Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 30, October 22, 1870

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Title: Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 30, October 22, 1870
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 30, October 22, 1870" ***

Vol. II. No. 30.

PUNCHINELLO

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 22, 1870.

PUBLISHED BY THE

PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY,

83 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.

* * * * *

THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD,

As an Adaptation of the Original English version, was
concluded in the last Number. The remaining portion will be
continued as Original,

By ORPHEUS C. KERR,

Commencing with the present issue.

See 15th Page for Extra Premiums.

THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.

AN ADAPTATION.

BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.

CHAPTER XXIV.

MR. CLEWS AT HIS NOVEL.[1]

Thrown into Rembrandtish relief by the light of a garish kerosene lamp
upon the table: with one discouraged lock of hair hanging over his nose,
and straw hat pushed so far back from his phrenological brow that its
vast rim had the fine artistic effect of a huge saintly nimbus: Mr.
BUMSTEAD sat gynmastically crosswise in an easy-chair, over an arm of
which his slender lower limbs limply dangled, and elaborately performed
one of the grander works of BACH upon an irritable accordion. Now,
winking with intense rapidity, and going through the muscular motions of
an excitable person resolutely pulling out an obstinate and inexplicable
drawer from somewhere about his knees, he produced sustained and
mournful notes, as of canine distress in the backyard; anon, with eyes
nearly closed and the straw nimbus sliding still further back, his
manipulation was that of an excessively weary gentleman slowly
compressing a large sponge, thereby squeezing out certain choking,
snorting, guttural sounds, as of a class softly studying the German
language in another room; and, finally, with an impatient start from the
unexpected slumber into which the last shaky _pianissimo_ had
momentarily betrayed him, he caught the untamed instrument in mid-air,
just as it was treacherously getting away from him, frantically balanced
it there for an instant on all his clutching finger-tips, and had it
prisoner again for a renewal of the weird symphony.

Seriously offended at the discovery that he could not drop asleep in his
own room, for a minute, without the music stopping and the accordion
trying to slip off, the Ritualistic organist was not at all softened in
temper by almost simultaneously realizing that the farther skirt of his
long linen coat was standing out nearly straight from his person, and,
apparently, fluttering in a heavy draught.

"Who's-been-ope'nin'-th'-window?" he sternly asked,
"What's-meaning-'f-such-a-gale-at thistime-'f-year?"

"Do I intrude?" inquired a voice close at hand.

Looking very carefully along the still extended skirt of his coat
towards exactly the point of the compass from which the voice seemed to
come, Mr. BUMSTEAD at last awoke to the conviction that the tension of
his garment and its breezy agitation were caused by the tugging of a
human figure.

"Do I intrude?" repeated Mr. TRACEY CLEWS, dropping the skirt as he
spoke. "Have I presumed too greatly in coming to request the favor of a
short private interview?"

Slipping quickly into a more genteel but rather rigid position on his
chair, the Ritualistic organist made an airy pass at him with the
accordion.

"Any doors where youwasborn, sir?"

"There were, Mr. BUMSTEAD."

"People ever knock when th' wanted t'-come-in, sir?"

"Why, I did knock at your door," answered Mr. CLEWS, conciliatingly. "I
knocked and knocked, but you kept on playing; and after I finally took
the liberty to come in and pull you by the coat, it was ten minutes
before you found it out."

In an attempt to look into the speaker's inmost soul, Mr. BUMSTEAD fell
into a doze, from which the crash of his accordion to the floor aroused
him in time to behold a very curious proceeding on the part of Mr.
CLEWS. That gentleman successively peered up the chimney, through the
windows, and under the furniture of the room, and then stealthily took a
seat near his rather languid observer.

"Mr. BUMSTEAD, you know me as a temporary boarder under the same roof
with you. Other people know me merely as a dead-beat. May I trust you
with a secret?"

A pair of blurred and glassy eyes looked into his from under a huge
straw hat, and a husky question followed his:

"Did y' ever read WORDSWORTH'S poem-'f-th' Excursion, sir?"

"Not that I remember."

"Then, sir," exclaimed the organist, with spasmodic animation--"then's
not in your hicsperience to know howssleepy-I am-jus'-now."

"You had a nephew," said his subtle companion, raising his voice, and
not appearing to heed the last remark.

"An' 'numbrella," added Mr. BUMSTEAD, feebly.

"I say you had a nephew," reiterated the other, "and that nephew
disappeared in a very mysterious manner. Now I'm a literary man--"

"C'd tell that by y'r-headerhair," murmured the Ritualistic organist.
Left y'r wife yet, sir?"

"I say I'm a literary man," persisted TRACEY CLEWS, sharply. "I'm going
to write a great American Novel, called 'The Amateur Detective,' founded
upon the story of this very EDWIN DROOD, and have come to Bumsteadville
to get all the particulars. I've picked up considerable from Gospeler
SIMPSON, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, and even the woman from the Mulberry street
place who came after you the other morning. But now I want to know
something from you.--What has become of your nephew?"

He put the question suddenly, and with a kind of suppressed leap at him
whom he addressed. Immeasurable was his surprise at the perfectly calm
answer--

"I can't r'member hicsactly, sir."

"Can't remember!--Can't remember what?"

"Where-I-put't."

"_It?_"

"Yes. Th' umbrella."

"What on earth are you talking about?" exclaimed Mr. CLEWS, in a rage.
"--Come! Wake up!--What have umbrellas to do with this?"

Rousing himself to something like temporary consciousness, Mr. BUMSTEAD
slowly climbed to his feet, and, with a wild kind of swoop, came heavily
down with both hands upon the shoulders of his questioner.

"What now?" asked that startled personage.

"You want t' know 'bout th' umbrella?" said BUMSTEAD, with straw hat
amazingly awry, and linen coat a perfect map of creases.

"Yes!--You're crushing me!" panted Mr. CLEWS.

"Th' umbrella!" cried Mr. BUMSTEAD, suddenly withdrawing his hands and
swaying before his visitor like a linen person on springs--"This's what
there's 'bout 't: _Where th' umbrella is, there is Edwin also!_"

Astounded by, this bewildering confession, and fearful that the uncle of
Mr. DROOD would be back in his chair and asleep again if he gave him a
chance, the excited inquisitor sprang from his chair, and slowly and
carefully backed the wildly glaring object of his solicitation until his
shoulders and elbows were safely braced against the mantel-piece. Then,
like one inspired, he grasped a bottle of soda water from the table, and
forced the reviving liquid down his staring patient's throat; as quickly
tore off his straw hat, newly moistened the damp sponge in it at a
neighboring washstand, and replaced both on the aching head; and,
finally, placed in one of his tremulous hands a few cloves from a saucer
on the mantel-shelf.

"You are better now? You can tell me more?" he said, resting a moment
from his violent exertions.

With the unsettled air of one coming out of a complicated dream, Mr.
BUMSTEAD chewed the cloves musingly; then, after nodding excessively,
with a hideous smile upon his countenance, suddenly threw an arm about
the neck of his restorer and wept loudly upon his bosom.

"My fr'en'," he wailed, in a damp voice, "lemme confess to you. I'm a
mis'able man, my fr'en'; perfectly mis'able. These cloves--these
insidious tropical spices--have been thebaneofmyexistence. On Chrishm's
night--_that_ Chrishm's night--I toogtoomany. Wha'scons'q'nce? I put m'
nephew an' m' umbrella away somewhere, an 've neverb'n able
terremembersince!"

Still sustaining his weight, the author of "The Amateur Detective" at
first seemed nonplussed; but quickly changed his expression to one of
abrupt intelligence.

"I see, now; I begin to see," he answered, slowly, and almost in a
whisper. "On the night of that Christmas dinner here, you were in a
clove-trance, and made some secret disposition, (which you have not
since been able to remember,) of your umbrella--and nephew. Until very
lately--until now, when you are nearly, but _not quite_, as much under
the influence of cloves again--you have had a vague general idea that
somebody else must have killed Mr. DROOD and stolen your umbrella. But
now, that you are partially in the same condition, physiologically and
psychologically, as on the night of the disappearance, you have once
more a partial perception of what were the facts of the case. Am I
right?"

"That's it, sir. You're a ph'los'pher," murmured Mr. BUMSTEAD, trying to
brush from above his nose the pendent lock of hair, which he took for a
fly.

"Very well, then," continued TRACEY CLEWS, his extraordinary head of
hair fairly bristling with electrical animation: "You've only to get
yourself into _exactly the same_ clove-y condition as on the night of
the double disappearance, when you put your umbrella and nephew away
somewhere, and you'll remember all about it again. You have two distinct
states of existence, you see: a cloven one, and an uncloven one; and
what you have done in one you are totally oblivious of in the other."

Something like an occult wink trembled for a moment in the right eye of
Mr. BUMSTEAD.

"Tha's ver' true," said he, thoughtfully. "I've been 'blivious m'self,
frequently. Never c'd r'member wharIowed."

"The idea I've suggested to you for the solution of this mystery," went
on Mr. CLEWS, "Is expressed by one of the greatest of English writers;
who, in his very last work, says; '--in some cases of drunkenness, and
in others of animal magnetism, there are two states of consciousness
which never clash, but each of which pursues its separate course as
though it were continuous instead of broken. Thus, if I hide my watch
when I am drunk, I must be drunk again before I can remember where.'[2]"

"I'm norradrink'n'man, sir," returned Mr. BUMSTEAD, drawing coldly back
from him, and escaping a fall into the fireplace by a dexterous surge
into the nearest chair. "Th' lemon tea which I take for my cold, or to
pr'vent the cloves from disagreeing with me, is norrintoxicating."

"Of course not," assented his subtle counsellor; "but, in this country,
at least, chronic inebriation, clove-eating, and even opium-taking, are
strikingly alike in their aspects, and the same rules may be safely
applied to all. My advice to you is what I have given. Cause a table to
be spread in this room, exactly as it was for that memorable
Christmas-dinner; sit down to it exactly as then, and at the same hour;
go through all the same processes as nearly as you can remember; and, by
the mere force of association, you will enact all the final performances
with your umbrella and your nephew."

Mr. BUMSTEAD'S arms were folded tightly across his manly breast, and the
fine head with the straw hat upon it tilted heavily towards his bosom.

"I see't now," said he softly; "bone han'le 'n ferule. I r'member
threshing 'm with it. I can r'memb'r carry'ng--" Here Mr. BUMSTEAD burst
into tears, and made a frenzied dash at the lock of hair which he again
mistook for a fly.

"To sum up all," concluded Mr. TRACEY CLEWS, shaking him violently by
the shoulder, that he might remain awake long enough to hear it,--"to
sum up all, I am satisfied, from the familiar knowledge of this mystery
I have already gained, that the end will have something to do with
exercise in the Open Air! You'll have to go outdoors for something
important. And now good night."

"Goornight, sir."

Retiring softly to his own room, under the same roof, the author of "The
Amateur Detective" smiled at himself before the mirror with marked
complacency. "You're a long-headed one, my dead-beat friend," he said,
archly, "and your great American Novel is likely to be a respectable
success."

There sounded a crash upon a floor, somewhere in the house, and he held
his breath to listen. It was the Ritualistic organist going to bed.

(_To be Continued._)

[Footnote 1: The few remaining chapters with which it is proposed to
conclude this Adaptation of "_The Mystery of Edwin Drood_," should not
be construed as involving presumptuous attempt to divine that full
solution of the latter which the pen of its lamented author was not
permitted to reach. No further correspondence with the tenor of the
unfinished English story is intended than the Adapter will endeavor to
justify to his own conscience, and that of his reader, by at least one
unmistakable foreshadowing circumstance of the original publication,
which, strangely enough, has been wholly overlooked, thus far, by those
speculating upon the fate of the missing hero.]

[Footnote 2: See Chapter III., _The Mystery of Edwin Drood._]

* * * * *

An Old Saw with a Modern Instance.

The Farthing Candle of New York journalism appears to be trying to find
what political party he can best bully into offering the largest reward
for his conscientious support. As a looker on, PUNCHINELLO would suggest
to the political parties, as applicable in this case, the following
quotation from VIRGIL:

----"_timeo Dana-os et dona ferentes_."

* * * * *

SOME TRAITS OF THE CHINESE.

[Illustration: 'O']

Of all human races, next to the monkies, the Mongolians are the most
imitative. They are only a little lower than the monkies in this
respect, and we have seen some trained ones that could successfully
compete with the Simians on their own ground.

A Chinaman employed in the North Adams shoe factory, for instance, was
asked to imitate exactly a boot of a particular style, which was shown
to him. After a few trials, he imitated the boot so perfectly, that a
customer who came in took him to be the fellow of it, and was not
undeceived until he went to try him on. No wonder that the regular
Crispins are jealous of a foreign cordwainer who can do this.

In the art of dress-making for ladies the Chinese display wonderful
skill. Their taste and inventiveness in this branch are unrivalled even
by the best French _modistes_. The _panier_ with which it pleases the
ladies of the period to protuberate their persons was of Chinese origin.
It was revealed in an opium dream to a celebrated male mantua-maker of
Pekin, who sold the idea to a Yankee-Notions man travelling in China for
a Paris house. The inventor was so chagrined at hearing afterwards of
the immense fortune realized from it by the man of the West, that he
committed suicide by hanging himself on a willow-pattern plate.

Although the Chinaman does not naturally possess an ear for music,
according to our standard, yet his imitative power enables him to adapt
himself very readily to the production of melody. One of the Coolies
employed in the great HERVEY wash-house at South Belleville, N.J., was
observed to watch with great interest an itinerant performer on the
accordion. Shortly afterwards, catching up a sucking-pig by the tail and
snout, he manipulated it precisely as the player did the accordion,
producing--accordion to the testimony of several credible
witnesses,--strains quite as good as, if not worse than, those drawn out
by that musician.

As soon as the 200,000 Chinamen ordered by Mynheer KOOPMAN-SCHOOP arrive
in this country, a good business can be driven by Yankee toothpick
makers in supplying them with chopsticks. This word was originally
"stop-chick," being so called from the use occasionally made of it by
Chinamen for knocking down young poultry. It became corrupted, like
everything that is good and pure, by contact with extreme civilization.
Anybody who can make a shoe-peg or wooden toothpick can make a
chopstick. It is to be hoped that the chopstick may ultimately be
adopted here instead of the knife and fork. It would preclude the
possibility of people carrying their food into their mouths with the
knife--an outrage so commonly to be remarked at hotel tables.

A very intelligent Chinaman told the writer, not long since, that there
is absolutely nothing to be seen or heard of in this country that the
Chinese were not familiar with several thousand years ago. Among them he
enumerated target-companies, sewing-machines, patent baby-jumpers,
nitro-glycerine, shoo-fly chewing-tobacco, wooden hams, stuffed
ballot-boxes, and a hundred other things which we are prone to brag of
as being purely Yankee and original. We are too conceited about
ourselves, by a great deal, and it is good for us that even Chinese
shoemakers should come here once in a while, to "take us out of our
boots."

* * * * *

A Midnight Reflection.

The man who commits suicide may be said to show his contempt for the
hollowness of the world by putting his foot in it.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Gentleman, (reading.)_ "THE MILITARY AUTHORITIES OF
PARIS HAVE CUT DOWN AND UTTERLY DESTROYED THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE."

_Old Lady._ "POOR BOYS!--AND TO THINK WHAT THEIR DEAR MOTHERS MUST
SUFFER!"]

* * * * *

NAPOLEON'S CORRESPONDENCE.

The following letters were yesterday discovered among the private papers
of the late Emperor--L.N. BONAPARTE. They were instantly forwarded to
us by our special correspondent. They will be used to-morrow in a
mutilated form by less enterprising journals, such as the _Tribune_ and
its partners of the Associated Press.

"NEW YORK, May 10, 1860.

"DEAR EMPEROR: I am thinking of writing a biography of you, in the same
style as my biography of your Uncle. I shall want to prove that you were
never in New York, that you behaved with perfect propriety while you
were here, and that you are humble, unambitious, and deeply religious.
This will not be a difficult matter, after the success I have made in
the case of your Uncle. Still, I shall want a fact or two in the book.
Can you not supply me with them? Any small favor you may think fit to
send me may be directed to my usual address.

"Yours for truth and justice, J.S.C.A.B.B.O.T.T."

* * * * *

"CLICHY PRISON.

"VILLAIN AND USURPER! Your minions have incarcerated me in this vile den
on a pretence that I owe a debt which I have not paid. They lie,
wilfully and malignantly. I always pay my debts. Ask SEWARD if I do not.
He remembers how I paid him the little debt I owed him, when I defeated
his Presidential aspirations. Release me at once, or the _Tribune_ will
show your rotten Empire no mercy. If I am at liberty this evening I will
send you a prize strawberry plant, and a copy of my work on political
economy. If I am not at liberty by the time mentioned, beware. SMALLEY
shall be sent to Paris as the _Tribune's_ special correspondent, and
you'll see the sort of news about your infamous court that he'll be
instructed to send home.

"Yours Profanely, H.G."

* * * * *

"BERLIN, July 1, 1870.

"To THE EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH: His Majesty, the King, instructs me to
say that he shall do just as he pleases in all affairs public and
private. He advises you to attend to your own affairs, and if you have
any more propositions for stealing other people's territory, to address
them to Russia, or the United States. Prussia is not at present in that
line of business. BISMARCK."

* * * * *

"BUREAU OF POLICE, Jan. 1, 1870.

TO HIS MAJESTY, THE EMPEROR--SIRE: I beg leave to report that M.
ROCHEFORT demands the sum of 1,000,000 francs, to be paid at once.
Otherwise be will continue to be a patriot, and will abuse Her Majesty,
the Empress, with more violence than ever. Both M. ROCHEFORT and M.
FLOURENS are much enraged since their annual stipend has been
discontinued.

PIETRI, _Chief of Police_."

Other selections from the Imperial correspondence will be shortly laid
before our readers. Remember, the only genuine letters are those in
PUNCHINELLO. All others are garbled forgeries.

* * * * *

Roma! Roma! non e plu com' ora Prima.

With the downfall of the Pope's temporal power, comes the report that
several newspapers have been established in the Eternal City. Thus the
"great world spins forever down the ringing grooves of change." For
Papal Infallibility, the Romans will have that of the editorial WE; for
the canons of the Church Militant they will have ubiquitous reporters
discharging themselves in the public ear; the testimony of the pillars
of the Church will be replaced by the assertions of the editorial
columns; the Inquisition will become a press club-house for Reporters
and Interviewers, and the Propaganda an office where 'extras' are
concocted and forced on the unsuspecting public. At least let us hope
that the change will offer a reputable business for the army of beggars
which has formerly been licensed by the church. A chance will now be
offered them to become newspaper agents, thus making a living
respectably by selling accounts of other people's deformities, instead
of disreputably by exhibiting their own.

* * * * *

A CAPITOL MOVE.

The immediate probability of the formation of the United States of
Europe, suggests how wise we were not to change the location of the
Capitol to some facetiously distant western metropolis of the future.
The Capitol buildings are quite large enough to receive the delegates
who will of course come on here to study the art of log-rolling, while
the Chesapeake, being navigable almost to the Capitol steps, will save
them the fatigue of a luxurious journey in the palace sleeping cars.

* * * * *

Sublunary Observations of the Sun.

From a careful analysis of the daily appearance of the _Sun_, it has
been satisfactorily settled that it is completely enveloped in gas. By
the application of the literary spectrum, it is also shown that this
gaseous vaporization is the result of brass in a high state of
incandescence, while the indications of alkalies, and, in fact, all
kinds of lies, are no less distinct.

* * * * *

Forethought.

One reason why this country is so earnestly opposed to the Napoleonic
dynasty, is that there is no probability that the descendants of the
Prince Imperial would give us any assistance in settling the Alabama
Question.

* * * * *

Prompt.

The Methodists recently opened a school for young ladies in Salt Lake
City, and BRIGHAM'S third son is courting it already.

* * * * *

VERDICT ON A BARBER'S WHISKERS.--Dyed by his own hand.

* * * * *

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.

[Illustration: 'S']

Solemn and severe German tragedy reigns in the Fourteenth Street
theatre. Once it was called the French theatre, and was devoted to the
witty comedies of SCRIBE, and the luxurious legs of OFFENBACH. But a woe
has been denounced against the SCRIBES and OFFENBACHS--(there is
considerable difference between the latter and the Pharisees)--of that
once gay theatre. Like many other French frivolities, it has lately
yielded to Teutonic tragedy. The cold and calculating German
"MEPHISTOPHELES" treads the stage where once tripped the light feet of
Parisian beauty. The burlesque Germans of the Grand Duchy of Gerolstein
have vanished before the grim and earnest countrymen of grand and simple
old King WILLIAM. It will be long before the French players find heart
to burlesque anew the German soldiery. It will be some time, let us
hope, before the German players at the Fourteenth Street theatre give
way to the shameless antics of French Opera-Bouffe buffoons.

PUNCHINELLO gives a glad farewell--with no thought of saying _au
revoir_--to the French follies that have given the French theatre so
unenviable a reputation; and he waves his pointed hat in joyful welcome
to SEEBACH and her German friends who have made the Fourteenth Street
theatre a temple of the classic drama. Like other places which can
properly be called dramatic temples, the theatre now partakes of the
solemnity of a religious temple. One goes to see SEEBACH, not to laugh,
but to test one's ability to suppress the desire to weep over the woes
of MARGARET, and to mourn with MARY STUART. Fortify yourself, O reader,
with a substantial dinner and much previous sleep, and come with me for
a night of German tragedy. Come to the Fourteenth Street theatre, not to
look back regretfully at departed opera-bouffe, but to SEEBACH. It is
with such reckless puns as the foregoing, that I endeavor to brace your
spirits for the exhausting struggle with six hours of tragedy played in
the most tragic and awful of modern languages. You are to hear _Faust_
in German. No man who has accomplished this feat can wonder at the
stolid bravery of the German infantry. It is said that the new recruit
is forced to hear _Faust_ once a week during his first year of service.
This terrible discipline has the natural effect of giving him that
steadiness under fire, at which the world marvels. He will stand with
his regiment for hours under the merciless fire of the mitrailleuse with
no thought of flight. What terrors can shot or shell have for him who
has been taught to listen unmoved to the dialogue of "FAUST" and
"MEPHISTOPHELES" in the first thirty-two acts of _Faust_?

We find the theatre full of Germans, wearing that grave and earnest
expression of countenance wherewith the German takes his legitimate
tragedy. Sprinkled among the Germans are several Americans, more grave
and more in earnest than even their Teutonic neighbors, for they are
straining their attention to detect a familiar German word--such as
"Mein Herr," or "Ach." When once they have heard the expected syllables,
they smile a placid smile of contentment, and remark, one to another, "I
can understand pretty nearly everything that is said,--with the
exception, of course, of an occasional word."

We take our seats and wait for the entrance of SEEBACH. The curtain
rises upon "FAUST" pursuing his studies in middle-age, respectability,
and a dressing-gown. To him, after hours of soliloquy, enters
"MEPHISTOPHELES." We observe, with surprise, that those estimable
gentlemen, Col. THOMAS W. KNOX and Hon. ERASTUS BROOKS, have been
engaged to play "FAUST" and "MEPHISTOPHELES" respectively, To be sure
the programme informs us that these parts are taken by two newly
imported German actors, but we prefer the evidence of our senses to the
assertions of the programme. Have KNOX and BROOKS been copied in German?
If not, they are now playing in Fourteenth Street. Don't tell me that it
is merely an accidental resemblance. Haven't I played billiards with the
gallant COLONEL, and gone to sleep when the Honorable EDITOR was
speaking in Congress? And shall I now be told that I don't know them
when I see them? But this is irrelevant.

Hours of dialogue succeed to the previous hours of soliloquy. At
intervals of fifteen minutes the curtain is dropped to enable the actors
to discuss mugs of beer and the audience to discuss the actors. During
these intervals we hear such remarks as these:

1ST GERMAN. "Subjectively considered, _Faust_ is a tragedy. Objectively,
we might regard it as a comedy. To the subjective-objective view, it is
certainly a ballet pantomime. Ach! he was many-sided, our GOETHE. Here
in this drama he has accomplished everything. There is food for our
laughter and our tears. It excites us and calms us."

1ST AMERICAN. "I should think it did calm us. That's why the old fellow
went to sleep and snored all through the last twelve acts. I think it's
the heaviest and stupidest play that was ever put on the stage. Of
course it's the greatest thing ever written, but then I prefer DALY'S
_Gaslight_, myself."

2ND GERMAN. "Ah, my friend, how this sublime creation stirs the inner
depths of our spiritual natures. Ach, Himmel! it is the poem of
Humanity. Let us go out for beer."

2D AMERICAN. "When are we going to see SEEBACH?"

USHER. "She don't appear until the twenty-third act, sir. That will be
on about three hours from now."

2D AMERICAN. "Come, TOM, let's go and have supper. I am getting
exhausted."

USHER. "Step this way, sir. Mr. GRAU has some refreshments at your
service."

And they go in search of the cold ham and beer which the beneficent GRAU
has kindly provided. Refreshed by much beer, and enlivened by the cheery
influence of the genial sandwich, they return for a few more hours of
soliloquy and dialogue.

Time passes slowly, but surely. At last we reach an act in which SEEBACH
walks quietly across the stage. The curtain instantly drops amid the
sobs of the excited audience.

1ST GERMAN. "Lend me your handkerchief, my friend, that I may wipe away
my tears. I have a sausage wrapped up in mine, but what are sausages
compared with art! How divinely SEEBACH walks. To me, she seems like an
incarnation of Pure Reason, an Avatar of the spirit of transcendental
philosophy. Come, we will pledge her in beer."

1ST AMERICAN. "What are they making all that row about--just because
SEEBACH walked across the stage? Why, she never said a word."

2D AMERICAN. "Let's go round to the hotel and take a quiet sleep till
she comes on again. I've got my night-clothes with me. Always bring 'em
when I go to see German tragedy."

Then ensue other hours of dialogue, interspersed with soliloquies of
half an hour each. Interspersed also with perpetual dropping of the
curtain, whereby the play is made to last some eight or ten hours longer
than would otherwise be the case. Most of the German music that has been
written during the last three centuries is played by the orchestra
during these intermissions. But in course of time SEEBACH gives us the
Garden scene, winning our frantic admiration by her inimitable
tenderness and grace, and finally we reach that grandest scene ever
written by dramatist, that most pathetic poem ever conceived by
poet--the meeting of "FAUST" and "MARGARET" in prison. At last we are
more than repaid for the dreary hours that have gone before. We have
seen SEEBACH'S "MARGARET"--the most powerful, the most pathetic, the
most beautiful, the most perfect creation of the stage.

And as we pass slowly up the tortuous, steep stairways of the theatre,
while the Germans, all talking at once, burden the air with
unintelligible gutturals, you say to me--if you are the intelligent
person that you ought to be--"SEEBACH is the greatest actress of this
century--greater than RISTORI, subtler and more tender than RACHEL."

With which opinion the undersigned concurs with all the emphasis of
conviction; and over our late breakfast, to which we immediately sit
down, we discuss the question, Which is the greatest--the poet who drew
"MARGARET," or the actress who made the poet's picture warm with
passionate life?

MATADOR.

* * * * *

Absolutely True.

For the last fifty years or so the metaphysical thinkers of Germany have
been engaged in seeking for the Absolute. From present indications it
would seem as though they are about to find it--where perhaps they least
expected it--in the imperial reign of King WILLIAM, aided and abetted by
Count VON BISMARCK.

* * * * *

"THE RIGHT PARTY."

A few days ago PUNCHINELLO officially announced his adhesion to the
Right Party.

PUNCHINELLO hadn't the slightest idea which party was the right one, but
thought that, as some party must be right, he could not go very for
wrong. But mark the _denouement_. Every party imagines itself the right
party, and welcomes him joyfully to its bosom. Republicans love him,
Independents worship him, while Democrats would endure even the
Fifteenth Amendment for his sake. In order to reciprocate their
sentiments Mr. P. would have to resolve himself into a kind of
Demo-Independent-Republican, which he has no idea of doing. Here's what
some of the "organs" say of him:

_The Sun_.

"We hail with joy the accession of PUNCHINELLO to the ranks of
independent journalism as embodied in the _Sun_, with a circulation of
over 100,000, CHAS. B. DANA Editor, price two cents. Reinforced by this
powerful journal, we shall continue with renewed vigor to demand of
HORACE GREELEY his reasons why J.C. BANCROFT DAVIS should not be removed
from the Assistant Secretaryship of State. We shall persevere in our
attempts to make Gen. GRANT understand that to move four and a half
inches from the White House is an infraction of the Constitution.
Regardless of the tears of the thousands of advertisers who carry their
announcements to our office, we shall devote our entire space to the
vilifying of BORIE, FISH, the _Disreputable Times and False Reporting
Tribune_. Those elaborate attacks upon moral corruption and the Erie
Ring, for which we have become famous, will remain specialties with us.
All this by PUNCHINELLO'S aid. Bully for PUNCHINELLO."

_The Tribune_.

"The moral influence of this paper, which retains the only correspondent
at the seat of war, and whose dispatches, procured at a cost of over
$2,000,000, are copied by the _Herald_, _Sun_ and _World_,--(and whoever
denies it lies damnably, with intent to malign, etc.,)--the moral
influence of this paper is rapidly extending itself throughout the
country. As a late instance, we note that PUNCHINELLO has given in its
adhesion to the only true and pure republican agricultural party, which
it appropriately names the "Right Party." PUNCHINELLO was once a
frivolous, good-for-nothing sheet, devoted to low jokes and witticisms.
The conversion of its editor to the temperance cause is the reason of
the recent change in its tenets. We bid it God speed."

_The World_.

"As the irrefutable and all-enduring truths of Democracy receive
exemplification in contemporaneous events, the reflecting and refined
masses of this city purchase the _World_ in preference to that decrepit
and fast decaying sheet, the _Herald_. PUNCHINELLO, recognizing with
ethereal foresight the exigencies of the situation, proclaims itself for
the "Right Party"--our party. We welcome with acclamation this valuable
addition to the Democratic ranks."

_The Star_.

"PUNCHINELLO has joined the Right Party, by which he obviously means the
_Star_, whose circulation last Sunday exceeded 375,005 copies.

"But this has nothing to do with the domestic policy of the Peruvians,
as expounded by the first CAESAR.

"PUNCHINELLO will prove a pillar of strength to Tammany Hall, unless the
siege of Paris should prove disastrous to the consumption of lager-bier,
as set forth in 'Boiled for her Bones' and other tales by the best
authors."

But Personals, my dear _Star_, Personals are the things that pay. If
thus, why not? As thus:

"EDITOR OF PUNCHINELLO. The Editor of PUNCHINELLO has an income of about
$500,000. He usually dines at the Hoffman House when out of State's
Prison. He owns some fine lots somewhere underneath the East River,
besides a brown stone front in Alaska."

"PUBLISHER OF PUNCHINELLO. This gentleman's income does not exceed
$350,000 per annum. He expends it principally in beautifying his
delightful summer residence in Mackerelville. It has been his misfortune
to pass many years of his life in a lunatic asylum, the unhappy result
of organizing plans for American Comic Papers. All is joy and peace with
him now, however; he looks hopefully forward to the time when
PUNCHINELLO shall have attained to his legitimate rank of the Foremost
Journal in the Nation. Meanwhile he lunches daily at a leading
restaurant on thirteen oysters, (a dozen and one over) with vinegar,
pepper and a bottle of Bass."

* * * * *

"ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE."

MR. PUNCHINELLO: I fancy myself a victim of imposition, and I wish to
place my case before you. Having, for a period of six months, "honorably
and persistently," (to use the language of my friends,) held the office
of third Deputy-Assistant Register of Caramels, in and for the city and
county of New York, my associates in office and my friends in general
have determined to present me with a testimonial of their distinguished
regards. Accordingly, they have ordered a massive and handsomely
engraved pair of silver tongs, and a splendid silver fire-shovel. This
is all very well, so far, but the committee informed me yesterday that
the shovel and tongs would cost four hundred and twenty-five dollars,
and that, as only eight dollars and a half had been collected, it was
considered highly important that I should immediately hand over the
balance of the price, in order that the presentation and banquet, (to
take place at my house on next Saturday evening,) might not be
postponed, to the great disappointment of my associates in office and my
friends in general.

Now, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, is not this a little hard on me? I know very well
that it is customary for the recipients of testimonials to pay
three-quarters of the cost of the present, and I am perfectly willing to
abide by this custom; but forty-nine fiftieths is, I think, rather too
heavy, especially as my house is heated by a furnace in the cellar and I
have no use for a shovel and tongs--particularly silver ones.

Yours perturbedly, A. DOANE KNEA.

* * * * *

Roaming Troops.

The Italians in this country are very jubilant over the occupation of
Rome by the army of Italy. But people of other nations hereabouts are
not so much elated about the occupation of Roam in which the numerous
troops of Italian organ-grinders are engaged.

* * * * *

Subject for a Debating Society.

Can a couple who have contracted a clandestine marriage be properly said
to be carrying out their clandestiny?

* * * * *

[Illustration: A CHEERFUL PROSPECT.

THE MORNING HAVING BEEN BRIGHT AND CLEAR, MR. DEBOOTS DECIDED TO AVAIL
HIMSELF OF AN INVITATION TO SPEND THE DAY IN THE COUNTRY. HE ARRIVES AT
THE STATION, AND HAS A MILE TO WALK.]

* * * * *

[Illustration: COMFORTING ASSURANCES.

_H. Greeley and G. W. Curtis, together._ "OHO! LITTLE WOODFORD; AIN'T
YOU GOING TO BE LICKED, NEITHER!--WON'T YOU GET YOUR EYES BLACKED, AND
YOUR NOSE SMASHED, AND YOUR TEETH BROKE!--AIN'T I GLAD I AIN'T THE ONE
AS HAS GOT TO FIGHT BIG JOHNNY HOFFMAN!"]

* * * * *

AN AGRICULTURAL RHYME.

NOT BY H. G.

Plough deep--two feet, at least--for corn or rye.
You can't, in stony land? Sir, that's a lie;
A sub-soil plough will do it; then manure,
And put on plenty; if the land is poor,
Get muck and plaster; buy them by the heap,
No matter what they cost, you'll find them cheap.
I've tried them often, and I think I know,
Then plough again two feet before you sow.

Potatoes get on best in sandy soil,
I'm sure of _that_--but plant before you boil;
Then put in strawberries; that's what I do--
Confound you for a blockhead! Why don't you
Get modern works and read them? No, you'd rather
Go creeping on just like your stupid father.
That patch is good for melons. Why the deuce
Don't you convert those swamps to better use?

Beets are a paying crop, and don't cost much
To raise; so's cabbage, pumpkins, squash, and such;
They'll always sell and bring you back your money--
No bees? The mischief! What d'ye do for honey?
Sir, let me tell you plainly you're an ass--
Just look at those ten acres gone to grass!
Put turnips in 'em. Timothy don't pay--
Can't cattle feed on anything but hay?

I don't consider hogs a first-class crop;
Give me my own free choice, sir, and I'd swap
The best of 'em for strawberries or sheep--
But let me say again, you must plough deep;
The trouble with our farmers is, that they
Can't be induced to look beyond to-day;
Let them get sub-soil ploughs and turn up sand
And hang it, sir! let them manure their land.

* * * * *

SALVATION FOR EUROPE.

Some hope that the great Powers of Europe may yet be saved from a fate
similar to that of the Kilkenny Cats, is to be found in the fact that
General BURNSIDE, favorably known in Rhode Island, is making
arrangements for bringing about peace between France and Germany. It has
already been said by journalists of mark, that, unless Providence
interfered, and that soon, all Europe would shortly be deluged with the
blood of her peoples. General BURNSIDE is the direct representative of
Providence, and he has gone specially to Europe to interfere. He was
born in Providence, (R.I.); he believes in Providence; his portrait is
the special pride of Providence; and there is a "Providence that shapes
his ends." Thus it will be seen that BURNSIDE is the very man for the
situation. It may be asked, (there are cavillers who ask impertinent
questions about everything,) what business BURNSIDE has to meddle with
European affairs? Pshaw!--one might as well ask what business Colorado
JEWETT has to meddle with everybody's affairs, or GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN,
or PAUL PRY, or WIKOFF. BURNSIDE against BISMARCK for diplomacy any
time. Probably he aims at the throne of France for himself, and having
Providence (R.I.,) to back him, he may sit on it yet.

* * * * *

What bad habit does a man contract when he falls into a way of praising
everything and everybody?

He takes to laud'n'm.

* * * * *

[Illustration: ORPHEUS GREELEY, CHARMING WITH THE STRAINS OF THE
REPUBLICAN LYRE THE CERBERUS, (O'BRIEN, MORRISSEY, AND FOX,) ON GUARD AT
THE ENTRANCE TO THE DREAD ABODE OF THE JOHN REAL DEMOCRACY.]

* * * * *

HIRAM GREEN AT THE BOSTON WOMAN'S CONVENTION.

Old Time Agitators again on their Muscle.--Thanks to Henry
Wilson.--Advice to Charles Sumner.--Left-Handers to Wendell
Phillips.

Oho! ye gods and little fishes,
Beggars 'd ride, if hosses was wishes;
Wimmen would have a millenium day,
And all through the land the "deuce be to pay."

The Masserchewsetts Woman's _Suffering_ Society pulled off their cote
and vest and struck a beligerent attitood, at Bosting, a few days since.

Yes, sir! I was there, and I still live to tell my tale.

E-x-z-a-ckt-ly!

As usual, on all such occasions, the women wore the bre-b-bifurcated
garments, while the _softer_ sex shone transparently, in silk, satins,
and black and bloo spots.

Like jumpin' jacks, they danced when the _strong-minded_ pulled the
strings, while their ears were pinned back and greased, ready to be
swallered at a minnit's warnin'.

JEWLEIR WARD HOW was chosen President, and S.E. Sewell, ABBI KELLY
FOSTIR, MARY E. SARGINT, the Rev. J. Freman Klark, LIDIA MARIAR CHILDE
and Frank B. Sanborne, Vice Presidents.

THE REV. HON. JUDGE AGUSTY J. CHAPIN, ESQ., L.L.D., opened the dance
with a prologue.

Mrs. How then rose and got up, and said:

"Feller citizens: We've got together, as usual, without any plan of
operation, except to howl and make faces at the critter man, ontil he is
ready to give up his liberties and endow us _angelic_ beeins with the
privilege of fillin' up with benzine on eleckshun day; to vote and rool
the destinies of the land." (Cheers.)

"No woman who desires the ballit, shall desist from hen-peckin her
husband, ontil, in his agony, he cries: 'Peace! be still! there's my
harness, get into it.'"

Mrs. LIVERMOOR, H.B. Blackwell, MARGARET CAMBELL, M. Fiske, and SARY E.
WILKINS, committee on resolutions, reported the follerin:

_Whereas:_ When our anshient relative, Adam, had the monopoly of the
ballit box, it was diskivered that it was not ment for man to vote
alone, and enjoy too much of a good thing. Consekently EVE was sent to
stir him up.

_Whereas:_ When Mother EVE got there, she made it slightly warm for
Adam, by assertin' her rites. Like many of our members, she made Adam
"walk chalk." On eleckshun day she took him by the ear and walked him to
the poles, and for the first time in his life he voted the woman's rites
ticket, and Mr. SATIN was elected by a unanimous vote.

Therefore, we recognize in EVE the pioneer of woman's rites, with ST.
NICKOLAS as our patron saint. (Great applause, with "3 cheers for OLD
NICK, the first candidate elected by femail suffrage.")

It was then resolved to send committees to the Democratic and Republican
conventions, to see if any LOONATICS had been nominated, who were in
favor of femail soopremiosity.

If any such persons were found, they should be requested to announce it
through the columns of the _Woman's Journal_, and let the world know the
fools wasent all dead yet.

Should the candidates be opposed to our cause, it was recommended that
when the Woman's Convention Committee meet, on the 18th of October, that
ten talented talkers be appointed to surround the candidates and talk
them to death as a warnin to futer candidates.

Congratulatory speeches, endorsin' these last resolutions, was made by
the wimmen, and I gess they would have kept talkin' ontil doomsday, if
the chokin-off committee hadn't been sent around with copies of
_Harper's Bazaar_, full of pictures of the new fall fashions. (Between
you and I, Mister PUNCHINELLO, the only thing which our wives goes
heavier on than their rites, so called, is fashions.) The convention
then thanked Hon. Hank Wilson for blowin' their trumpet, and voted to
present him with a new hoop skirt and a pound of spruce gum as a token
of their appreciation.

Charles Sumner was then trotted, out, viz.:

_Whereas:_ Charles Sumner has, somehow or other, got one foot kerslop on
our platform;

_Whereas:_ He must go the hul hog or none;

_Be it resolved:_ We can't take any stock in Charly, ontil he wears his
hair parted in the middle and done up in a waterfall, pledgin' himself
to go his entire length, next winter, for the 16th Commendment.
(Enthusiastic applause. Cries of "them's um!" "Kor-rect!" "Selah!'"
etc.; "Bully boy with the glass eye!" etc., etc.)

Mrs. How then got up and said thusly: "My friends: I'me down onto
colleges like a 1000 of brick. They are the mad puddles of artificial
ignorance. If a red-headed woman was alowed to shed her lite, the
proffessors would be throwed into the shades rite lively. The result
would be, the blind would lead the near-sited by the nose. Them's my
sentiments."

Stephen L. Fostir got up and said:

"He woulden't go to the poles on eleckshun without his wife as his ekal
a hangin' on his arm."

Mrs. LIVERMORE sprung quickly to her feet and said: "She'd bet $4.00 if
she was Steve's wife, he'd go to the poles under diffikilties, then, for
she wasen't the woman who thought the man lived that was the ekal of any
woman; and that hain't all," said she. "When we get hold of the ballit,
man has got to get up early in the mornin' to fool _us_ much. All the
koketting with the Democrats, Republicans, Prohibitionists, and Labor
Reformers in the offis of the _Woman's Journal_, last summer, don't
amount to shucks. Prominent politicians had entreeted her to go slow and
not mash things. I can only say," said Mrs. L., "as John Bunyan once
said:

'When woman will, she will.
And you can jest bet on't;
When she won't, she won't,
And there's an end on't.'"

An aged individual named Jenking, from Andover, said: "When he was in
his first childhood, he was drest in peticotes. He was now over 75 years
old, and believed an old man would feel better in caliker than satinett.
Hereafter they could count on him to wear out their old dresses."

A few left-handed compliments were paid to Wendil Fillips, and altho'
Wendil had allers went heavy on Wimmen's Rites, his bein' endossed by
his own sex was a squelcher on him. He wasen't endossed, but, like
Jonah, went overboard, to be hove up agin onto dry land in a few days,
for a whale has got to have a pretty good stomack to keep Mister Fillips
down a great while. That's so.

A few more resolutions were then voted, but as the Mayor of Bosting had
sent lots of perlicemen there, I didn't heer of any men gettin' killed
outrite, altho' a few innercent husbands got slitely bruised by bein'
whacked over their heads with their wive's umbrellers. Then they
adjerned.

The critters then got in their vests
And then got in their cotes,
Then got in a dredful pes-
Piration about their votes.

(Let 'em sweat.)

Ewers, a Non-Resistanter,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

_Lait Gustise of the Peece._

* * * * *

FALLEN ON THE MARCH.

You see that hoss, don't you, there, sir, ahead?
Well, that's JAKE. An hour ago,
The last trip up, he fell--stone dead:
Drop't right flat in his harness, you know.
He'd fell down, too, pooty often before,
And--I guess he won't do it, though, any more.

I allas pitied the poor old cuss;
He was mighty hard driv and terrible thin,
And many a time when he quit the 'bus
I've led the mis'rable creetur in
And giv him a reg'lar bang-up feed
That the Company thought he didn't need.

And now, to see him lyin' there
All by himself, a feast for the flies,--
Why, it kinder makes a feller's hair
Creep all over, first, then straighten and rise.
Maybe you'll say to yourself: "That's all stuff."
But I tell you what--_I_ think it's blamed rough.

It makes me feel, too, a little bit glum,
To see how everything goes on the same;
Some day, I s'pose, _my_ turn 'll come,
When I'll have to try on poor JAKE'S little game,
And they won't mind me any more, I'll bet.
Than they do him.--Off, here, sir?--G'long, JEANETTE!

* * * * *

[Illustration: A FITFUL YOUTH.

_Younger Party_. "LOOK HERE, VAN, CAN'T YOU LEAVE THOSE "PERSONALS"
ALONE, FOR A MINUTE, AND GIVE ME A CANDID OPINION ON THE BACK FIT OF MY
NEW COAT?"]

* * * * *

AUTUMN SONG.

Leaves are falling (though, coal is not,)
And pumpkins are yellow, and maids are blue;
Potatoes and apples begin to rot;
There's many a liver congested, too.

The dews stay late on the cabbage-leaf,
And the red, red beet forsakes the ground;
And lovers' wanderings grow more brief,
And fewer loafers are loafing around.

The celery rivals the turnip fair;
There's new delight in the tender steak;
And boys go munching the chestnut rare,
Without one thought of the stomach-ache.

The last of the cattle-shows is seen;
The monster squash to the cows is fed;
Everything's brown that once was green,
Except tomatoes, and they are red.

The drowsy citizen hates to rise;
The hash may be cold, but so is the air:
'Tis heaven to slumber, for now the flies
Are less affectionate, and more rare.

And who is the busiest man we see?
'Tis the Doctor, dashing by in his chaise;
And well may he hurry, you will agree,
For it isn't every patient that pays.

'Tis a rare, rare season,--so breezy and bright!
The dahlias, and even the squashes, are gay!
One wouldn't regret the cold at night,
If it wasn't so deucedly cold by day.

A wandering shiver inspires the doubt
Whether Indian Summer will come this year;
But its warmth can be felt when you don't go out,
And it's haze may be seen through a glass of beer.

* * * * *

Query for Romancers.

Used the Knights of the Round Table ever to get a "Square meal"?

* * * * *

SARSFIELD YOUNG ATTENDS A COUNTY FAIR.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: From early ages, man has been a tiller of the soil. My
ancestors were pretty much all in this line of business. My venerable
great-grandfather-in-law came over in the Mayflower, and though not
exactly a tiller himself, he is supposed to have had a good deal to do
with the tiller department of that historic ship. Several of our folks
have, from time to time, studied agriculture on New England town farms;
which explains the passion I always had for such attractive out-of-door
sports as stump-pulling, laying stone wall, and drinking very hard cider
in the shade.

Being down at my uncle's this week, I have attended the Annual County
Agricultural Fair. The managers wanted me to go on one of the
committees, (whether it was plain Durhams, or short-horn needle-work, I
don't this moment remember,) but I declined. I told them that, while I
was ready to fill any vacancy that might occur in the "Committee on
Bills upon their Second Reading," they really must excuse me elsewhere.
I finally compromised by accepting a free pass, and agreeing to poke the
ribs of all the cattle I could reach, just as though I was a _bona fide_
official.

The show began yesterday with a grand concourse of all the farming
people for miles around. Every farmer brought a pair of hands with him.
The teams were innumerable; I had no idea it was such a teeming
population. There was a procession of yokes of oxen, a brass band, the
living skeleton, two fire engines, citizens generally, the Orator of the
Day, more oxen, marshals in cowhide boots and badges, and a cavalcade.
There may have been other oxen. I did not intend to omit them.

The Orator was announced in the bills as "a finished speaker." He
managed to get himself so thoroughly mixed up with his subject, however,
and knew so much about farming, which he was willing to disclose, that I
soon saw he couldn't be safely set down as finished till late in the
afternoon. I don't recall much of his address, further than that, when
he got to talking about Fall Ploughing, he said: "In the hour of his
country's peril, if fall he must, he would a little rather fall
ploughing, than in any other way!" I think, too, he spoke of the Fates
always smiling upon the farmer who improved his soil. I suppose he meant
the phosphates.

To-day I have been all around the cattle pens. I never saw such stock
before. Owing to their habit of staying out in the country the year
round, they have a firm, sleek, animated look which the best guaranteed
city stock fails to attain. One cow, from her impartial method of
hoisting visitors out of her pasture, was labelled "The General Hooker."

There was a fine display of Dorking lambs and Jersey hens, while some
bees of the Berkshire breed fairly divided the honors with a few very
choice Merino pigs. A handsomely built North Devon chain-pump attracted
much attention from the milkmen.

The turkeys, geese, ducks, poultry and other farm yard _habitués_,
though cooped up in one corner, did all they could to make the show a
success.

The products of the soil were heaped up in the richest profusion. This
is a great raising county. No community raised their quota of
substitutes more rapidly, during the war. Rows upon rows of corn, of
barley, rye and oats [like most modern Serials,] seemed as though they
would never come to an end.

Some early squashes were pointed out to me. I understood that they were
gathered at four o'clock in the morning. This is nothing. I distinctly
remember picking up watermelons, when a schoolboy, much earlier than
that.

The butter, cheese, and bed quilts, were all of the finest texture.
Everybody took a first premium.

Among the newly patented inventions I noticed "The JOHN MORRISSEY
Smasher," "The Swamp Angel Sheller," and a lovely piece of mechanism
called "The Just One Mower."

There was the usual horse trotting from morning to night, both days,
with pool selling, from which, I presume, agriculture derived great
benefit.

I say nothing of the other side-shows, for (with the exception of ALEXIS
ST. MARTIN,) I never heard of one that was worth going across the street
to see.

Yours truly, and yours rurally,

SARSFIELD YOUNG.

* * * * *

OUR PORTFOLIO.

PARIS, THIRD WEEK OF THE REPUBLIC, 1870.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: I concluded I would leave Paris for Tours last week,
as the refusal of Life Insurance Companies to take war risks made me
apprehensive for the temporal welfare of the youthful TINTOS in case I
should be untimely called hence. It was a wise resolution, but a few
trifling obstacles, to which I shall refer, prevented me from carrying
it out.

WASHBURNE advised me, as the safest means of escape, to adopt the
character of an American tourist, with which disguise he thought the
Gallic cast of my features would not materially interfere. I took the
hint, and, assuming my scrip and staff, set forth by way of the Neuilly
gate towards Courbevoie. It was after nightfall when I reached the
bridge that crosses the Seine in that neighborhood. A _garde mobile_ was
pacing over the crest of the slight acclivity that rises near its
eastern extremity.

As I approached he came to a halt, and challenged me sharply.

_"Qui va là?"_

_"C'est moi,"_ I answered, (with a very decent accent which I had
cultivated by the daily use of a mild decoction of alum-water--an
application which I can cordially recommend to Americans who do not
naturally possess that peculiar "pucker" of the lips essential to the
correct pronunciation of the French language.)

_"C'est moi, mon ami,"_ I repeated.

"The countersign," said the _garde_.

"What countersign?" said I, remembering to my consternation that I had
forgotten to secure that important credential.

The sentry brought his piece to that position which usually precedes the
order "Take aim." I got back a few feet--the situation was too close.

_"Mon ami,"_ I ventured to observe, "that ain't the way we treat
noncombatants in America."

"The countersign," reiterated the _garde_, still holding his _chassepot_
in the previous threatening manner.

I looked up. The stars were in the quiet sky, and the new moon was just
sinking beneath the bold outline of Mount Valerien. The surge of the
Seine against the stone piers of the bridge could be distinctly heard.
The scene was unspeakably tranquil, not to say mournful, and I said to
myself, "Is this a night for assassination?"

Again I looked up, and I saw the gleam of two more bayonets at the other
end of the bridge. Thereupon I said to myself, "This is not a night for
assassination."

"The countersign," for the third time, proceeded from the armed Apollyon
in front of me. I grew familiar.

"Come now, my good friend, this little business of mine requires some
dispatch. During the war in America--"

The click of the hammer of the sentry's rifle interrupted me. I felt
uncomfortable. I had been out in the night air many times before, but I
never knew it to be so disagreeably chilly. It climbed in behind my
shirt collar, travelled down my back with a shivering sensation, and
culminated in a regular ague when it reached my knees. With a terrific
effort I calmed myself, and opened on the soldiers again. "During the
war in America--" There are occasions in a man's lifetime when the mere
fact of his tongue cleaving unexpectedly to the roof of his mouth is no
evidence of cowardice. I had unquestionably reached that eventful period
of my existence, but I also possessed physical energy to try once more.

"My good, kind friend, I was going to say that during the war in
America--"

"Oh! d--n your war in America!" roared the sentry, levelling his
rifle full at me.

There is no American living who would sooner resent an insult to his
native land than myself, and at such a crisis I felt that within me
which might rise at any moment and crush the foul calumniator. But I
reasoned to myself that I would not take the life of this man, now. I
would wait awhile. It was only too evident he was angry, and he might
cool off and apologize. Yes, that was the best course for me to pursue.
Accordingly I ran rapidly over in my mind a little speech, and, turning
to him, spoke thus:

"Rash, impetuous man--"

L A T E R.

Thanks to the persistent efforts of my dear friend WASHBURNE, I have
just been released from the guard-house after three hideous days of
incarceration. His is a heart that I may truthfully say yearns toward
the unfortunate. I consider him the crowning glory of American diplomacy
in Europe. Language is inadequate to express the feelings of one who
regrets that his sex forbids him to sign himself

Your weeping MAGDALEN, DICK TINTO.

* * * * *

A Toothsome Con.

Why should dentists be entitled to class with artists? Because they all
draw.

* * * * *

NEWSPAPER PERILS.

The local reporter of a Boston daily gives us the following:

"On Wednesday morning, as the early freight train on the Old Colony
railroad neared the bridge in Quincy, THOMAS ELLIS, a brakeman, raised
up for the purpose of throwing off a bundle of newspapers, when he was
struck by the timbers of the bridge and knocked senseless upon his car.
He wan saved from rolling to the track by TIMOTHY LEE, a paper boy who
was upon the train."

We are sorry for ELLIS. But he ought to be thankful for one thing,--he
has a mission. He need not ask, like ANNA DICKINSON: "Why was I born?"
It is all settled that he was "raised up" for the purpose of throwing
off newspapers. Now, although he missed it this time, we have no doubt
he is ordinarily as successful in that line as the most improved
Lightning Press could be. Should he, unfortunately, continue senseless,
PUNCHINELLO suggests that THOMAS devote himself to "throwing off"
editorial articles for the Sun,

It was very noble in TIMOTHY LEE so promptly to come to the rescue.
But,--hold! PUNCHINELLO will not be imposed upon: at this moment are
there not grounds for suspecting this "paper boy" to have been merely a
"man of straw"?

* * * * *

[Illustration: APPROPRIATE.

_Pompey, (sawing.)_ "HOW YOU GWINE TO VOTE, SAM?--I'SE BIN _saw_ BY DE
'PUBLICAN PARTY."

_Sambo._ "BOFE PARTIES SEE'D ME, AND SO I'M GWINE TO SPLIT."]

* * * * *

A Sporting Con.

Why is the famous horse DEXTER like a musical conductor?

Because he beats Time.

* * * * *

Theatrical Item.

Since Colonel FISK, Jr., floored that other manager, he is known in the
profession as the great floor manager.

* * * * *

Good News for the Birds.

In Westchester county a fine of $25 is hereafter to be levied upon each
jackass in human form who shoots birds on Sunday. It is to be hoped that
the little bills may thus be saved from holiday havoc by persons who
object to incurring large ones.

* * * * *

[Illustration: CONSTERNATION OF THE EDITORIAL STAFF OF THE NEW YORK
_SUN_, (INCLUDING THE OFFICE BOY,) ON SEEING CHIEF EDITOR PECKSNIFF DANA
DECLINING TO ACCEPT A HEAVY BRIBE OFFERED HIM TO PUBLISH A MENDACIOUS
PARAGRAPH ABOUT A RESPECTABLE CONTEMPORARY.]

* * * * *

A NEW SENSATION WANTED.

The reprehensible haste with which various European nations terminate
their wars is a source of annoyance to every one. Hardly have we
acquired a decided taste for news of some transient war or other, when
the conflicting parties judge that they have had enough of it, and thus
an avenue of enjoyment is summarily closed.

It is as though one's natural aversion to tomatoes had gradually changed
to liking, and then an untimely autumn frost had come, to anticipate the
gardener and the air-tight can.

These foreigners are so different from the Americans!

During the Rebellion--a comparatively staid and respectable affair--a
correspondent, after the first two years, became so expert as to
anticipate battles, and knew as much about war as a general. War news
and buckwheat cakes enlivened the matutinal meal. The chances pro and
con gave a zest to conversations else intolerably dull. The war was an
Institution.

But see how it is in Europe.

In '66, they spirted away for six weeks and stopped. And now, after a
similar splurge, they have as good as stopped once more. The
correspondents just sent over by our "enterprising" newspapers, are
hardly yet recovered from their sea-sickness. Just as they begin to
sharpen their pencils, presto! the war is over, and the occupation of
these hardy gentlemen is gone.

Can nothing be done about this? If a protest--"firm and
dignified"--would really do no good, what about some _new_ excitement,
which, as every one knows, we _must_ have or perish! Will no other
jealous contiguous nations fall out? Must we fall out ourselves?
Election is still a good way off, and, really, we don't see what's to be
done. Fights are few, and suicides are falling off. The Indians are
disgustingly peaceful, and even the Mormons have subsided. It is two
years and over to the next Presidential election; and there is no more
cholera.

Really, this is too bad! We must muse on the situation for a season,
and, meanwhile, shall confidently expect something or other to turn up
almost any day.

* * * * *

PUSS AS A PORT-MONNAIE.

The following eccentric freak of a cat is reported in a daily paper:

"A two dollar note was taken to one of the Lebanon banks for redemption
last week, which had been taken from the intestines of a cat, in
Montgomery county. The cat had stolen the note and swallowed it, was
caught and shot, and the note thus recovered."

There is nothing new in getting notes "from the intestines of a cat."
PAGANINI got no end of notes from catgut. So do VIEUXTEMPS, and OLE
BULL, and TOM BAKER, and others too numerous to mention. The cat that
swallowed the greenback should have been added to BARNUM'S "Happy
Family," however, instead of being sacrificed to Mammon. With its
two-dollar bill it would have been a formidable rival to the
_Ornithorynchus Paradoxus_, or beast with a bill, of Australia.

* * * * *

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

A TREATISE ON THE BANKRUPT LAW, FOR BUSINESS MEN. By AUDLEY W. GAZZAM,
Solicitor in Bankruptcy, Utica, N. Y. New York: GEORGE T. DELLER, No. 95
Liberty Street.

This book contains not only all the latest amendments to the Bankrupt
Act, with copious notes covering the latest English and American
decisions, but it also has a prefatory chapter of "Hints to Persons
contemplating Bankruptcy." PUNCHINELLO, feeling a deep interest in the
welfare of _The Sun_, _The Free Press_, and certain others of his
contemporaries, earnestly requests their attention to that chapter. Some
such advice as it contains is evidently needed by them for their
guidance through the financial gloom that seems to be settling on them.
The loss of thirty per cent of its circulation within the past month has
brought deep depression upon The Sun. The festive laugh of its editors
--especially that of the roystering Lothario OLIVER DYER,--is but seldom
heard, now, in the famed restaurant of MOUQUIN. We cordially commend to
their notice, then, the work in question, that, availing themselves of
its "Hints," they may so arrange as to have ready, when the smash comes,
funds to qualify them for enjoying the blessed privilege
constitutionally granted to all who, like them, have been "weighed in
the balance and found wanting."

[Illustration: A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING.

_Oyster Opener._ "WILL YER HAVE SOUND OYSTERS?"

_Newly-arrived Cockney._ "WILL I 'AVE _sound_ HOYSTERS!--NOW DO I LOOK
LIKE THAT KIND OF RIDICULOUS HIDIOT AS 'D EAT _un_SOUND HOYSTERS?"]

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

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 30, October 22, 1870" ***

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