feathers, Flowers, &c.
_Customers and the residents of the neighboring
cities are respectfully invited to examine._
BROADWAY,
4th Avenue, 9th and 10th Streets.
* * * * *
A. T. STEWART & CO
Have just received
_FOUR ADDITIONAL CASES_
Black Iron Grenadine Bareges, &c., Completing
the Line of all the Various Widths.
_Three Cases Llama Lace Shawls_.
Three Cases Llama Lace Jackets,
FORMING THE MOST ELEGANT ASSORTMENT YET OFFERED,
and which, notwithstanding their scarcity,
WILL BE OFFERED AT
REDUCED PRICES.
BROADWAY,
4th Ave., 9th and 10th Streets.
* * * * *
SPECIAL
PUNCHINELLO PREMIUMS.
BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT WITH
L. PRANG & CO.,
we offer the following Elegant Premiums for new Subscribers to
PUNCHINELLO:
"Awakening." (A Litter of Puppies.) Half Chromo, size
8 3-8 by 11 1-8, price $2.00, and a copy of PUNCHINELLO for
one year, for $4.00.
"Wild Roses." Chromo, 12 1-8 by 9, price $3.00, or any
other $3.00 Chromo, and a copy of the paper for one year,
for $5.00.
"The Baby in Trouble." Chromo, 13 by 16 1-4, price $6.00,
or any other at $6.00, or any two Chromos at $3.00, and a
copy of the paper for one year for $7.00.
"Sunset,--California Scenery," after A. Bierstadt, 18 1-8 by
12, price $10.00, or any other $10.00 Chromo, and a copy of
the paper for one year for $10.00. Or the four Chromos, and
four copies of the paper for one year in one order, for clubs
of FOUR, for $25.00.
We will send to any one a printed list of L. PRANG & CO.'S
Chromos, from which a selection can be made, if the above is not
satisfactory, and are prepared to make special terms for clubs to
any amount, and to agents.
Postage of paper is payable at the office where received, twenty
cents per year, or five cents per quarter, in advance; the CHROMOS
will be _mailed free_ on receipt of money.
Remittances should be made in P.0. Orders, Drafts, or Bank
Checks on New York, or Registered letters. The paper will be
sent from the first number, (April 2d, 1870,) when not otherwise
ordered.
Now is the time to subscribe, as these Premiums will be offered
for a limited time only. On receipt of a postage-stamp, we will
send a copy of No. 1 to any one desiring to get up a club.
Address,
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING CO.,
P. O. Box 2783. No. 83 Nassau Street, New York.
* * * * *
[Illustration: NO DANGER ON THAT HEAD.
_Girl of the Period_. "O DOCTOR, THE NEWSPAPERS SAY THAT SINCE
LADIES HAVE ADOPTED THE PRESENT STYLE OF WEARING THEIR HAIR, THERE HAS
BEEN A GREAT INCREASE OF CEREBRAL FEVER. Is IT DANGEROUS?"
_Cynical Physician_. "UGH! _you_ NEEDN'T BE ALARMED!"]
* * * * *
"The Printing House of the United States."
GEO. F. NESBITT & CO.,
General JOB PRINTERS,
BLANK BOOK Manufacturers,
STATIONERS Wholesale and Retail,
LITHOGRAPHIC Engravers and Printers,
COPPER-PLATE Engravers and Printers,
CARD Manufacturers,
ENVELOPE Manufacturers,
FINE CUT and COLOR Printers.
163, 165, 167, and 169 PEARL ST.,
73, 75, 77, and 79 PINE ST., New-York.
ADVANTAGES. All on the same premises, and under immediate
supervision of the proprietors.
* * * * *
Bowling Green Savings-Bank,
33 BROADWAY,
NEW-YORK.
Open Every Day from 10 A.M. to 3 P.M.
_Deposit of any sum from Ten Cents to Ten
Thousand Dollars, will be received._
Six Per Cent Interest, Free of Government Tax.
INTEREST ON NEW DEPOSITS
Commences on the first of every month.
HENRY SMITH, _President_.
REEVES E. SELMES, _Secretary_.
WALTER ROCHE,)
EDWARD HOGAN,) _Vice-Presidents_.
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PRANG'S CHROMOS are celebrated for their close resemblance to
Oil Paintings. Sold in all Art and Bookstores throughout the world.
PRANG'S LATEST CHROMOS: "Flowers of Hope," "Flowers of Memory."
Illustrated Catalogues sent free on receipt of stamp.
L. PRANG & CO., Boston
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The New York Standard.
A Daily Morning Newspaper.
CONTAINING ALL THE NEWS
Single Copies, TWO CENTS.
Subscription Price, $6 a Year.
Published Every Morning, except Sundays,
at 34 PARK ROW, by
JOHN RUSSELL YOUNG.
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PUNCHINELLO.
With a large and varied experience in the management
and publication of a paper of the class herewith submitted
and with the still more positive advantage of an Ample
Capital to justify the undertaking, the
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING CO.
OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK.
Presents to the public for approval, the new
ILLUSTRATED HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL
WEEKLY PAPER.
PUNCHINELLO,
The first number of which was issue under date of Apr 2.
ORIGINAL ARTICLES,
Suitable for the paper, and Original Designs, or suggestive
ideas or sketches for illustrations, upon the topics of the
day, are always acceptable and will be paid for liberally.
Rejected communications cannot be returned, unless
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One copy, with the Riverside Magazine, or any other
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All communications, remittances, etc., to be addressed to
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING CO.,
No. 83 Nassau Street,
P.O. Box, 2783, New York.
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THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.
The New Burlesque Serial,
Written expressly for PUNCHINELLO,
BY
ORPHEUS C. KERR,
Commenced in No. 11, will be continued weekly throughout the year.
A sketch of the eminent author, written by his bosom friend, with superb
illustrations of
1ST. THE AUTHOR'S PALATIAL RESIDENCE AT BEGAD'S HILL, TICKNOR'S FIELDS,
NEW JERSEY.
2D. THE AUTHOR AT THE DOOR OF SAID PALATIAL RESIDENCE, taken as he
appears "Every Saturday," will also be found in the same number.
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free,) Ten Cents.
Subscription for One Year, one copy, with $2 Chromo Premium, $4.
Those desirous of receiving the paper containing this new serial, which
promises to be the best ever written by ORPHEUS C. KERR, should subscribe
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We will send the first Ten Numbers of PUNCHINELLO to any one who wishes
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Address,
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY,
P. O. Box 2783. 83 Nassau. St., New York.
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Geo. W. Wheat, Printer, No. 8 Spruce Street.
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