Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 27, October 1, 1870

By Author	[ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z \| Other Symbols ]
By Title	[ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z \| Other Symbols ]
By Language

Download this book: [ ASCII | HTML | PDF ]

Look for this book on Amazon

We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

Title: Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 27, October 1, 1870
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.

*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 27, October 1, 1870" ***

* * * * *

Vol II. No. 27

PUNCHINELLO

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 1, 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.

See 15th Page for Extra Premiums.

PREFACE

"HALF a year, half a year, half a year onward," has PUNCHINELLO advanced
since he wafted his first number to the four quarters of the globe.

His road has not been a very easy one to travel.

Bad characters lurked behind the fences, from which they would sometimes
take a sneak shot at the Showman as he passed. These fellows were
awfully bad shots, though, never so much as hitting the van in which the
show travels. PUNCHINELLO'S return fire always set the scamps
a-scampering, and all they had for their pains was the loss of their
ammunition, and the discovery that the row kicked up by them had
attracted crowds of people to the spot, so that PUNCHINELLO'S show was
capitally advertised by their noise.

PUNCHINELLO'S First Volume, then, is a substantial fact. It is an
entirely new, original, and complete article, which no family should be
without.

Read what the New York _Moon that Shines for All_ says about it:

"Put a head on yourself by reading PUNCHINELLO, Vol. 1. It is by far the
best tonic bitters in the market. It cured the editor of this paper of a
very malignant attack, (made by himself on PUNCHINELLO,) after three
applications."

Several gentle critics predicted an early death for PUNCHINELLO on
account of the buff color selected by him for his full dress costume.
Ha! ha! gentlemen, many a blow falls harmless on the wearer of a
buff-jerkin. As the old poet, whose name we have forgotten, might have
said, had he been in the humor--"He who will cuff it, Eke should buff
it,"--a maxim to which PUNCHINELLO gives his cordial adhesion.

And now comes PUNCHINELLO to the beginning of his Second Volume,
encouraged by the success of his First.

If Vol. I of PUNCHINELLO was a _Chassepot_, (and it _did_ make some
havoc in the ranks of the enemy,) Vol. II is intended to be a
_mitrailleuse_. It will be so arranged as to combine total annihilation
with bewitching music. For instance, by turning one of the cranks by
which it is worked, PUNCHINELLO will be able to project a shower of such
mortiferous missiles against all abettors of crime and vice, all quacks,
political and social, all corrupt officials, all Congress, (except the
Right Party,) all torpid fogies and peddlers of red tape, all humbugs of
every size and shape, in fact, as will speedily reduce them to ashes.
Then, by skilfully manipulating the other crank, he can produce from it
strains of such mellifluous harmony that the very telegraph-poles will
throng around him, as erstwhile did the trees of the forest around
ORPHEUS, and tender their services for the transmission of his melting
music to all the beautiful places on Earth. It is hardly necessary to
say that "Hail Columbia" is the very first tune on the cylinder of
PUNCHINELLO'S musical _mitrailleuse_.

With his mind's eye, (an apparatus expressly constructed for and fitted
to his mental organization by a renowned necromancer,) PUNCHINELLO sees
his Public surging towards him, and grasping with outstretched hands at
the showers of _bon bons_ with which he plentifully supplies them from
an inexhaustible casket.

Among them are thousands of familiar forms, and these are mostly in the
front. After these come several thousands of new forms, all pressing
forward upon the heels of the others with an eagerness that augurs for
PUNCHINELLO Vol II a tremendous and unparalleled success. Each of these
good people carries four dollars ($4) in his right hand, which he waves
at PUNCHINELLO, who affably accepts the greenbacks from him when within
proper distance, and then, dipping his pen in ink without a drop of gall
in it, books the donor for a year's subscription in advance.

As for party, PUNCHINELLO knows but one party--and that is the Right
Party. Stirring times are before us. The Right Party is not going to lie
down and sleep while the times are stirring. Nor is PUNCHINELLO. When
anything that interests the Right Party has got to be stirred,
PUNCHINELLO will be on hand. He has been so long used to starring it,
that he makes light of stirring it. He can stir with a red-hot poker and
he can stir with a feather,--"You pays your money and you takes your
choice."

And now, having stirred the spirit within him to a demonstrative pitch,
PUNCHINELLO shies his cocked hat into space, and calls upon his Public
to give three rousing cheers for the

RIGHT PARTY.

* * * * *

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by the
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY, in the Office of the Librarian of
Congress at Washington.

* * * * *

THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.

AN ADAPTATION.

BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.

CHAPTER XX.

AN ESCAPE.

The bewildered Flowerpot had no sooner gained her own room, enjoyed her
agitated expression of face in the mirror, and tried four differently
colored ribbon-bows upon her collar in succession, than the thought of
becoming Mr. BUMSTEAD'S bride lost the charm of its first wild novelty,
and became utterly ridiculous. He was a man of commanding stature, which
his linen "duster" made appear still more long; the dark circles around
his eyes would disappear in time, and he had an abusive way of referring
to women which made him inexpressibly grand to women as a true
poet-soul; but would it be safe, would it be religiously right, for a
young girl, not yet conscious of her own full power of annual monetary
expenditure, to blindly risk her necessary expenses for life upon one
whom the cost of a single imported bonnet, in the contingency of a
General European War, might plunge into inextricable pecuniary
embarrassment? Possibly, the General European War might not occur in an
ordinary married-lifetime, as France was no longer in a condition to
menace England, Russia would be wary about provoking the new Prussian
giant, and Austria and Italy were not likely soon to forget their last
military misadventures; yet, while all the great American journals had,
for the last twenty years, published daily editorials, by young writers
from the country, to show that such a War could not possibly be averted
longer than about the day after tomorrow, would it be judicious for a
young girl to marry as though that War were absolutely impossible? No!
Her woman's heart sternly reiterated the pitilessly negative; and, as
the Ritualistic organist had plainly evinced an earnest intention to let
no foreign military complications prevent her marriage with him, she
felt that her only safety from his matrimonial violence must be sought
in flight.

With whom, though, could she take refuge? If she went to MAGNOLIA
PENDRAGON, all her dearest schoolmates would say, that they had always
loved her, despite her great faults, yet could not disguise from
themselves that she seemed at last to be fairly running after Miss
PENDRAGON'S brother. Besides, Mr. BUMSTEAD, offended by the seeming want
of confidence in him evinced by her flight, would, probably, take
measures publicly to identify MAGNOLIA'S alpaca garment with the
covering of his lost umbrella, and thus direct new suspicion against a
sister and brother already bothered almost into hysterics.

During the last few weeks, an attack of dyspepsia had laid the
foundation of a mind in the Flowerpot, as it generally does in other
young female American boarding-school thinkers, and she was now capable
of that subtle line of reasoning which is the great commendation of her
sex to a recognized perfect intellectual equality with man. Once
decided, by her apprehension of a General European War, against marriage
with J. BUMSTEAD, she took a rather irritable view of that too
attractive devotional musician, and inferred, from his not being wealthy
enough to stand the test of possible transatlantic hostilities, that he
must, himself, have killed EDWIN DROOD. His umbrella, it was well known,
had been present at that fatal Christmas dinner; and a thoughtless
insult offered to it, even by his nephew, might have made a demon of
him. Suppose that EDWIN, upon returning to the dining-room that night,
after his temporary exercise in the open air with MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON,
had found his uncle, flushed with cloves, endeavoring to force a social
glass of lemon tea upon the umbrella, under the impression that it was a
person, and had unthinkingly accused him thereat of being momentarily
unsettled in his faculties? Probably, then, hot words would have passed
between them; each telling the other that he would have a nice headache
in the morning and find it impossible not to look very sleepy even if he
fixed his hair ever so elaborately. Blows might have followed: the
uncle, in his anger, hewing the nephew limb from limb with the carving
knife from the table, and subsequently carrying away the remains to the
Pond and there casting them in. Suppose, in his natural excitement, the
uncle had hurriedly used the umbrella, opened and held downward, to
carry the remains in; and, after coming home again, and snatching a nap
under the table, had forgotten all about it, and thus been ever since
inconsolable for his alpaca loss? As the young orphan argued thus
exhaustively to herself, the extreme probability of her suppositions
made her more and more frenzied to fly instantly beyond the reach of one
who, in the event of a General European War, would not be a husband whom
her head could approve.

After penning a hasty farewell note to Miss CAROWTHERS, to the effect
that urgent military reasons obliged her to see her guardian at once,
FLORA lost no time in packing a small leather satchel for travel. Two
bottles of hair oil, a jar of glycerine, one of cold cream, two boxes of
powder, a package of extra back-hair, a phial of belladonna, a
camel's-hair brush for the eyebrows, a rouge-saucer for pinking the
nails, four flasks of perfumery, a depilatory in a small flagon, and
some tooth paste, were the only articles she could pause to collect for
her precipitate escape; and, with them in the satchel on her arm, and a
bonnet and shawl hurriedly thrown on, she stole away down-stairs, and
thus from the house.

Hastening to the Roach House, from whence started an omnibus for the
ferry, she was quickly rattling out of Bumsteadville in a vehicle
remarkable for the great number and variety of noises it could make when
maddened into motion by a span of equine rivals in an immemorial
walking-match.

"Now, BONNER," she said to the driver, taking leave of him at the
ferry-boat, "be sure and let Miss CAROWTHERS know that you saw me safely
off, and that I was not a bit more tired than if I had walked all the
way."

Blushing with pleasure at the implied compliment to his equipage from
such lips, the skilled horseman had not the heart to object to the
wildly mutilated fragment of currency with which his fare had been paid,
and went back to where his steeds were taking turns in holding each
other up, as happy a man as ever lost money by the change in woman.

Reaching the city, Miss POTTS was promptly worshiped by a hackman of
marked conversational powers, who, whip in hand, assured her that his
carriage was widely celebrated under the titles of the "Rocking Chair,"
the "Old Shoe," and the "Glider," on account of its incredible ease of
motion; and that, owing to its exquisite abbreviation of travel to the
emotions, those who rode in it had actually been known to dispute that
they had ridden even half the distance for which they were charged. Did
he know where Mr. DIBBLE, the lawyer, lived, in Nassau Street, near
Fulton? If she meant lawyer DIBBLE, near Fulton Street, in Nassau, next
door but one to the second house below, and directly opposite the
building across the way, there was just one span of buckskin horses in
the city that could take a carriage built expressly for ladies to that
place, as naturally as though it were a stable. It was a place that
he--the hackman--always associated with his own mother, because he was
so familiar with it in childhood, and had often thought of driving to it
blindfolded for a wager.

Proud to learn that her guardian was so well known in the great city,
and delighted that she had met a charioteer so minutely familiar with
his house of business, FLORA stepped readily into the providential hack,
which thereupon instantly began Rocking-Chair-ing, Old-Shoe-ing, and
Gliding. Any one of these celebrated processes, by itself, might have
been desirable; but their indiscriminate and impetuous combination in
the present case gave the Flowerpot a confused impression that her whole
ride was a startling series of incessant sharp turns around obdurate
street corners, and kept her plunging about like an early young
Protestant tossed in a Romish blanket. Instinctively holding her satchel
aloft, to save its fragile contents from fracture, she rocked, shoed and
glided all over the interior of the vehicle, without hope of gaining
breath enough for even one scream, until, nearly unconscious, and, with
her bonnet driven half-way into her chignon, she was helped out by the
hackman at her guardian's door.

"I am dying!" she groaned.

"Then please remember me in your will, to the extent of two dollars,"
returned the hackman with much humor. "You're only a little sea-sick,
miss; as often happens to people in humble circumstances when they ride
in a kerridge for the first time."

Still panting, Miss POTTS paid and discharged this friendly man, and,
weariedly entering the building, followed the signs up-stairs to her
guardian's office.

After knocking several times at the right door without reply, she turned
the knob, and entered so softly that the venerable lawyer was not
aroused from the slumber into which he had fallen in his chair by the
window. With a copy of _Putnam's Magazine_ still grasped in his honest
right hand, good Mr. DIBBLE slept like a drugged person; nor could the
young girl awaken him until, by a happy inspiration, she had snatched
away the monthly and cast it through the casement.

"Am I dreaming?" exclaimed the aged man, when thus suddenly rescued from
his deadly lethargy at last "Is that you, my dear; or are you your late
mother?"

"I am your ridiculously unhappy ward," answered the Flowerpot,
tremulously. "Oh, poor, dear, absurd EDDY!"

"And you have come here all alone?"

"Yes; and to escape being married to EDDY'S perfectly hateful uncle, who
has the same as ordered me to become his utterly disgusted bride. Oh,
why is it, why is it, that I must be thus persecuted by young men
without property! Why is it that perfectly horrid madmen on salaries are
allowed to claim me as their own!"

"My dear," cried the old lawyer, leading her to a chair, and striving to
speak soothingly, "if Mr. BUMSTEAD desires to marry you he must indeed
be insane. Such a man ought really to be confined," he continued, pacing
thoughtfully up and down the room. "This must have been the idea that
was already turning his brain when--bless my soul!--he actually
intimated, first, that I, and then, that Mr. SIMPSON, had killed his
nephew!"

"He thinks, now, that I, or MAGNOLIA PENDRAGON, may have done it,--the
hateful creature!" said FLORA, passionately.

"I see, I see," assented Mr. DIBBLE, nodding. "When he has you in his
head, my dear, he himself must clearly be out of it. You shall stay here
and take tea with me, and then I will take you to FRENCH'S Hotel for
your accommodation during the night."

It was a sight to see him tenderly help her off with her bonnet; and
suggestive to hear him say, that if a man could only take off his brains
as easily as a woman hers, what a relief it would be to him
occasionally. It was curious to see him peep into her bottle-filled
satchel, with an old man's freedom; and to hear him audibly wonder
thereat, whether, after all, men were any more addicted than women to
the social glass when they wanted to put a better face on affairs. And,
after the waiter bringing him toast and tea from a neighboring
restaurant had brought an additional slice and cup for the guest, it was
pleasant to behold him smiling across the office-table at that guest,
and encouraging her to eat as much as she would if a member of his sex
were not looking.

"It must be absurdly ridiculous to stay here all alone, as you do, sir,"
observed FLORA.

"But I am not always alone," answered Mr. DIBBLE. "My clerk, Mr.
BLADAMS, now taking a vacation in the country, is generally here though,
to be sure, I may lose him before long. He's turned literary."

"How perfectly frightful!" said Miss POTTS.

"He has set up for a genius, my child, and is now engaged upon a great
American novel. Discontented with the law, he is giving great attention
to this; but Free Trade will not, I am afraid, allow any American
publisher to bring it out."

"Free Trade?" repeated FLORA.

"Yes, my dear, Free Trade; that is, while American publishers can steal
foreign novels for nothing, they are not going to pay anything for
native fiction."

Yawning behind her hand, the Flowerpot murmured something about Free
Trade being positively absurd, and her guardian went on:

"Nevertheless, Mr. BLADAMS is going on-with his work, which he calls
'The Amateur Detective;' and if it ever does come out you shall have a
copy.--But, by the by," added the lawyer, suddenly, "you have not yet
fully described to me the interview in which poor Mr. EDWIN'S uncle
offered to become your husband."

She gave him a full history of the Ritualistic organist's handsome offer
to her of his H. and H.; adding her own final decision in the matter as
precipitated by the possibility of a General European war; and Mr.
DIBBLE heard the whole with an air of studious attention.

"Although I have certainly no particular reason for befriending Mr.
BUMSTEAD," said he, reflectively, "I shall take measures to keep him
from you. Now come with me to FRENCH'S Hotel. To-morrow I will call
there for you, you know, and then, perhaps, you may be taken to see your
friend, Miss PENDRAGON."

Having obtained for his ward a room in the hotel named, and seen her
safely to its shelter, the good old lawyer visited the bar-room of the
establishment, for the purpose of ascertaining whether any evil-disposed
person could get in through that way for the disturbance of his fair
charge. After which he departed for his home in Gowanus.

(_To be Continued.)

* * * * *

MOTTO FOR ALL GOOD CUBANS.--"The labor we delight in physics (S)pain."

* * * * *

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.

Punctually as announced, the FIFTH AVENUE THEATRE has re-opened. It has
been improved by the addition of several private boxes that remind one
of the square pews in old-fashioned churches, (by the way, why do
Puseyites object to pews?) and by the erection of a hydrant near the
conductor's seat, so that when the audience can endure STOEPEL'S music
no longer, they can turn on the water and drown him and his long-winded
orchestra. This latter improvement meets with our hearty approval, and
we earnestly hope to see it put to the excellent use for which it is
designed without further delay. Manager DALY is now offering to his
patrons the new comedy of _Man and Wife_. The old-fashioned play of that
name, which is daily acted everywhere about us, is usually more of a
tragedy than a comedy, but Mr. DALY'S _Man and Wife_ is comedy, farce,
muscular christianity, and paralysis pleasantly mingled together. As
thus:

ACT I.--GEOFFREY DELAMAYN _and his brother are seen conversing in an
arbor. (Don't let the printer imagine that I mean Ann Arbor. It was bad
enough in_ WILKIE COLLINS _to banish his dramatis personae to Scotland;
but he was nevertheless too humane to send them to Michigan_.)

JULIUS DELAMAYN. "GEOFFREY, you really must do something. The unmannerly
people who are just coming into the theatre make such a noise that I
couldn't be heard if I took the trouble to preach to you for an hour, so
I won't attempt to make my meaning any clearer."

GEOFFREY. "I will or I won't, I forget which. However, the audience
can't hear. We've got a pretty good house here to-night I wonder if my
muscles really show to any extent. Here comes LADY LUNDIE and her
friends."

LADY LUNDIE. "I choose everybody to play croquet on my side. The rest
may play on BLANCHE'S side. Miss SYLVESTER, you look as if you could not
stand alone. Therefore I order you to play."

ANNIE SYLVESTER. "Madame, I will. GEOFFREY, meet me here in ten minutes,
or you'll be sorry for it." (Exit everybody. ANNIE and GEOFFREY
returning on tip-toe.)

ANNIE. "You must marry me this afternoon. Meet me at the inn on the
moor."

GEOFFREY. "I won't cross the moor with you. DESDEMONA foolishly crossed
the Moor, and came to grief in consequence. I take warning by her. I
hate you, but I suppose I must marry you, or you'll sell all my letters
to the _Sun_."--(_They go out to be married_.)

ARNOLD _enters and makes love to_ BLANCHE. SIR PATRICK _does the comic
business with_ LEWIS'S _usual humor_. (_What a nice man_ LEWIS _must be
for girls to quarrel with; he "makes up" so nicely--this is a joke_.)
LADY LUNDIE _enters and announces that_ ANNIE _is no longer her
governess, that misguided person having thrown up her situation, for the
irrational reason that it was an interesting one, and having fled in the
silence of the after-dinner hour. Shrieks of horror from the young
ladies, who desist from knocking their croquet-balls into the orchestra
and the proscenium boxes; and triumphant falling of a new act-drop_.
STOEPEL, _having thought of a sweet passage for the fife, in a Chinese
opera, plays it uninterruptedly for forty-five minutes. A deaf old
gentleman approvingly remarks that this is really classical music_.

ACT II.--_A storm at the inn on the Moor_. Miss SYLVESTER _waits for
her_ GEOFFREY _and her tea. Enter_ ARNOLD.

ARNOLD. " GEOFFREY can't come, so he has sent me. I know your situation,
and shall have to feel for you if it gets much darker and they don't
bring candles. That is, if I'm to shake hands with you. I have told
everybody here that you are my wife. Let's have a little game of
seven-up, and pass the time profitably."

ANNIE. "Oh, villain (I mean GEOFFREY,) you have de-ser-er-erted me. Oh,
rash young person, (I mean you, ARNOLD,) I'm inclined to think that
you've married me by Scotch law, without having meant it. If so, you'll
have to go to America and see BEECHER about a divorce." (_Curtain
subsequently falls, and_ STOEPEL _orders the big drum to beat for an
hour, while the musicians take advantage of the noise to tune their
instruments.) Deaf old gentleman remarks again that he does like_
WAGNER'S _music. Half the audience hold their ears, while the other half
flee madly away until the entr' acte is over_.

ACT III.--GEOFFREY _boxes with his trainer, and slings Indian clubs and
wooden dumb-bells_.

GEOFFREY. "There! Thank heaven I didn't break anything. The scenery, the
footlights, or a bloodvessel will get broken before the week is out,
however, if this prize-ring business isn't cut out. Here comes ARNOLD."

ARNOLD. "How's Miss SYLVESTER?"

GEOFFREY. "If you say anything more about her, I'll put a head on you.
She's your wife. You're a married man."

ARNOLD. "_Married_! You infamous editor of a two cent daily paper; I
deny it. (_Curtain again falls, and_ STOEPEL _plays the entire opera of_
ERNANI _for two hours. Deaf old gentleman remarks that music is the_
STOEPEL _entertainment at this theatre, and that he really likes it. The
rest of the audience look at him with horror, as though he were a sort
of aggravated and superfluous cannibal_.)

ACT IV.--_Sir_ PATRICK _proves that_ GEOFFREY _is married to_ ANNIE,
_and that_ ARNOLD _isn't_. GEOFFREY _takes his weeping wife home with
him. Everybody finds out that_ GEOFFREY _is an enormous liar and an
unmitigated blackguard. Through the open windows are seen the editors of
the Sun and the Free Press, each determined to be the first to offer_
GEOFFREY _a place on the staff of his respective journal. The curtain
falls and_ STOEPEL _directs each member of the orchestra to play the
tune that he may like best. After three hours of this sort of thing a
humane person in the audience brings in a saw and begins to file it. The
rest of the audience are thereupon gently lulled to sleep by the music
of the file--so soft and soothing does it sound by contrast with_
STOEPEL'S _demoniac orchestra._

ACT V.--ANNIE, _in the midst of misery and a gorgeous silk dress with
lace trimmings, is seen going to bed in her best clothes, and without
taking her hair down--this being the well-known custom among fashionably
dressed girls_. GEOFFREY _enters and attempts to strangle her, but she
is awakened by the considerate forethought of a dumb woman, who loudly
calls her, and_ GEOFFREY _conveniently lies down and dies of paralysis.
All the rest of the dramatis personae enter, and indulge in exclamations
of joy. The curtain falls for the last time, and_ STOEPEL _is removed
under the protection of a strong platoon of policemen, to the secret
abode where_ DALY _keeps him hidden during the day from the wrath of an
outraged public_.

And the undersigned goes home to breakfast--it being now nearly 6
A.M.--reflecting upon the beauty of the theatre, the neatness of the
scenery, the general ability of the actors, the capabilities of the
play, (after Mr. DALY shall have cut it down to a reasonable length,)
the pluck of the young manager, and the unredeemed badness of the
orchestra, as it is conducted by Mr. STOEPEL. Tell me, gentle DALY,
tell; why in the name of all that is intelligent, do you let STOEPEL
transform each _entr' acte_ at your theatre into a prolonged purgatory,
by the villainous way in which he plays the most execrable music, for
the most intolerable periods of time?

MATADOR.

* * * * *

L. N. IN PRUSSIA.

Yes, I am quite upset;
In fact, I'm dizzy yet
With all that rapid riding, day and night;
But still, two things I see;
They've made an end of Me,
And blown the Empire higher than a kite!

Yes, here I am, at last--
And all my dreams are past.
didn't think to enter Prussia thus!
Confound that "Vorwarts" man!
When first the war began
He seemed as logy as an omnibus.

Faugh! smell the Sweitzer Kaise!
The same in every place, eh?
How these big Germans love an ugly stench!
My! what a taste they've got
For articles that rot;
And can it be, they live so near the French?

I'm in a pretty nest!
And, worse than all the rest,
Is thinking how I got here; there's the rub.
When I have mused awhile
On all my luck, so vile,
I almost wish they'd hit me with a club!

It's very well to say--
"I might have won the day,
If things had only gone this way or that;"
I should have _made_ them go,
And let these Germans know
That _they_ must go, too! or be cut down flat.

They didn't go, it seems;
Except 'twas in my dreams!
And, consequently, I must bid good bye
To titles, power and state,
Which I enjoyed of late,
And curse my dismal fate--poor Louis and I!

* * * * *

THE PLYMOUTH ROCK.

The fact of his having relinquished (at the imperative demand of
society) his weekly visits to the watering places, need lead no one to
believe that Mr. PUNCHINELLO does not like a little fresh air. And
surely a half a day or so by the seaside need jeopardize no one's social
standing if the thing is not repeated too often. At least so thought Mr.
P., and he determined, one fine morning last week, that he would hurry
up his business as fast as possible, and take a trip on Col. FISK'S
steamboat to Sandy Hook. A man calling with a bundle of puns detained
him so long that he found that he would not be able to reach the 11 A.M.
boat without he made unusual haste.

Rushing into the street, therefore, he hailed a passing hack, and
ordered the driver to take him, as quickly as possible, to the Plymouth
Rock.

When the carriage stopped, and the man opened the door, Mr. P. rubbed
his eyes, for he had fallen into a doze, on the way, and sprang hastily
out.

But what a sight met his gaze!

Before him was the hack, covered with mud and dust, and the horses in a
position indicating utter exhaustion: to his right lay a huge
unsymmetrical stone, while behind him rolled the heaving waters of Cape
Cod bay! The man had mistaken his directions, and had driven him to JOHN
CARVER'S old Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts, instead of JAMES FISK Jr.'s
steamboat at Pier 28, North River.

"There's the rock, yer honor," said the man, pointing to the mis-shapen
stone, "and an awful time I've had a drivin' yer honor to it."

"How long have you been, coming here?" asked the astounded Mr. P.

"Nigh on to three days, yer honor, and I drove as fast as I could,
hopin' to get back by the Sunday in time for the Centhral Park, but I
had to stop sometimes for feed and wather, and it's no use me whippin'
up afther all, for sorra the good them horses will be for the Centhral
Park on the Sunday."

"And how much do I owe you for all this?" asked Mr. P.

"Well, sir," said the man, "I won't charge your honor nothin' for the
feed and my victuals, for I'd had to have found them if yer hadn't a
hired me; and I'll only charge ye three dollars a hour, for sure yer
honor never give me the least thruble, slapeing there as swate as an
infant all the time, and that'll be jist two hundred and four dollars,
and if yet honor could give me a thrifle besides to drink yer health,
I'd be obliged to yer honor."

Mr. P. gazed alternately at the man, the carriage, the horses, and the
rock, and then he paid the driver two hundred and four dollars and
twenty-five cents. The worthy Milesian pocketed the money and declared
his intention of proceeding to Boston, which was only about forty miles
away, and taking the railroad for New York

"If I don't, ye see, yer honor, I'll never get back in time for the
Sunday; and the horses will be restin' in the cars."

As the man made his preparations and departed, Mr. P. stood and watched
him until he slowly faded out of sight.

When he had entirely disappeared, Mr. P. sat down upon the rock and
reflected. Now that he was here, what had he best do? He had never seen
the rock before, and as it struck him that possibly some of his patrons
might be in the same unfortunate condition, he concluded that he would
take a few sketches of it for their benefit. But he did not succeed very
well. The first drawing he made had a strange appearance. It looked more
like an old woman tied to a post, and surrounded by what seemed to be
flames, than anything else. This surely was not a correct view of this
famous rock, and so Mr. P. commenced another sketch. This, however,
looked so much like a man with a broad-brimmed hat, hanging by his neck
to a rope, that he concluded to try again.

His next sketch bore a striking resemblance to something that certainly
did not seem like a rock, but which, after some deliberation, he found
to look very much like a shrinking Southern negro, forced into the ranks
to supply the place of a citizen of Massachusetts. Everybody might not
be able to see this, but Mr. P. thought he perceived it plainly.

The last sketch made by Mr. P. somewhat resembled one whose connection
with "The Plymouth Rock" has certainly been of more practical benefit to
the public than that of any of the " old founders," or anybody else--at
least so far as Mr. P. can see. If any one doubts this, let him ask
General GRANT.

Now should his readers see anything at all suggestive of sober and
beneficial reflection in these sketches, Mr. P.'s visit to Plymouth Rock
was not made in vain.

* * * * *

A LETTER FROM L. N.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: The Empire is Peace, as usual. If, some time hence, it
should be discovered to have been otherwise, at the time of writing this
letter, you will please understand that I wasn't there, at that moment,
having had a little business to transact with my good friend WILLIAMS,
of PRUSSIA. I am at present engaged upon a tour of the German States in
the company of a pleasant little excursion party, who met me at Sedan,
and received me warmly.

Everybody seems glad to greet me, particularly at this time, and all
express regrets that I couldn't have come earlier in the season. They
are aware of the interest I have ever felt in the great German people,
and I am assured they welcome with enthusiasm my pet theory of the
solidarity of nations.

I intend remaining here awhile, feeling sure that there is nothing to
call me homeward for the present. The truth is, my friend, I am getting
weaned of the French people. So soon as my obligations to my very good
friends in Prussia will permit, you may look for me in New York. Yes,
dear PUNCHINELLO, greatest and beet of Philosophers! expect to see me
walking into your Sanctum one of these fine mornings,--probably with my
son LOUIS,--delighted to see you, and glad to turn my back on those
scenes so long familiar, which, in their new and popular dress, could
hardly be expected to afford me much exhilaration.

From an inferior man, I should expect officious and quite gratuitous
commiseration over the fate of the late Empire. You, however, will
readily perceive it to be possible that I should rather be
congratulated. You would not exchange your dignified leisure, your
careless toils, for the best of sovereignties. Why, then, should I, who
have made you my exemplar, feel a pang at parting with a sceptre which
for years has only tired my hand?

I picture myself seated with my family on the heights at Weehawken,
smoking a good cigarette, and musing on the affairs of nations as I
watch the flow of that superb river (as much finer than the Rhine, my
friend, as wine is finer than lagerbier!) which I have often, in days
gone by, admired and extolled by the hour.

I expect they will pleasantly call me Duke Hudson, and my son the Prince
of Staten Island. No matter. I can always face the Inevitable.

And that reminds me of the late war, in which the Inevitable that I was
always being called upon to face, was the Inevitable Prussian. But I
have faced much more terrible things. In your very city of Hoboken, I
have stood face to face with a German creditor! Will any one henceforth
doubt my fortitude?

I have one rather comforting reflection, apropos to that _rencontre._ I
have taken care to arm myself against future assaults of that nature. I
am Gold-Plated.

If your highly-gifted corps of artists should wish to depict me in a
connection which would satisfy my sense of honor, let them make a sketch
entitled: "The Two Exiles,"--one of whom may be,my Uncle at St. Helena;
the other, me, at Weehawken, with my family near, a glass of wine at my
side, a cigarette in one hand, and a copy of PUNCHINELLO in the other!

But let me not anticipate. Sufficient unto the day is the (d)evil
thereof.

Royally yours,

L. N.

* * * * *

Maxim for the next new President.

"A place for everybody, and everybody in his place."

* * * * *

[Illustration: ON COLOR.

_Cousin Bella, (admiring picture.)_ "HOW IS IT, FRED, THAT YOU PRODUCE
SUCH LOVELY COLOR, AND WITH SO MUCH FACILITY?"

_Fred, (thinking of his meerschaum.)_ "I DON'T TELL EVERYBODY THAT, YOU
INQUISITIVE TEASE, BUT FACT IS, I PUT THE STUMP OF AN OLD PAINT-BRUSH IN
THE BOWL, AND SMOKE THE OILIEST TOBACCO I CAN FIND."]

* * * * *

THE BATTLE AT SEDAN.

Special Correspondence of Punchinello.

(This paper is the only paper on the planet which has a correspondent at
the seat of war, wherever that seat may be. The following dispatch was
sent to us by cable at a total expense of $21,000.)

It was a still, calm night, the glorious moon was sailing through the
sky; the river was running water; the clouds were cloudy; the soldiers
were soldiering. I stepped out of my tent and tumbled over VON MOLTKE.
He took my arm and invited me to the tent of the Crown Prince.

"MOLTY," said I, "what's your little game?"

"Penny ante," replied he.

"_Trés bien,_" added I.

"You are a French spy. Ha! ha!" said he, grasping my collar. "Ho! Ho!"

"_Das ish goot,_" added I.

"Then you're Dutch," sighed he, dropping me like a hot pair of tongs.

In the tent we found the King, the Crown Prince, Gen. STEINMETZ, Gen.
SHERIDAN, and Gen. FORSYTH.

"MOLTY," said I, "introduce me to the King."

"BILL," said he, "this is JENKINS."

BILL held out his foot and I took a suck at his great toe.

Then we went at the game. BILL is pretty good at it, but then he doesn't
stand any chance beside MOLTY. The Crown Prince lost at least fourteen
cents, and, just as he had a splendid opportunity to retrieve his
losses, in came an aide, who announced that the French had squatted.

"Where?" cried VON MOLTKE.

"In Sedan," replied the aide.

"I knew it," said MOLTY. "BILL, I told you they had no horses for a
regular carriage."

Then we went out. The King invited me to sit in his carriage with MOLTY
and SHERIDAN. We reached the scene of war.

The moon shone; the mountains were mountainous; the trees were treey;
and the soft September breeze was breezy. BISMARCK came up and asked the
King to let him cut behind.

"BIS," said I, "take my seat; I'll take a trip to the French camp."

So I tripped over to the French camp and found things somewhat mixed.
The moon shone. Steadily the Prussian troops advanced; and, with a
heroism worthy of a better cause, the French retreated. The Emperor
wanted to die in the rear of his men.

"NAP," said I, "you'd better get up and get. The Prussians are coming."

"JENKINS," said he, "kiss me for my mother, I'm betrayed."

"Why didn't you have more cheesepots?" said I.

"I'll surrender," said he, "get out a white flag."

So I took one of EUGENIE'S old pocket-handkerchiefs which I found in the
tent, stuck it on the end of the sabre of the nephew of his uncle, put
NAP in the carriage, jumped in myself and drove to the Prussian camp.
The moon shone; all nature smiled; the rivers were rivery; the Sedans
were chairy.

BILL received us very coolly at first, but I gave BIS the wink, and he
suggested to his Majesty that he'd better take the Emperor prisoner.

"NAP," said BILL, "is the game up?"

"BILL," said NAP, "you've scored the game. I leave my old clothes to the
Regent. I hope she'll like the breeches."

Then he treated to cigarettes, and we all went back to our game of penny
ante. NAP wouldn't join us. He said he'd just been playing a game with
crowns ante and he was busted. We'd hardly got the cards dealt, when
BILL turned to BISMARCK and asked, "I say, BIS, won't you run over and
telegraph to the old woman something about our FRITZ?"

"Let JENKINS go," said BIS.

Of course I assented to the proposition.

"Where the devil is FRITZ?" said BILL.

"Oh, he's been sleeping for the last two hours," said MOLTKE.

"Never mind," said BILL, "telegraph a victory by FRITZ."

So I telegraphed,

"A great victory has been won by our FRITZ. What great things have we
done for ourselves! We'll keep it up, old woman,

(Signed) BILL."

When I reached the tent everybody was asleep. NAP was reclining
gracefully on the breast of BISMARCK, as affectionately as if they were
brothers-in-law. The moon shone; the sky was skyey; the hills were
hilly; and all nature was getting up.

Anybody who says the above did not come over the cable lies, wickedly,
maliciously lies, with intent to deceive. As soon as JACK SMITH'S smack
sails, I'll send you a piece of the cable it came over.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Mr. Bull: The Sutler of the World]

* * * * *

HIRAM GREEN TO KONIG WILHELM

He Reviews the Career of a Lunatic. -- A Graduate with Nice Ideas.

KING WILYAM, Most noble Loonatic:

_We gates all der while!_ Accordin' to the Marine Cable, I understand
you've given old BONEY a _slosh on der cope mit der Sweitzer case;_ or
in good plain United States talk, LEWIS NAPOLEON has taken his Umpire,
and shoved it up the spout, without the benefit of Judge or Jewry.

I kinder had an idee that when the now busted up rooler of the Umpire
tackled you, that it would have been a ten dollar greenback in his
panterloons pocket if he had let the contract out on shares to his
nabors.

I've allers heard say that as able-bodied a Loonatic as the French say
you be, could handle any 3 ordinary men, "Be be Jost or Gobler damed,"
to cote from our friend BILLY SHAKESPEER.

We have had evidences here, of the superiority of Loonatics, mor'en
once.

If a man can prove that his upper story is crackt, he can wallop his
wife to his heart's content; and if anybody interferes, he can popp him
off with a six shooter, and the law will stand to his back.

Judges and Jewrys, when tryin' such a man, think he is sum punkins,
while all the illustrated papers stick the celebrated Loonatic's
fotograf onto their first page.

I would like to ask you, if your insanity is of the melon-colic, (this
bein' the season when melons is ripe,) or is it of the _pro temper_
kind?

I shoulden't wonder, between you and I, but that you inherited it from
your illustrous Antsister, FREDERICK the Grate, who was about as sassy a
Loonatic as you can pick up.

What _we_ need just now, and what _we_ have needed for a good while, is
a able-bodied Loonatic to send to England as minister.

With such a crazy Statesman as you be, them 'ere little Alabarmy claims
would have been squared up long ago, or else, if this court knows
herself intimately, the British lion would have been sent off howlin',
with a tin kittle tide to his cordil appendage.

You probly observe, I go heavy on Loonatics. Yes, sir! they are the
"Coming man," the 16th Commandment; or Chinese Coolers can't hold a
candle to 'em.

When a man ups and does something nobody else can do, if they'd bust
their biler tryin', then he is sot down as bein' crazy as a loon by his
jelous nabors.

I haven't heard whether BISMARK'S or FRITZ'S upper storys were shaky, or
not, but there haint the shadder of a dowt in my mind, but what both of
these long headed chaps are madder than GEO. FRANCIS TRAIN any day; and
that the Crown Prints employs his spare time strikin' tragic attitoods,
and repeatin' the follerin well known verses:

"I am not mad!
I am not mad!
But only on my mussle.
Old NAP'd been glad
If he and King dad
Had never got into a tussle."

My object in riting to you, great Conkeror of the man whose son was so
_bully_ at pickin' up _bullocks,_ is to congratulate you.

Speakin' after the manner of men, You are an old Cinnamon bud. Havin'
served my country for 4 years as Gustise of the Peece, you can rely on
my giving a good sound opinion, from which there haint no repeal to a
higher court.

What do you think of my startin' a college here for the purpus of
edicatin' Loonatics?

We've got 3 colliges here, Harvard, 'Ale, and the Electoral College, and
a skalier lot of week-kneed timber than these institutions sometimes
turns out, would make you stick to your stomack to look at.

Stugents are turned out from these asilums with pooty ristocratick idees
into their nozzles.

I once knew a chap who was a gradooate of one of these institutions of
larning,

He was more ristocratick than a retired church deekin'.

When his wife died, he wanted her to look respectable at the funeral, so
he sent to one of his nabors to borrer a silk dress for the corpse to
wear, doorin' the funeral services.

Thinks I, that was shovin' a good thing rather too deep in the ground,
merely for the sake of pilin' on the agony.

However, that's the way of the world; larnin' will stick out, and you
can't atop her.

That son of your'n, FRITZ, is smarter than a 2 year old heifer.

If he haint in that precarious situation which SARY F. NORTON calls
"mummery," and the Onida Community says Amen! to, but which good honest
folks, like you and I, calls married, then I would say that he mite go
further and fare a site wusser, than to come over here and examine my
stock of risin' feminine genders.

Mrs. GREEN, the mother of my dorters, is a woman who understands her biz
as housekeeper, and anybody who gits one of her gals won't be troubled
to death by keepin' a cook to boss 'em around.

Doorin' the prosperous days of Skeensboro, when I was baskin' in the
sunshine of offishal life, and had a politikle ax to grind, MARIAR'S
biled dinners used to fetch Polerticians to their milk, ekal to the way
a big dinner at DELMONICO'S, N.Y., will flop over a New York Alderman.

The surest way of gettin' round a public man, is via his stomack.

Like ALADIN'S lamp, you can
By merely givin' a rub,
Bring around most any man,
By fillin' him up with grub.

But, most noble cuss of the Realm, I must lay aside my goose quil, and
go and do the family chores. But afore I close this letter let me speak
a word for your noble prisoner, L. NAPOLEON, Esq.

Deal gently with him.

Altho' he plade the wrong card when he pitched into you, recollect the
old maxum:

"Never bute a feller when he is down."

France is better, in a good many respects, for things LEWIS done for
'em.

But he has gone to the shades, and SHAKSPEER aptly says:

"The evil which men do,
Lives a darn site longer than
The evil they don't do."

Which sentiment shode that old SHAKE was a hulsail dealer in human
nater.

Hopin' that in the days of your prosperity, you wont forgit your poor
relations, sich as _mothers-in-law_ and the like, and when they come to
visit you, you wont say:

"Nix cum arous,"

I will dry up.

Ewers anon,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

_Lait Gustise of the Peece_

* * * * *

THE LOVERS.

In Different Moods and Tenses.

SALLY SALTER, she was a young teacher, who taught,
And her friend, CHARLEY CHURCH, was a preacher, who praught;
Though his enemies called him a screecher, who scraught.

His heart, when he saw her, kept sinking, and sunk,
And his eye, meeting hers, began winking, and wunk;
While she, in her turn, fell to thinking, and thunk.

He hastened to woo her, and sweetly he wooed,
For his love grew until to a mountain it grewed,
And what he was longing to do, then he doed.

In secret he wanted to speak, and he spoke,
To seek with his lips what his heart long had soke;
So he managed to let the truth leak, and it loke.

He asked her to ride to the church, and they rode;
They so sweetly did glide, that they both thought they glode,
And they came to the place to be tied, and were tode.

Then homeward he said let us drive, and they drove,
And soon as they wished to arrive, they arrove;
For whatever he couldn't contrive, she controve.

The kiss he was dying to steal, then he stole,
At the feet where he wanted to kneel, there he knole,
And he said, " I feel better than ever I fole."

So they to each other kept clinging, and clung,
While Time his swift circuit was winging, and wung;
And this was the thing he was bringing, and brung.

The man SALLY wanted to catch, and had caught--
That she wanted from others to snatch, and had snaught--
Was the one that she now liked to scratch, and she scraught

And CHARLEY'S warm love began freezing, and froze,
While he took to teasing, and cruelly toze
The girl he had wished to be squeezing, and squoze.

"Wretch!" he cried when she threatened to leave him, and left,
"How could you deceive me, as you have deceft?"
And she answered, "I promised to cleave, and I've cleft!"

AMOS KEETER

* * * * *

[Illustration: A PRETTY IDEA OF MR. VAN LITTLEDRAM: HE TAKES HIS
YOUNGSTER OUT FOR A SAIL, THUS, AND SAVES THE EXPENSE OF A BOAT.]

* * * * *

THE POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO VII.

Tom, Tom the Pipers' son,
Stole a Pig, and away he run;
The Pig was eat, and TOM was beat.
And TOM went roaring down the street.

The above verse immortalizes an event that caused great excitement in
the period in which it occurred, although at the present date it would
not be considered of much account, or cause the smallest ripple on the
glassy calm of our most, sleepy village.

We have progressed beyond being stirred by any little peccadillo such as
the theft of a pig or a sheep, or even a watch or a purse, unless it
contains a large amount, and was taken under the most aggravating
circumstances from ourselves.

A robbery of a bank of a million, when it happens to affect hundreds of
people, or a midnight murder executed with the malignancy of a fiend,
will sometimes stir up the public for a few days, but even that soon
passes out of mind, and society settles back into its imperturbable
apathy, retreating with each wave of excitement still further, and
becoming by degrees proof against being stirred by anything that does
not affect ourselves personally.

Not so, however, in those days of Arcadian simplicity; for the
astounding temerity of the Piper's son, in laying felonious hands on the
property of the village butcher, or baker, caused an excitement second
only to a hanging, or a first-class sensational horror, of later days.

Poor TOM was a deal to be pitied as well as blamed; for although he was
the one who committed the crime, he was not the only one who reaped a
benefit therefrom. But the traditional historian tells us, he was the
only one who was punished therefor; so, while we blame him, let us shed
a tear of sympathy because he alone got the beating, the others the
eating. The scene is graphically described thusly--

"Tom, Tom the Piper's son,
Stole a pig, and away he run."

Here we see Tom, the good-for-nothing, standing idly around, listening
to the witching strains of his father's bagpipe, played by the
industrious musician before the doors of the well-to-do villagers, with
the laudable view of obtaining the wherewith to purchase the meat that
both might eat; and while the instrument that has well served its day
and generation is groaning and wheezing under the pressure brought to
bear upon it, TOM'S eyes, roving around from window to door, happen to
light on a beautiful sucking-pig, that reposes in all the innocent
beauty of baby pighood before the open door of a zealous stickler for
human rights.

Alas! TOM is not acquainted with the gentlemanly owner of the
fascinating pig, and he doesn't know how strong his principles are, nor
how far he will go to maintain them.

He gazes enraptured upon the dainty porker, and as he looks, the desire
to own just such a one grows upon him, and soon it becomes a
determination to own that identical one, for never another could equal
that. He looks stealthily around and finds the eyes of all are fixed
upon the musician and his bagpipe. No one notices him, and hailing it as
a happy omen, he pounces upon the coveted quadruped, grasps it tightly
in his hands, and skedaddles.

The music is ended and the crowd disperses. The absence of piggy is
unnoticed till the red-headed urchin whose playmate it is looks around
for the loved companion, of his childish sports, and finds it not. Great
research, amid loud outcries, is made, resulting only in the conviction
that the pet of the family is gone, leaving no trace behind.

TOM, with his prize, exultingly hurries homeward, his heart swelling
with joy at his luck. Like a dutiful son, he rushes to the arms of his
maternal parent and deposits in her capacious lap the dainty prize.
Visions of a luscious supper float through the mind of the female
piperess, as she bestows her motherly benediction upon her thoughtful
son, and proceeds to put into execution the well-conned lesson of
cooking a sucking pig.

Having accomplished the "First get your pig" part, the rest comes easy;
and at night, when the old Piper returns, his olfactories are sainted
with an odor that startles him from his generally despondent mood, and
awakens his curiosity as to the cause of such an unusual flavor from his
usually flavorless abode. He enters and finds a smiling wife and son,
with a smoking pig awaiting his coming. "What next occurred the Poet
tells us in the laconic words

"The pig was eat."

There was no necessity for describing the way of eating; the fact was
enough. But alas! there is always a dark side to everything, and this
happy family were no exception, The bones were left. They couldn't eat
them, and they didn't own a dog; so they picked them clean and threw
them away. But, "Murder will out," and the tiny bones told their own
tale. The village detective soon coupled the feet of the missing pig
with the unusual occurrence of a heap of bones before the door of the
musician's abode, and by a process of reasoning unknown to the
detectives of the present day, decided that those bones were a pig's
bones--a stolen pig's bones, from the fact that the Piper did not earn
enough to indulge in such luxuries as sucking-pigs. Now who stole the
sucking-pig?

Clearly not Madame Piper, for she was too fat and heavy to have any
light-fingered proclivities.

Clearly not the Piper himself, for he was playing his bagpipe and could
prove an alibi.

There was no one left but TOM. Circumstances pointed him out: he loved
good eating and hated work, and had been noticed gazing upon the charms
of the missing family pet. It was settled, then. TOM was the thief, and
the offender must be punished. But how? Law was too uncertain and
expensive, TOM was too poor to pay for the pig, so it was resolved to
take the worth of it out of him by beating. The poet tells us

"TOM was beat."

Undoubtedly TOM was glad when they got through, and although he

"Went roaring down the street,"

it was a matter of rejoicing with him that he had saved his bacon. It
was impossible to get that out through his hide, and they had no stomach
pumps in those days.

* * * * *

Scene.--A. City Restaurant.

_Waiter, (to customer, who is winding up his repast_.) "Anything more,
sir?"

_Customer_. "H'm--well--yes; bring me an omelette souffle."

_Waiter_. "Omelet Shoo-fly, sir? Yessir."

(_Exit, humming the popular tune_.)

* * * * *

Unintentionally Appropriate.

The Sun tells a very large story of its own circulation, and then
innocently requests the "False Reporting" _Tribune_ to copy it!

* * * * *

BY GEORGE!

(_Continued_.)

LAKE GEORGE, Sept 5.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO:--In my last I promised to finish my trip on the Lake
and give you some reliable rumors about the "Rogers' Slide."

I am prepared to do this to-day, in a happy and congratulatory frame of
mind.

I have had breakfast this morning.

When I say this I mean that I have had this morning's breakfast this
morning.

Any one who has achieved so remarkable a success, at this place, can
safely plume himself on his patience and physical endurance.

For instance, this morning, for the first time, I ordered broiled Spring
Chicken.

The waiter gave me a disconsolate look and proceeded to gird up his
loins with a base ball belt.

In a few moments he dashed past the window in hot pursuit of a fowl of
venerable appearance, but of a style of going that would have put to
shame any ostrich that Dr. LIVINGSTONE ever saw.

I asked the head waiter if he called that a _Spring Chicken_?

He said he guessed that chicken could out-Spring any chicken in the
place.

This clears up another great hotel mystery.

The man outflanked this gentle birdling on the eighth time round, in
6.23, which is considered very good indeed, and beats the time of the
late Harvard and Yale "Foul" considerably.

I say "outflanked," because it is not the intention of these sunny
Amendments to put an end to these feathery Dexters immediately, but to
drive them into the ten-pin alley, where they are leisurely bowled to an
untimely end. As, however, pony balls are generally used, and there are
always half a dozen darkies standing around ready to bet that the
chicken won't be killed in forty balls, or sixty, as the case may be,
this part of the process is rather tedious to the guest

Sometimes, when the chicken is not very active, there are not more than
nine or ten-pin feathers left.

Well, the next place the boat stopped at is called "Sabbath Day Point,"
in consequence of ABERCROMBIE having landed there on a Wednesday
morning.

Its name will therefore be considered a joke by such as see the Point.

A gentleman on board informed me that the water was so clear at this
place that one could "see objects when thirty feet from the bottom."

I have thought and thought over this remark, but am unable to see what
one's distance from the bottom has to do with his "seeing objects."

I give it up.

On the opposite side of the Lake is a hill called "Sugar Loaf
Mountain"--because it is a sweet place for loafers, I suppose.

Finally we passed "Rogers' Slide," which is a rocky precipice three
hundred feet high, sloping nearly perpendicularly into the water. A
decidedly unpleasant-looking place for cellar-door practice.

There are a great many romantic traditions about this same ROGERS, who
is regarded by the simple natives as having been an altogether
high-minded and gorgeous character--the fact being that he was one of
those unmitigated old scamps who owe to the accident of having lived in
Revolutionary times, the distinction of being held up to the emulation
of primary schools as a "Patriot Hero." Literally he was simply an
"unmixed evil," fighting only to steal something, and devoting what time
and talent he could spare from his legitimate profession--which was
_seven-up_--to generally bedevilling and encroaching upon the
neighboring Indians.

As an enchroachist he was immense.

The noble red-skins alluded to finally concluded that enough was enough,
and appointed a Special Commission to put a permanent end to the
delicate attentions of the "Marked Back."

This _sobriquet_ they conferred upon him partly on account of the fact
that he usually received his wounds while leaving their immediate
vicinity, and partly because of a peculiar characteristic of the kind of
cards he used.

The Commissioners caught ROGERS out hunting, and chased him until he
came to this precipice, down which he slid into the Lake below, and,
unfortunately, escaped unharmed.

The Indians, who were pursuing him by the imprints of his snow-shoes,
soon arrived at the brink. Seeing what had occurred, they concluded to
"let him slide."

Hence the name.

Evidently they thought, from the trail, that he must have gone over.
Though he was by no means a missionary, the Tracks he had left produced
a profound impression on their untutored minds.

They at once concluded that he was drowned, or had got "in with" some
bad spirits.

It is obvious, however, to the most casual observer of the place, that
the reverse must have been the case. The bad spirits were in him.

The mark worn by Mr. R's "cheviots" in his descent can still be
distinctly seen.

About half way up is a shining object which is generally believed to be
a suspender button.

This, however, is merely conjectural.

The clerk of the boat, of whom I have spoken before, tells me that until
within a few years back, the hole in the water where ROGERS struck could
be seen.

"But it is all gone now," he said, shaking his head sadly. "Nothing can
escape the Vandal horde of tourists and relic hunters. Piece by piece
they have carried the hole away, and there is no trace of it left now."

And he "wept at my tranquillity."

At the north end of the Lake we took stages for Fort Ticonderoga. These
vehicles were run by a man who was pointed out as a "character," which
means a sort of licensed nuisance.

The monomania of this individual was speech making, and much reflection
inclines me to the belief that he is some unappreciated politician who
has invented a way of "taking it out" on the unhappy public as follows:

He waits until his five immense stages arrive at some remote and
solitary part of the road, then draws them up in a semi-circle, mounts a
stump, and--on pretence of exhibiting the beauties of nature--proceeds
to harangue the helpless fares to the top of his very high bent, or
until one of the slumbering "outsides" creates a welcome diversion by
falling off and breaking his neck.

We came to what was really a curiosity--two kinds of trees growing from
one trunk, which this concentration of bores, this _mitrailleuse_, in
fact, improved accordingly.

"Here, Ladies and Gentlemen, you per-ceive one of the _re_-markable and
_pe_-culiar works of a benign _Per_-rovidence. On the right you see the
sturdy and iron-hearted oak, while on the left you behold the modest and
_be_-utiful ellum. What Having has joined together let no man put
asunder--gerlang with yer hosses!"

It must have been a Sunday-school Superintendent who invented excursions
to Fort Ty.

It is not a place to Tye to.

One old gentleman pointed to an underground hole and advised me to go
and look at the magazine.

I went; but it is hardly necessary to say that I didn't find any, and,
on the whole, I was glad of it If people don't know any more than to
leave their _Galaxys_ and _Harper's_ lying around loose when travelling,
why, they deserve to have them stolen, that's all.

I was sorry for the old gentleman, but if there is anything that
disgusts me, it is to meet people that ain't posted about things.

As the steamer neared the Hotel, on our return, the departing sun was
flinging back his last good-night smile on the lovely scene below, and
the musical chime of the little church at Caldwell came stealing sweetly
over the bosom of the placid Lake. As its fairy-like sounds reached our
ears, a melancholy-looking man with long hair, who sat near, started,
smiled, and turning to me, said:

"Did I ever tell you that story about SLUKER?"

As I had never seen the party before, I replied that if he had I had
forgotten it.

"SLUKER," he repeated, gazing absently at the distant spire; "SLUKER,"
he reiterated, rubbing his nose abstractedly with the handle of his
umbrella; "SLUKER," he continued--

--in my next, my dear PUNCHINELLO, in my next.

SAGINAW DODD.

[_To be continued_.]

* * * * *

Sauce

There can be no doubt that Grévy is in the right place, as a member of
the Provisional government of France.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Old Gent_. "Don't scatter water on my feet, man,--do you
suppose I want 'em to grow any bigger?"]

* * * * *

EDUCATION FOR DETECTIVES.

Although our Metropolitan Detectives have hitherto failed to solve the
mystery in which certain atrocious murders remain shrouded, yet it would
be simply captious to impeach them, on that account, for lack of
sagacity, zeal, courage, or any of the numerous other qualities that go
to the making up of an efficient "Hawkshaw."

That they are not deficient in zeal, at least, is manifest from a
circumstance which took place a short time since. Counterfeiting had
been carried on to a great extent in the city. The rashness of
counterfeiters is proverbial, and they usually carry on their operations
immediately under the nasal protuberance of the law. Nevertheless, in
the case under notice, some vigilant detective, with a nose as sharp as
that of a Spitz-dog, obtained a clue to the arrangements of the
counterfeiters. Having informed some of his associates, a concerted
descent was made by the party upon a house in one of the lower streets
of the city. A portion of the house is, and has been for years past,
occupied by several artists connected with the illustrated press. Few
gentlemen are better known in large circles than these artists, none
more highly appreciated by hosts of friends. But duty is duty--often
stern, but never to be shirked; and so the faithful detectives inserted
their Spitz-dog noses between the joints of the artists' doors, and,
having smelt a very large rat, suddenly burst in upon these graphic
malefactors, and caught them in the act, with all the tools and
paraphernalia of their nefarious occupation scattered about their vile
den.

Most of them were engaged in executing drawings upon blocks of wood,
although it is probable that some of them were smoking pipes--tobacco
being vastly conducive to that concentration of thought by which alone
great mental efforts can be followed by equivalent results. Short work
was made by the sagacious detectives, when they saw the graphic
malefactors engaged in their diabolical toil. Some of the officers
seized the implements of the gang, while others collared the
delinquents, and marched them through the streets to the nearest police
station, where they were thrust into a dungeon and locked up for the
night.

Next morning, on being taken before a magistrate, the prisoners were
discharged, on the grounds that the affair was a mistake--or a joke--we
are not exactly informed which; but the parties chiefly interested do
not look upon it as a joke.

Now it is a very clear case that the mistake in question--or joke--may
be traced to a deficiency of education on the part of these vigilant and
zealous detectives. Had they been properly cultivated in the various
branches of art, the slight blunder to which we refer could not have
occurred. The Spitz-dog noses, instead of smelling Rat, would have smelt
its anagram, Art. Its influence would at once have been acknowledged by
them, and they would have backed out from the August Presence with
obsequious genuflexions. It becomes a question of moment, then, whether
a course of lectures upon art should not henceforth be considered an
indispensable branch of the education of our excellent detectives. We
would not limit the proposed extension of their education, however, to
the study of art, alone. Botany should be insisted on as a necessary
accession to the stock of the detectives' learning; and especially would
we have them instructed in a full knowledge of the leguminous
vegetables--such as beans.

* * * * *

Temporary Obscuration of the "Hub."

Boston already has the biggest church- organ in all Creation. She also
has the most public Public Garden of modern times. Last year she had the
loudest Musical Jubilee ever organized, and it is further to be noted
that she is the proud possessor of the most uncommon of Commons. Early
in October, however, all these cherished immensities of Boston must fall
into insignificance and "feel small." On the second day of that month,
Colonel FISK is to make his triumphant entry into Boston, at the head of
the gallant Ninth. Organ, Jubilee, Public Garden, Big Drum, Common--all,
all of these will then have to subside and fade away into thin air
before the stately presence of the Prince of Erie and his valiant
command.

* * * * *

Boy and Man.

"Miss ANNIE P. LADD, of Augusta, Me., has been appointed by the governor
and confirmed by the council as a justice of the peace."

To be a man and magistrate
'Twas natural that ANNIE sighed,
Since she one phase of man's estate
Already as a LADD had tried.

* * * * *

A Nut for the Ladies' Club.

Referring to the recent ladies' boat race at Harlem, a reporter says
that "the girls all rowed badly." This is a discouraging comment on the
frantic efforts now making by women to assume man's attributes, (not to
mention his other "butes" and the what-d'ye-call-'ems generally
associated with them,) and it is a very significant fact that the
comment can be tersely clinched by the words So rows Sis.

* * * * *

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Among the numerous portraits of the late CHARLES DICKENS now before the
public, none are likely to be more popular than one in chromograph
lately issued by PRANG & Co., of Boston and New York. It represents the
great and genial writer as some few years younger than he was when he
last visited this country. The expression of the face is one of
thought--rather as he might have appeared when meditating over some new
turn to be given to the thread of a narrative, than as he used to look
when reading to an audience. This picture is printed in two or three
simple tints, of which the flesh tint is the most predominant. It is set
in an oval passe-partout, and requires only a glass over it to fit it
for placing on a wall.

[Illustration: FEEDING SPARROWS.

A HINT TO A CERTAIN CLASS OF "HUMANITARIANS"]

+--------------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| "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, |
| ENVELOPE Manufacturers, |
| FINE CUT and COLOR Printers. |
| |
| 163, 165, 167, and 169 PEARL ST., |
| 73, 75, 77, and 79 FINE ST., New York. |
| |
| ADVANTAGES.--All at the same premises, and under |
| immediate supervision of the proprietors. |
| |
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| Tourists and Pleasure Travelers |
| |
| will be glad to learn that that the Erie Railway Company has |
| prepared |
| |
| COMBINATION EXCURSION or Round Trip Tickets, |
| |
| Valid during the the entire season, and embracing |
| Ithaca--headwaters of Cayuga Lake--Niagara Falls, Lake |
| Ontario, the River St. Lawrence, Montreal, Quebec, Lake |
| Champlain, Lake George, Saratoga, the White Mountains, and |
| all principal points of interest in Northern New York, the |
| Canadas, and New England. Also similar Tickets at reduced |
| rates, through Lake Superior, enabling travelers to visit |
| the celebrated Iron Mountains and Copper Mines of that |
| region. By applying at the Offices of the Erie Railway Co., |
| Nos. 241, 529, and 957 Broadway; 205 Chambers St.; 33 |
| Greenwich St.; cor. 125th St. and Third Avenue, Harlem; 338 |
| Fulton St., Brooklyn; Depots foot of Chambers Street, and |
| foot of 23rd St., New York; No. 3 Exchange Place, and Long |
| Dock Depot, Jersey City, and the Agents at the principal |
| hotels, travelers can obtain just the Ticket they desire, as |
| well as all the necessary information. |
| |
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| PRANG'S LATEST PUBLICATIONS: "Wild Flowers," "Water-Lilies," |
| "Chas. Dickens." |
| |
| PRANG'S CHROMOS sold in all Art Stores throughout the world. |
| |
| PRANG'S ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUE sent free on receipt of stamp. |
| |
| L. PRANG & CO., Boston. |
| |
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| 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 issued under date of April 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 postage |
| stamps are included. |
| |
| TERMS: |
| |
| One copy, per year, in advance ...................... $4.00 |
| |
| Single copies ........................................ .10 |
| |
| A specimen copy will be mailed free upon the receipt of ten |
| cents. |
| |
| One copy, with the Riverside Magazine, or any other magazine |
| or paper, price, $2.50, for................... $5.50 |
| |
| One copy, with any magazine of paper, price $4, for $7.00 |
| |
| |
| All communications, remittances, etc., to be addressed to |
| |
| PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING CO., |
| |
| No. 83 Nassau Street, |
| |
| P. O. Box, 2783, NEW YORK. |
| |
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD. |
| |
| The New Burlesque Serial, |
| |
| Written expressly for PUNCHINELLO, |
| |
| BY |
| |
| OEPHEUS 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. |
| |
| Single Copies, for Sale by all newsmen, (or mailed from this |
| office, 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 now, to insure its regular |
| receipt weekly. |
| |
| We will send the first Ten Numbers of PUNCHINELLO to any one |
| who wishes to see them, in view of subscribing, on the |
| receipt of SIXTY CENTS. |
| |
| Address, |
| |
| PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY, |
| |
| P. O. Box 2783. 83 Nassau St., New York |
| |
+--------------------------------------------------------------+

GEO. W. WHEAT & CO, PRINTERS, No. 8 SPRUCE STREET.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 27, October 1, 1870" ***

Home