Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 32, November 5, 1870

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Title: Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 32, November 5, 1870
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 32, November 5, 1870" ***

Vol. II. No. 32

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1870.

PUBLISHED BY THE

PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY,

83 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.

* * * * *

THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD,

By ORPHEUS C. KERR,

Is concluded in this Number.

See 15th Page for Extra Premiums.

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 XXVI.

FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE.

Miss CARROWTHERS having gone out with Mrs. SKAMMERHORN to skirmish with
the world of dry-goods clerks for one of those alarming sacrifices in
feminine apparel which woman unselfishly, yet never needlessly, is
always making, FLORA sat alone in her new home, working the latest
beaded pin-cushion of her useful life. Frequently experiencing the truth
of the adage, that as you sew so shall you rip, the fair young thing was
passing half her valuable time in ripping out the mistaken stitches she
had made in the other half; and the severe moral discipline thus
endured, made her mad, as equivalent vexation would have made a man the
reverse of that word. Flippant social satirists cannot dwell with
sufficient sarcasm upon the difference between the invincible amiability
affected by artless girls in society and their occasional bitterness of
aspect in the privacy of home; never stopping to reflect that there are
sore private trials for these industrious young crochet creatures in
which the thread of the most equable female existence is necessarily
worsted. Miss POTTS, then, although looking up from her trying worsted
occupation at the servant who entered with a rather snappish expression
of countenance, was guilty of no particularly hypocritical assumption in
at once suffering her features to relax into a sweetly pensive smile
upon learning that there was a gentleman to see her in the parlor.

"'MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON,'" she softly read from the card presented. "Is
he alone, BRIDGET, dear?"

"Sorra any wan with him but his cane, Miss; and that he axed me wud I
sthand it behind the dure for him."

There was a look of desperate purpose about this. When a sentimental
young man seeks a private interview with a marriageable young woman, and
recklessly refuses at the outset to retain at least his cane for the
solution of the intricate conversational problem of what to do with his
hands, it is an infallible sign that some madly rash intention has
temporarily overpowered his usual sheepish imbecility, and that he may
be expected to speak and act with almost human intelligence.

With hand instinctively pressed upon her heart, to moderate its too
sanguine pulsations and show the delicate lace around her cuffs, FLORA
shyly entered the parlor, and surprised Mr. PENDRAGON striding up and
down the apartment like one of the more comic of the tragic actors of
the day.

"Miss POTTS!" ejaculated the wild young Southern pedestrian, pausing
suddenly at her approach, with considerable excitement of manner, "scorn
me, spurn me, if you will; but do not let sectional embitterment blind
you to the fact that I am here by the request of Mr. DIBBLE."

"I wasn't scorning and spurning anybody," explained the startled orphan,
coyly accepting the chair he pushed forward. "I'm sure I don't feel any
sectional hatred, nor any other ridiculous thing."

"Forgive me!" pleaded MONTGOMERY. "I reckon I'm a heap too sensitive
about my Southern birth; but only think, Miss POTTS, what I've had to go
through since I've been amongst you Yankees! Fancy what it is to be
suspected of a murder, and have no political influence."

"It must be _so_ absurd!" murmured FLORA.

"I've felt wretched enough about it to become a contributor to the
first-class American comic paper on the next floor below me," he
continued, gloomily. "And here, to-day, without any explanation, your
guardian desires me to come here and wait for him."

"I'm sorry that's such a trial for you, Mr. PENDRAGON," simpered the
Flowerpot. "Perhaps you'd prefer to wait on the front stoop and appear
as though you'd just come, you know?"

"And can you think," cried the young man with increased agitation "that
it would be any trial for me to be in your society, if--? But tell me,
Miss POTTS, has your guardian the right to dispose of your hand in
marriage?"

"I suppose so," answered FLORA, with innocent surprise and a pretty
blush; "he has charge of _all_ my money matters, you know."

"Then it is as I feared," groaned her questioner, smiting his forehead.
"He is coming here to-day to tell you what man of opulence he wants you
to have, and I am to be witness to my own hopelessness!"

"What makes you think anything so ridiculous, you absurd thing?" asked
the orphan, not unkindly.

"He as good as said so," sighed the unhappy Southerner. "He told me,
with his own mouth, that he wanted to get you off his hands as soon as
possible, and thought he saw his way clear to do it."

The girl knew what bitter, intolerable emotions were tearing the heart
of the ill-fated secessionist before her, and, in her own gentle heart,
pitied him.

"He needn't be so sure about it," she said, with indignant spirit. "I'll
never marry _any_ stranger, unless he's awful rich--oh, as rich as
anything!"

"Oh, Miss POTTS!" roared MONTGOMERY, suddenly, folding-down upon one
knee before her, and scratching his nose with a ring upon the hand he
sought to kiss, "why will you not bestow upon me the heart so generously
disdainful of everything except the most extreme wealth? Why waste your
best years in waiting for proposals from a class of Northern men who
occasionally expect that their brides, also, shall have property, when
here I offer you the name and hand of a loving Southern gentleman, who
only needs the paying off of a few mortgages on his estate in the South
to be beyond all immediate danger of starvation?"

Turning her pretty head aside, but unconsciously allowing him to retain
her hand, she faintly asked how they were to live?

"Live!" repeated the impetuous lover. "On love, hash, mutual trust,
bread pudding: anything that's cheap. I'll do the washing and ironing
myself."

"How perfectly ridiculous!" said the orphan, bashfully turning her head
still further aside, and bringing one ear-ring to bear strongly upon
him. "You'd never be able to do fluting and pinking in the world."

"I could do anything, with you by my side!" he retorted, eagerly. Oh,
Miss POTTS!--FLORA!--think how lonely I am. My sister, as on may have
heard, has accepted Gospeler SIMPSON'S proposal, by mail, for her hand,
and is already so busy quarrelling with his mother that she is no longer
any company for me. My fate is in your hands; it is in woman's power to
either make or marry the roan who loves her--"

"Provided, always, that her legal guardian consents," interrupted the
benignant voice of Mr. DIBBLE, who, unperceived by them, had entered the
room in time to finish the sentence.

Springing alertly to an upright position, and coughing excessively, Mr.
PENDRAGON was a shamefaced reproach to his whole sex, while the young
lady used the edge of her right foot against a seam of the carpet with
that extreme solicitude as to the result which is always so entirely
deceiving to those who have hoped to see her show signs of painful
embarrassment.

After surveying them in thoughtful silence for a moment, the old lawyer
bent over his ward, and hugged and kissed her with an unctuousness
justified by his great age and extreme goodness. It was his fine old way
of bestowing an inestimable blessing upon all the plump younger women of
his acquaintance, and the benediction was conferred on the slightest
pretexts, and impartially, up to a certain age.

"Am I to construe what I have seen and heard, my dear, as equivalent to
the conclusion of my guardianship?" he asked, smilingly.

"Oh, please don't be so ridiculous--oh, I never was so exquisitely
nervous," pleaded the helpless, fluttered young creature.

"I reckon I've betrayed your confidence, sir," said MONTGOMERY,
desperately; "but you must have known, from hearsay at least, how I have
felt toward this young lady ever since our first meeting, and should not
have exposed me to a temptation stronger than I could bear. I have,
indeed, done myself the honor to offer her the hand and heart if one
who, although but a poor gentleman, will be richer than kings if she
deigns to make him so."

"Why, how absurd!" ejaculated the orphan, quickly. "It's perfectly
ridiculous to call me well off: and how could I make you richer than
kings and things, you know?"

The old and the young men exchanged looks of unspeakable admiration at
such touching artlessness.

"Sweet innocence!" exclaimed her guardian, playfully pinching her cheek
and privately surprised at its floury feeling. "What would you say if I
told you that, since our shrewd EDDY retired from the contest, I have
been wishing to see you and our Southern friend here brought to just
such terms as you appear to have reached? What would you say if I added
that, such consummation seeming to be the best you or your friends could
do for yourself, I have determined to deal with you as a daughter, in
the matter of seeing to it that you begin your married life with a
daughter's portion from my own estate?"

Both the young people had his hands in theirs, on either side of him, in
an instant.

"There! there!" continued the excellent old gentleman, "don't try to
express yourselves. FLORA, place one of your hands in the breast of my
coat, and draw out the parcel you find there. * * * That's it. The
article it contains once belonged to your mother, my dear, and has been
returned to me by the hands to which I once committed it in the hope
that they would present it to you. I loved your mother well, my child,
but had not enough property at the time to contend with your father.
Open the parcel in private, and be warned by its moral: Better is wilful
waist than woeful want of it."

It was the stay-lace by which Mrs. POTTS, from too great persistence in
drawing herself up proudly, had perished in her prime.

"Now come into the open air with me, and let us walk to Central Park,"
continued Mr. DIBBLE, shaking off his momentary fit of gloom, "I have
strange things to tell you both. I have to teach you, in justice to a
much-injured man, that we have, in our hearts, cruelly wronged that
excellent and devout Mr. BUMSTEAD, by suspecting him of a crime whereof
he is now proved innocent at least _I_ suspected him. To-morrow night we
must all be in Bumsteadville. I will tell you why as we walk."

CHAPTER XXVII.

SOLUTION.

In the darkness of a night made opaque by approaching showers, a man
stands under the low-drooping branches of the edge of a wood skirting
the cross-road leading down to Gospeler's Gulch.

"Not enough saved from the wreck even to buy the merciful rope that
should end all my humor and impecuniosity!" he mutters, over his folded
arms and heaving chest. "I have come to this out-of-the-way suburb to
end my miserable days, and not so much as one clothes-line have I seen
yet. There is the pond, however; I can jump into that, I suppose: but
how much more decent were it to make one's quietus under the merry
greenwood tree with a cord--"

He stops suddenly, holding his breath; and, almost simultaneously with a
sharp, rushing noise in the leaves overhead, something drops upon his
shoulder. He grasps it, cautiously feels of it, and, to his unspeakable
amazement, discovers that it is a rope apparently fastened to the
branches above!

"Wonderful!" he ejaculates, in an awe-stricken whisper. "Providence
helps a wretch to die, if not to live. At any other time I should think
this very strange, but just now I've got but one thing to do. Here's my
rope, here's my neck, and here goes!"

Heedless of everything but his dread intention, he rapidly ties the rope
about his throat, and is in the act of throwing forward his whole weight
upon it, when there is a sharp jerk of the rope, he is drawn up about
three feet in the air, and, before he can collect his thoughts, is as
abruptly let down upon his feet again. Simultaneously, a sound almost
like suppressed swearing comes very clearly to his ear, and he is
conscious of something dimly white in the profound darkness, not far
away.

"Sold again: signed, J. BUMSTEAD," exclaims a deep voice. "I thought the
rope was caught in a crotch; but 'twasn't. Try't once more."

The astounded hearer feels the rope tugging at his own neck again, and,
with a half comprehension of the situation, calls "Stop!" in a
suffocating voice.

"Who's there?" comes from the darkness.

"JEREMY BENTHAM, late proprietor of first-class American Comic
Paper.--Died of Comic Serial.--Want to hang myself," is the jerky reply
from the other side.

"Got your own rope, sir?"

"No. One fell down on my shoulders just as I was wishing for it; but it
seems to be too elastic."

"That's the other end 'f _my_ rope, air," rejoins the second voice, as
in wrath. "I threw't over the branches and thought it had caught,
instead of that it let me down, sir."

"And drew me up," says Mr. BENTHAM.

Before another word can be spoken by either, the light of a dark-lantern
is flashed upon them. There is Mr. BUMSTEAD, not three yards from Mr.
BENTHAM; each with an end of the same rope about his neck, and the head
of the former turbaned with a damp towel.

"Are ye men?" exclaims the deep voice of Mr. MELANCTHON SCHENCK from
behind the lantern, "and would ye madly incur death before having taken
out life-policies in the Boreal?"

"And would my uncle celebrate my return in this style?" cried still
another voice from the darkness.

"Who's that spoke just then?" cries the Ritualistic organist.

The answer comes like the note of a trumpet:--

"EDWIN DROOD!"

At the same instant a great glare of light breaks upon the scene from a
bonfire of tar-barrels, ignited at the higher end of the cross-road by
young SMALLEY; and, to the mingled bewilderment and exasperation of Mr.
BUMSTEAD, the radiance reveals, as in noonday, Mr. SCHENCK and his
long-lost nephew standing before him; and, coming towards them in
festive procession from Gospeler's Gulch. MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON with
FLORA on his arm, the Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON escorting MAGNOLIA, Mr.
DIBBLE guarding Mrs. SIMPSON, Mr. CLEW'S arm in arm with JOHN
McLAUGHLIN. Father DEAN and Judge SWEENEY, Miss CAROWTHERS, and the
SMYTHES.

"Trying to hang yourselves!" exclaims Mr. DIBBLE, as the throng gathers
curiously around the two gentlemen of the rope.

"And my old friend BENTHAM, too!" cries the Gospeler.

"How perfectly ridiculous!" warbles FLORA.

Staring majestically from one face to the other, and from thence towards
the illuminating bonfire, Mr. BUMSTEAD, quite unconscious of the
picturesque effect of the towel on his head, deliberately draws an
antique black bottle from his pocket, moistens his lips therewith,
passes it to the Comic Paper man, and eats a clove.

"What is the meaning of this general intoxication?" he then asks quite
severely. "Why does this mass-meeting, greatly under the influence of
inferior liquor as it plainly is, intrude thus upon the last hours of a
Ritualistic gentleman and a humorous publisher?"

"Because, Uncle JACK," returns EDWIN DROOD, holding his hands curiously
behind him as he speaks, "this is a night of general rejoicing
Bumsteadville, in honor of my reappearance; and, directed by your
landlord, Mr. SMYTHE, we have come out to make you join in our cheer. We
are all heartily sorry for the great anguish you have endured in
consequence of my unexplained absence. Let me tell you ow it was, as I
have already told all our friends here. You know where you placed me
while you were in your clove-trance, and I was o unbecomingly asleep, on
Christmas night. Well, I was discovered there, in less than three hours
thereafter, by JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, who carried me to his own house, and
there managed to awaken me. Recovering my senses, I was disgusted with
myself, ashamed of what had happened, and anxious to leave
Bumsteadville. I swore 'Old Mortarity' to secrecy--"

"--Which I have observed," explains MCLAUGHLIN, nodding.

"--And started immediately for Egypt, in Illinois," continues Mr. DROOD.
"There I went into railroading; am engaged to a nice little girl there;
and came back two days ago to explain myself all around, returning here,
I saw JOHN MCLAUGHLIN first, who told me that a certain Mr. CLEWS was
here to unravel the Mystery about me, and persuaded me to let Mr. CLEWS
work you into another visit to the cellar the Pauper Burial Ground, and
there appear to you as my own ghost, before finally revealing myself as
I now do."

The glassy eyes of the Ritualistic organist are fixed upon him in a most
uncomfortable manner, but no comment comes.

"And I, Mr. BUMSTEAD," says the old lawyer, "must apologize to you for
having indulged a wrong suspicion. Possibly you were rather rash in
charging everybody else with assassination and larceny, and offering to
marry my ward upon the strength of her dislike to you; but we'll say no
more of those things now. Miss POTTS has consented to become Mrs.
PENDRAGON; Miss PENDRAGON is the betrothed of Rev. Mr. SIMPSON,--"

"--Miss CAROWTHERS honors me with a matrimonial preference,"
interpolates Judge SWEENEY, gallantly bowing to that spinster.--

"--Breachy Mr. BLODGETT!" sighs the lady, to herself.--

"--And three weddings will help us to forget everything but that which
is bright and pleasant," concludes the lawyer.

Next steps to the front Mr. TRACEY CLEWS, with his surprising head of
hair, and archly remarks:

"I believe you take me for a literary man, Mr. BUMSTEAD."

"What is that to me, sir? _I've_ no money to lend," returns the
organist, with marked uneasiness.

"To tell you the truth," proceeds the author of "The Amateur Detective,"
--"to tell you the whole truth, I have been playing the detective with
you by order of Mr. DIBBLE, and hope you will excuse my practice upon
you."

"He is my clerk," explains Mr. DIBBLE.

Whereupon Mr. TRACEY CLEWS dexterously whips off his brush of red hair,
and stands revealed as Mr. BLADAMS.

Merely waiting to granulate one more clove, Mr. BUMSTEAD settles the
rope about his neck anew, squints around under the wet towel in a
curiously ghastly manner, and thus addresses the meeting:--

"Ladies and gen'l'men--I've listened to y'r impudence with patience, and
on any other 'casion would be happy to see y'all safe home. At present,
however, Mr. BENTHAM and I desire to be left alone, if 'ts all th' same
t' you. You can come for the bodies in th' morning."

"BENTHAM! BENTHAM!" calls the Gospeler, "I can't see you acting in that
way, old friend. Come home with me to-night, and we'll talk of starting
a Religious Weekly together. That's your only successful American Comic
Paper."

"By Jove! so it is!" bawls JEREMY BENTHAM, like one possessed. "I never
thought of that before! I'm with you, my boy." And, hastily slipping the
rope from his neck, he hurries to his friend's side.

"And you, Uncle JACK--look at this!" exclaims Mr. E. DROOD, bringing
from behind his back and presenting to the melancholy organist a thing
that looks, at first glance, like an incredibly slim little black girl,
headless, with no waist at all, and balanced on one leg.

Mr. BUMSTEAD reaches for it mechanically; a look of intelligence comes
into his glassy eyes; then they fairly flame.

"ALLIE!" he cries, dancing ecstatically.

It is the Umbrella--old familiar bone-handle, brass ferrule--in a
bran-new dress of alpaca!

All gaze at him with unspeakable emotion, as, with the rope cast from
him, he pats his dear old friend, opens her half way, shuts her again,
and the while smiles with ineffable tenderness.

Suddenly a shriek--the voice of FLORA--breaks the silence:--

"It rains!--oh, my complexion!"

"Rains?" thunders the regenerated BUMSTEAD, in a tone of inconceivable
triumph. "So it does. Now then, ALLIE, do your duty;" and, with a softly
wooing, hospitable air, he opens the umbrella and holds it high over his
head.

By a common instinct they all swarm in upon him, craning their heads far
over each other's shoulders to secure a share of the Providential
shelter. The glare of the great bonfire falls upon the scene; the rain
pours down in torrents: they crowd in upon him on all sides, until what
was once a stately Ritualistic man resembles some tremendous monster
with seventeen wriggling bodies, thirty-four legs, and an alpaca canopy
above all.

THE END.

* * * * *

THE RACE OF THE DAUNTLESS AND CAMBRIA.

Punchinello's Sporting Special went down to Sandy Hook last week to
supervise the race between the _Dauntless_ and the _Cambria_. The affair
was consequently a great success.

Attired in white corduroy breeches, a blue velvet waistcoat, and a light
boating-jacket of yellow flannel, your reporter left the Battery at 6
hrs. 22 m, and 5 secs, on Friday morning, and steamed slowly down the
bay in the editorial row-boat _Punchinelletto_, which was manned by an
individual of remarkable oar-acular powers. So highly was he gifted
indeed in this respect, that your special was enabled to predict the
result of the aquatic gambols with perfect accuracy, as it afterward
appeared. Having got the yachts in position, he gave Messrs. BENNETT and
ASHBURY an audience, in which it was settled by your representative
that, owing to a split in the _Cambria's_ club-topsail, both parties
should carry their block-headed jibs; and the contest was begun.

In his anxiety to see fair play, however, your reporter at first
innocently took the lead, shooting off, at the given signal, far in
advance of the two yachts. His surprise was therefore great when the
latter suddenly hove to on their beam-ends, and declared an armistice,
to permit of Mr. ASHBURY'S publishing the following:

_Card_.

Much as I appreciate the kindness and attention extended to me on all
previous occasions in these waters, I must still politely insist that
the _Punchinelletto_ relinquish her natural and perhaps unavoidable
tendency to take the wind out of everybody's sails, and submit to remain
in the wake of these yachts during the continuance of the race. And I
hereby challenge all fast-sailing yachts of over 100 tons burthen, and
under 50, to a 15-mile race dead to windward and back again alive.

(Signed) ASHBURY.

Upon this your reporter manned the yard-arms, fired a salute of 100
guns, and directed the Oar-acular to back water; thereby giving the
_Dauntless_ the lead, which she retained up to the end of the race. By
the clever management of her Tacks she succeeded in completely Nailing
the _Cambria_. On the home-stretch, however, the latter began "eating
up" on her to such an alarming degree, that it was feared the provisions
of the Dauntless would not hold out. By putting the crew on half-rations
of champagne and sponge-cake this awful calamity was averted.

Excited by the presence of danger, your reporter forgot his habitual
caution, and giving his Oar-ist a hearing, made all sail for the
mark-boat. The tow-line was passed from the bows aft, and there attached
to the boat-hook, held by your representative. Upon this impromptu
clothes-line was crowded all the canvas, velvet, linen, and other
dry-goods appertaining to the gallant captain and his self-sacrificing
crew. The latter gentleman might have been seen under this gay cloud of
drapery working fitfully but energetically to and fro. But 't was all in
vain! The _Dauntless_ passed the mark-boat, and the race was won. Won?
But by whom?

The daily papers, with their usual inaccuracy, have made it appear that
the _Dauntless_ was the winner, but among thinking men there is but one
opinion in regard to the matter, an opinion fully explained and
corroborated in the following, published by Mr. ASHBURY, immediately on
the _Punchinelletto_ passing the mark-boat:

_Card_.

I take this opportunity of saying that whatever misunderstanding may
have arisen in the early part of this race as to the position of the
_Punchinelletto_, it is now but just to admit that she has shown herself
worthy, both in point of speed and management, to take rank among the
first-class yachts of the fleet, and I hereby challenge, &c., &c.

(Signed) ASHBURY.

This was further supplemented by a

_Card_ from Mr. BENNETT.

In token of my concurrence in the brilliant success of the
_Punchinelletto_, and my personal esteem for her commander, I hereby
beg to place at his disposal my yacht _Dauntless_, together with all her
stores, ordnance, by-laws, and small arms.

(Signed) BENNETT.

In reply to both of which your reporter circulated the following:

_Reply_.

It is my express desire that no public mention shall be made of the part
by which the _Dauntless_ was permitted apparently to win the race. It is
the duty of him who might have been victor to display a magnanimous
spirit to those who in that case would have been the vanquished. I must,
however, regret that circumstances of a peculiar nature prevent my
availing myself of Mr. BENNETT's kind offer. Though this will not stand
in the way of my accepting with pleasure--nay, even with alacrity--the $250
silver cup appointed for the winner of to-day's race, as the just meed
of one who, though of a naturally retiring disposition, is forced on the
present occasion to acknowledge himself _facile princeps_.

(Signed) Sporting Spec, _vice_ PUNCHINELLO.

After waiting for Mr. BENNETT'S gig, or water-buggy, to row up and award
the prize, your special nodded majestically to the Oar-acular, who
thereupon steamed slowly up the bay again, arriving at the Battery in
the rosy dawn.

* * * * *

PRUSSIA'S POSITION PHILOSOPHICALLY PUT.

German metaphysicians have settled so completely to the satisfaction of
their countrymen that "being" and "not being" are identical, that this
may serve to explain how, while holding possession of her share in the
partition of Poland, Prussia professes to be virtuously indignant at
France for retaining Alsace and Lorraine.

* * * * *

OUT OF THE PAN INTO THE FIRE.

What with BISMARCK'S pangerrmanism, the CZAR'S panslavism, NAPOLEON'S
panlatinism, the spread of pantheism, the threatened metamorphosis
of pantalettes into pantaloons, ANDREWS' pantarchy, and
Fox's pantomime, the old régime seems going precipitately to pot.

* * * * *

A JUDICIOUS JEW.

Such was the one who wished to contract for the sweepings of Steinway
Hall when he heard that NILSSON showered throughout the room
her precious tones.

* * * * *

EXIT "SUN."

The newsboys in the streets no longer cry _The Sun_, with stentorian
voices, but in gentle whispers, fearing to disturb the repose of that
waning luminary.

* * * * *

TAPPING THE TILL.

Is there any connection between the quite common offence in New
York of "tapping the till," and the nomination of a Mr. TAPPAN for
Comptroller by the JOHN REAL Democracy?

* * * * *

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS

Pretty _Fräulein_ Margarat asks me to go to church with her. She is not
a New Yorker--or, as Webster would probably say,--a New Yorkeress. She
is rural in her ways and thoughts, a daisy of the fields. Never having
seen the interior of a city church, she asks me to go with her to any
Protestant church that I may select. So we go to the shrine of St.
APOLLOS, which, I am told, is regarded as one of the most fashionable
houses in the city.

It is a matinee service that we elect to attend. A long procession of
carriages is drawn up beside the building as we enter, and I recognize
in the coachmen the familiar faces that wait outside the ACADEMY on
opera nights. The organ overture is already begun, and the audience is
rapidly assembling. We enter the parquette--I should say, the body of
the church--and, standing in picturesque attitudes against the wall,
wait for the coming of the usher. We continue to wait. Evidently the
usher, in common with his kind, despises those who are not holders of
reserved seats. He welcomes with a smile the owners of private
boxes--pews, I mean--and shows them politely up the aisle; but for us,
who have not even an order from the mana--, sexton, I should say--he
has neither smile nor glance.

By and by I pluck up courage and pluck him by the sleeve. So, with a
severe air of suppressed indignation, he shows us to a couple of
ineligible seats, where the draft disarranges MARGARET'S hair, and the
charity children drop books of the op--, that is to say, prayer-books,
and molasses candy in unpleasant proximity to our helpless feet.

Neither MARGARET nor I possess a libret--, a prayer-book I mean.
However, that is a matter of no consequence, as we are both familiar
with the dialog--, or rather the service. The organist having ended his
overture, the service begins. Not even the wretched method of the
tenor--I refer of course to the clerk--and his miserably affected
execution of the recitative passages, can mar the beauty of the words.
The audience evidently feels their solemn import. The young lady and the
young male person who sit immediately in front of me clasp surreptitious
hands as they bow their heads to repeat the confession that they are
miserable sinners, and she whispers by no means softly to him of the
"frightful bonnets the SMITH girls have on." Presently the recitative of
the clerk is succeeded by a contest in chanting--probably for the
championship--by two rival choruses of shrill-voiced boys, who hurl
alternate verses of the Psalms at one another with the fiercest
intensity. MARGARET is betrayed into an inadvertent competition with
them, by reading a verse aloud, as had been her custom elsewhere, but
the charity children smile aloud at her, and the usher frowns, so she
sits down again with reddened cheeks.

I say to her, "that this choir contest is an excellent feature, one that
is sure to draw." But she answers nothing, and busily reads the
libret--, the psalm, to herself.

Then comes the litany. And here again MARGARET betrays her rural habits,
by repeating audibly the first response, thus encroaching on the
province of the choir-boys, who have now united, and form a fine and
powerful chorus, less picturesque perhaps than the Druidical chorus in
the first act of _Norma_, but quite as religious in its effect. After
which comes a hymn, executed by a soprano, who is really a deserving
little girl, and whom I little expected to find doing the leading
business in a first-class church, when I first saw her in the chorus at
the Stadt Theatre, seven years ago. MARGARET, warned by experience, does
not venture to interfere with the singing, to the evident disappointment
of the usher, who is watching her with the intention, plainly expressed
on his face, of peremptorily putting her out, if she sings a single
note. Then comes a recitation of the commandments by the leading male
perfor--, that is to say, by the rector, supported by the double chorus,
and the orches--, the organ, I should say; and then we have the sermon.

I like the sermon. It is delivered with admirable effect, and is, on the
whole, more soothing than the average syrup of the apocryphal Mrs.
WINSLOW. The rector compliments us all on our many virtues, and
contrasts us with the supposititious sinners who are presumed to abound
somewhere in the vicinity of rival houses. The middle-aged men evidently
feel that he will make no mistake worth noticing, and so go to sleep as
calmly as though they were at BOOTH'S THEATRE. The middle-aged ladies
contemplate the dresses of their neighbors, and the young people flirt
with cautious glances. When the curtain--when it is over, I mean--we go
cheerfully away, like an audience that has slept through a Shakesperean
play, and feels that it has done its duty. And when we are once more in
the street, I say to MARGARET: "This has been a delightful performance.
There has been nothing said to make one feel disagreeably discontented
with one's self, nor has there been any impolite suggestions as to the
undesirable future of anybody, except the low wretches who, of course,
don't go to any church. How much better this is than the solemn service,
and, the unpleasantly personal sermons that we used to hear at your
little rural church."

MARGARET.--"I do not like it. Why should boys be hired to pray, and
women to sing for me? Why should I be told by the preacher that I am
perfectly good, when I have just confessed that I am a 'miserable
sinner?' Why do you call this service religious, and Rip Van Winkle
theatrical? Believe me, St. APOLLOS deserves a place among your 'Plays
and Shows' quite as much as does BOOTH'S or WALLACK'S."'

And I to her--"St. APOLLOS shall take its proper place in PUNCHINELLO'S
show. But permit me to say that you are very unreasonable. What do you
go to church for? To be made uncomfortable and dissatisfied with
yourself?"

MARGARET,--"To be made better."

MATADOR.

* * * * *

A PASTOR ON POLITICS.

The Reverend Mr. CREAMCHEESE congratulated the hearers of his last
sermon upon the encouraging religious aspects of the time, remarking how
pleasant it was in this fall season to find all the political parties in
the country so interested in making their election sure. We maybe
mistaken, but we think the Rev. gentleman's zeal outruns his discretion.
The preying of politicians is of a kind which we trust the clergy will
never seek to imitate; but now that Congress has undertaken to supervise
this matter of election, there no knowing what it may become in the
future.

* * * * *

AN EVASIVE REPLY.

A Correspondent suggests that in No. 30 our artist has given Mr. C. A.
DANA, in representing him as refusing a bribe with virtuous indignation,
a two-cent-imental an expression. In reply, Mr. PUNCHINELLO--although
his own opinion is that the mistake has been in making it rather
dollar-ous than cent-imental--would refer his correspondent to the
artist.

* * * * *

A QUERY FOR SOL-UTION.

Is it a fact that, because _Sol_ is the Latin for _Sun_, being on the
_Sun_ is therefore equivalent to being a SOLON?

* * * * *

TO THE DIPLOMATISTS OF THE HUB.

Whether the Boston dip is a penny one or not, it is nevertheless
scandalous.

* * * * *

POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO IX.

Rub-a-dub, dub,
Three men in a tub,
The Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick-Maker,
They all jumped into a rotten potato.

Behold the gentle Poet, now in the midst of the tumult of war. How
calmly he surveys from his elevated position the situation of the hosts
and the signs of the times. He hears the drums beat and the bugle call
to arms, and his soul is filled with martial ardor. Unable to wield the
sword, he seizes his poetical pen, resolved to become the Chronicler and
Historian of the war, and thus add his little mite for the improvement
of future generations. He decided that it must be characteristic, and in
keeping in style with his other productions: short, pithy, and
comprehensive; simple and amusing enough for a child; deep and sarcastic
enough for the most astute mind.

He begins by describing in graphic style the sounds that first struck on
his ear and fired his manly soul--the beat of the rolling drum. Then
comes a description of the terrible conflict that occurred in his native
village, between the three most prominent men of the day. This, not to
be too verbose, he simply likens to being "in a tub."

BILLY the butcher, stout, red-faced, and pugilistic, with his particular
friend MARC the baker, having become jealous of the beautiful shop and
immense patronage of JOHNNY the candlestick-maker, resolve to put an end
to it in some way, even if they have to fight him.

That showy candlestick shop, with its gay trimmings and beautiful
ornaments, open every day before their face and eyes, and attracting
crowds of idlers who stand gazing in at the windows, or lounging around
the doors, is a little too much for the Butcher, who in vain displays
before his door the fresh-cut meat and the tempting sausage. True, he
has plenty of customers; but they come because they need what he has to
sell; they come of necessity, not for pleasure. The Baker experiences
the same vexation, as he sees his loaves passed by and mockingly made
light of.

They bear awhile in silent envy the annoying sight of the rollicking
crowd and the joyful JOHNNY with his troop of apprentices, who have all
they can possibly do to attend to their numerous customers, and who
receive their broad pieces of money with a careless ease that makes the
fingers of the lookers-on tingle.

At last human nature can stand it no longer. The two malicious
storekeepers put their heads together, and resolve to draw their
prosperous enemy into a fight that will ruin him and enable them to
smash his windows. Accordingly, they throw stones and dirt at him, but
he, intently interested in his store, notices them not. His noisy
apprentices and loungers around see and point out the insult, and urge
him to avenge himself. But no; he has no time to pay attention to petty
annoyances; he is too busy getting up a huge candlestick for the Fair,
and so, to smooth matters over, he sends his two enemies an invitation
to view the magnificent candlestick that is to throw so much light on
the world.

"He is either too stupid or too sharp for us," sighs the Baker; "we
can't do anything in that way. Suppose we set up an opposition store,
with one of your sons for Proprietor, and see what effect that will
have."--"Good, it shall be done," says the Butcher.

Soon an empty store adjoining is hired, and being put in order, when the
hitherto blind Proprietor wakes up to the fact that there is a coalition
against him, and that he had better be stirring or he will lose his
trade. Accordingly he writes a remonstrance to his friend the Butcher,
telling him "he wishes no rival in the trade. He has always had a
monopoly, and he intends to keep it." His apprentices back him up in his
assertions, and declare they are ready to die for him and their
candlesticks. The advent of the messenger is noticed with inward
rejoicing by the twain, but, when he presents his remonstrance, he is
immediately kicked out of doors.

That is the last feather, the one straw too much, and the excitable
little Candlestick-maker at once challenges his opponents to deadly
combat.

The Poet, with a sublime contempt for the mysterious and wonderful
intricacies of war, significantly calls this rush to arms a "jumping
into a rotten potato."

Alas! it proves a rotten potato to the poor Candlestick-maker. Out
sallies the Butcher with his cleaver, and his boys with their knives,
and by his side the Baker with his rolling-pin, followed by his crowd of
friends armed with toasting-forks and cutting-irons, presenting a
formidable front to the astonished JOHNNY and his handful of
apprentices.

But there is no back-door to creep out through now; so at it they go,
Valor against Might, but Might is the stronger, and Valor gets knocked
on the head and has to fall back. This exasperates the heroic defenders
of the shop, who exclaim, "If you can't fight any better than that, you
had better leave," and immediately begin an attack in his rear.

The poor man, astonished at this unlooked-for defection from his ranks,
turns his eyes imploringly around for aid, but sees none that can avail
him. He hears on all sides the shout, "Clear out, clear out. If you
can't win the battle for yourself, we will win it for ourselves, and
keep the spoils." Sadly he views the situation; he feels the kicks of
the Candlestick-makers in the rear, and he knows there is no hope for
him. But his beloved store! he will save that if he can; he will offer
himself as a sacrifice.

With compressed lips he walks to the Butcher, and says, "You have got
the best of me; I'll give in. Stop the fighting." BILLY, overjoyed at
the victory, embraces him, and is about to give the order for retreat,
when the wily Baker whispers, "The shop is there yet, and it is that
that troubles us as much as the man. Let us keep at it till we demolish
it, and thus put a stop to all future controversy. After killing the old
fox, don't leave a nest of young ones to grow up and bite us. What is
their loss is our gain, you know. Do you understand?" "Yah, Yah!"

* * * * *

Latest from Below.

An unsophisticated young imp, who had not long been in Hades, was
cowering over a small fire in a distant corner, endeavoring to keep from
freezing, when his Impious Majesty himself heard the youth
soliloquizing: "When will LIE BIG, the editor of the _Sun_, keep me
company?" "You blockhead!" exclaimed his Majesty, "LIE BIG, the editor
of the _Sun_, is not coming back for some time; he is of more service to
me on earth, making converts for my jurisdiction, than the public are
probably aware."

* * * * *

[Illustration: ENGAGEMENT IN HIGH LIFE.

Perhaps it is not generally known that Miss SUSAN B. ANTHONY desires to
leave one field only that she may enter another; in other words, that
the lady contemplates marriage. Our authority is uncertain whether the
prospective groom is one of our border aborigines or an ex-Fenian leader
of noted gallantry. We have, however, ventured upon the following sketch
illustrative, in advance, of the reception, and which, in the absence of
more explicit information, we may as well call--

ANTHONY AND CLEOPATRICK.]

* * * * *

[Illustration: A CARPET GENERAL.

_Brigadier-General Woodford_. "DEAR ME, WHAT A DISAGREEABLE SMELL!
WONDER WHAT IT CAN BE?"

_Lady_. "OH! THAT'S GUNPOWDER, GENERAL."

_Brigadier-General Woodford_. "GUNPOWDER?--AW! IS IT? NEVER SMELT
ANYTHING OF THE KIND BEFAW."]

* * * * *

HIGH-HANDED OUTRAGE.

EDITOR OF PUNCHINELLO: Sir:--I am the young lady, travelling in New
Jersey (perhaps they will next make a crime of _that_!), and mentioned
in a recent paragraph as having been asked by a person (called a _man_)
"if _this_ was ELIZABETH?"

I insist, Sir, that I was right in resenting, as I did, the impudent
familiarity of this person (called a _man_), who, after sitting for an
hour or two in perfect silence (having first intruded himself into the
seat beside me without making any kind of apology), abruptly turns to me
and says, "Is _this_ ELIZABETH?"

I insist, Sir, that I was right in asking the ruffian what he meant.
Consider the abruptness, Sir, of this question--this selfish question,
as it turned out, after a grim and gruff silence of an hour and a
quarter. Could not this unamiable person (called a _man_), have prepared
me for it by a few moments' affable conversation? Why should he dare
intrude his "Is this ELIZABETH?" with such brutal abruptness? Not a
sudden proposal from one of my numerous suitors could have startled me
more.

Look at the question, Sir, as pointing at my supposed Christian name (I
_have_ one, but it is _not_ ELIZABETH, nor yet ELIZA); can you imagine
anything more odiously familiar? "Well known for his mild and gentle
disposition" this "gentleman" of Brooklyn may be; but there was no
mildness, no gentleness this time, I assure you! The language alone
proves _that_!

The rudeness was all the more shocking and discomposing, from the fact
that I was at that moment contemplating the elegant features of a
gentleman at the other end of the car, who seemed not altogether
indifferent to my appearance (which he would have been, perhaps, had I
seemed of "uncertain age," as the low fellow observes who wrote this
paragraph), and there was every appearance of a growing interest in two
susceptible hearts, when this cold-blooded (but "mild and gentle")
person launched his brutal interrogatory, so selfish and unfeeling, with
such violent abruptness.

Look, if you will, Sir, at the question as referring purely to the city
which we were approaching. How did I know that my new found, but already
dear friend was not about to alight (as, indeed, he seemed to be), and
leave me to the disgusting society of this "mild and gentle" barbarian
sitting beside me in such a state of stolid indifference, and thinking
only of a vulgar town, and his still more vulgar affairs in that town!

Consider again, Sir, the audacity of this person (called a _man_), in
repeating his odious question after the rebuke I had administered! Yes,
he actually repeated it! as though I were a long-lost acquaintance, of
whose identity he felt more than doubtful; I simply said to him (though
the slanderous report says I _screamed_ it), "You may think you are a
gentleman, Sir" (and here I claim is evinced a disposition to be fair
even to an enemy)--"you may _think_ you are a gentleman, Sir, to address
a lady so; but I do not wish to continue any further talk with you."

You may fancy the state of my feelings, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, at being
obliged to make this little speech, and my friend at the other end of
the car looking on, with wonder in every one of his expressive features,
and the conductor at that instant coming in and shouting, "ELIZABETH!"
as though I were called for and must go that very instant. Indeed, I
felt very much like doing so--but not, I assure you, on perceiving that
the "mild and gentle" ogre I have been speaking of was already going
out. No; I was thankful I was going further, though the behavior of the
remaining passengers was not calculated to inspire me with a very
quieting sense of ease.

You will, I am sure, excuse the feelings of a lady who has been insulted
by a ruffianly person (called a _man_), and affronted by a car-full of
insolent and vulgar mob, called the American Public. I hope the
gentleman at the other end of the car will take for granted that _he_
was not one of this brutal mob.

Yours, with much feeling,

MEDORA EUPHEMIA SLAPSADDLE.

* * * * *

THE LAST MOTTO OF THE JOHN REAL DEMOCRACY.--O'BRIEN,
LED--WITH a hook.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE POLITICAL CAT'S-PAW. JOCKO WOODFORD MAKES TOMCAT
LEDWITH USEFUL FOR PULLING THE ROASTED CHESTNUTS OFF THE FIRE.]

* * * * *

HIRAM GREEN INTERVIEWS HORACE GREELEY.

Some unpublished Facts--H.G. of the Tribune reveals to H.G. of
Punchinello what he Knows of Farming.

"H. G. OF THE _Tribune_, I believe," said I, reaching out and taking his
lilly-white hand, one Saturday mornin at Chattaqua.

"Jess so," said he, politely, "and this is H.G. of PUNCHINELLO. We're a
helthy team at writin' comic essays--eh! Squire?" And the hills, dales,
and barn-yards resounded with our innercent prattle.

"My bizziness, Mister GREELEY, is to see if you know as much about
agricoltural economy as you do about politikle economy. As I useter say
to culprits, who was bein tried before me when I was Gustise of the
Peece, you needent say nothin which will criminate yourself."

"Well, my lerned friend," said he, hily pleased at my happy way of
puttin' things, "foller me, and I'le show you what farmin on scientific
prenciples can do for a man."

Arm in arm we sailed forth, as gay and festiv as a pair of turkle
doves--HORRIS with his panterloons stuffed in his bute legs, and the
undersined with his specturcals adjusted on his nose.

"Do you see that piece of land over yender?" said he, pintin to a strip
of 10 akers. "That was a worthless swamp two yeer ago. For $15,000.00 I
made it what it is, and to-day, I'me proud to say it, my farm is worth
$1,750.00 more, with that 10 akers under cultivation, than it was before
I drained it."

"HORRIS," said I, wishin to humor him, "as an economist, this shows your
brains is in the rite spot."

He then took me in his garden, and showed me what his success in the
sass bizziness had been. "Do you see that 10 aker bed?" said he. "Well!
last fall I saw a lot of pie plant growing in a wild state. I said
nothin to nobody, but when it got ripe I saved the seed. This spring I
planted that patch of ground with it, anticipatin the biggest crop of
pie timber in the State. And, sir, jest as sartin as this white hat was
once new," said he, pintin to his old plade out shappo, "when that stuff
grode to maturity, I sent a cart lode down to the market, and it was all
sent back with a note, statin that burdocks wasn't worth a cuss for
pies. But," said he, takin me by the button-hole, "no man can fool me
agin on pie timber."

"As a farmer, HORRIS," said I, so as to keep the rite side of him, "your
ekal hasent been hatched."

He then shode me the remains of a young orchird; said he: "The borers
got into the roots of them trees, which trees cost me, within the last
two yeer, about $5,000.00. I tried all sorts of ways to get rid of them.
I even set my hired man to readin artikles on 'What I know of farmin' to
'em. This put the grubs to sleep 'long at first, but they finally stopt
their ears up with clay, and wouldent listen. So that dodge was plade
out. I then bought a lot of ile of vitril and poured it about the roots
of them trees, and I tell you, friend GREEN," said he, as tickled as a
boy with his first pair of new boots, "it would have made you laff to
see them borers moosey."

"But," said I, "it killed them trees deader'n a smelt."

"Which don't amount to shucks, so long as the cause of sientific farmin
is benifitted, by showin bugs that the superior critter man is too many
meesles for the animile kingdom," was his reply.

"Them trees over there," said this distingished farmer, "was a present
to me. They come marked _pine_ trees. It is over three yeers since they
was sot out, and not a solitary _pine apple_ have they yielded yet. I
reckon it takes time for them to bear fruit," said he in his simplisity.

"Not only time," said I, somewhat surprised, "but if you live through
all etarnity, you won't see a darned apple on them trees."

"But, Squire GREEN," said he, with a downcast air, "H. WARD BEECHER says
pine apples grows on pine trees, and as long as brother B. spends all
his salary in edicatin hisself for a farmer, he orter know."

"Brother fiddlesticks," said I, a little riled at hearin him cote H.W.B.
as a farmist. "HANK is a 4 hoss team at raisin food for the sowl; but
when you come to depend on sich chaps to raise grub and other vegetables
for the stomack, excoose me for sayin it, it haint H. WARD'S fort, no
more'n it is mine to outsing NILLSON for the beer."

We entered his poultry yard.

"You're old peaches on raisin fouls, I've been told," said I.

"Ker-r-rect," said he, "chickens is my best holt. Last spring I had a
favorite speckled hen--she was the specklest biped which ever wore
feathers. One day, I sot her on 300 eggs. That fowl done her level best
and spread evry feather, but she hadent enuff elasticity to cover so
much territory at one settin."

"Well, sir," said he, straitenin his form, up to its full hite, "Sients
come to my ade. I got a feather bed, and with a glue pot bilt out that
hen's spread."

"What," I says, "the hen dident hatch all them eggs?"

"Not exsactly," was his reply; "she would have hatched every egg,
but--but--but--," and he broke down and bust into teers.

"But--why?" I asked, soothin his perturbed spirrit.

"She had a great deal of pride that hen did. She was terribly stuck up.
Just as she got settled down for a good square old-fashioned set, she
was so proud of her position, that somehow or other, it struck _in_ and
killed her."

We visited his barn, which was chock full of farmin tools. Said he:

"It is allers a mistery to peeple how I make farmin pay, but, Squire,
between you and I, heer's where I reckon I've got 'em. Where I loses in
other branches I make up heer. Any and everybody which invents a farmin
masheen sends me one, and I gives them a puff. Every 30 days I gets up a
bee, to which I invites the nabors. With hammers we knock them masheens
to pieces, and, sir!" said he, blowin his bugle horn of liberty with his
cote sleeve, "as the Roman mother once said, 'these is my tressoors,'
for, sure's your born, the sales of old iron more'n pays runnin my farm,
losses and all."

The shades of nite was a fallin, so thankin H.G. for posten me up on his
farmin nolidge, I left him, with my mind fully made up, that, with the
Filosifer, the _pen_ was a heep site mitier in his hand than a farm is,
in which opinion any well-bred, onprejodiced farmer will fall into.
Ewers farminly,

HIRAM GREEN, ESQ.,

Lait Gustise of the Peece.

* * * * *

[Illustration: FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE.

"AT A PRIVATE THEATRE IN THIS CITY MR. J--N SM--TH RECENTLY MADE HIS
_début_ AS _Rolla_, AND CREATED A MARKED SENSATION."]

* * * * *

THE NEWMAN FUND.

About seventy of the artists connected with the illustrated press of
this city and Boston have contributed drawings for the benefit of the
family of the late WILLIAM NEWMAN, formerly one of the designers of the
London _Punch_, and who for the last ten years held a prominent position
among the graphic artists of this city. To this move on the part of
kindred spirits, PUNCHINELLO cries "Bravo!" The kindly worker who has
passed away from our midst would have been foremost himself in moving
thus when death or sickness had fallen upon a brother of his guild. To
aid his family, then, in the manner proposed, is the best tribute than
can be paid to his memory. Due notice will be given of the arrangements
for exhibiting and disposing of the contributed pictures, to possess
some of which, PUNCHINELLO hopes, will be a matter of emulation with his
New York readers.

* * * * *

[Illustration: OUR BAD CHILDREN ON THE BORDER.

_Missionary_. "AND IT CAME TO PASS THAT CAIN WAS WROTH WITH ABEL, HIS
BROTHER, AND ROSE UP AGAINST HIM AND SLEW HIM."

_Comanche Warrior_. "HOW! HOW!--GOOD!--CAIN RED MAN, EH?--ABEL WHITE
MAN?--HOW! HOW! CAIN GET ABEL'S SCALP--GOOD!"]

* * * * *

VENUS AND ADONIS

An Eclogue of the Period.

(Respectfully dedicated to the ladies of the Free-love Pantarchy.)

_Venus._

Adonis, sweet, hide not thy blushing face:
What terrors masculine thy soul abash?
And why with boyish pout dost mar the grace
Of maiden lip and innocent moustache?

_Adonis._

O you dry up! I tell you. I'll be cussed
If I'm a-going to stand such pesky bother
From you strong-minded gals. And, what's the wust,
I darn't touch ye.--G'long, 'r I'll tell your mother!

_Venus._

And feel'st thou then no solemn intuition--
No subtle psychological vibration--
Or instant, full, spontaneous recognition
Of my pantarchic self-annunciation?

For love is free, and mutual reaction
Of kindred organisms airily
Subsists and ceases, as 't gives satisfaction:
We change with changes of affinity.

_Adonis._

Now just look here, you don't sponge no love free
At this here shop: it's stealing,--that's the sin it is!
What's more, too, if you want to hang 'round _me_
You'd better just play light on them affinities!

* * * * *

A LETTER FROM THE "HUB."

THE BOSS TOWN OF NEW ENGLAND,

October 1870 times.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: Hailing (not to say reigning) from this august (and
all the year round) place, I naturally feel privileged to pour my
troubles into your ears, with doubts as to their length. [Length of
what, troubles or ears?--ED.]

The fact is, no man was ever treated so badly or so seldom as I have
been. Others have "waked up" and found themselves famous. I've practised
waking for years, and never found myself in fame, or anything else,
excepting energetic "tailors' bills," and an occasional square meal.

Thirsting for renown, I have coined my wealth of brains into one
transcending effort, and amid much travail of genius, and travel of paw
to pate, have produced the following

ORIGINAL LINES,

----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------

* * * * * *

----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------

which I dedicate to the late Political Convention, as embodying the
principles there adopted, with this difference, that, while their
Resolutions have no point, my resolution enables me to make two points
in every line.

While I'm not in the proverb business, I have a couple on hand that are
getting mouldy, so I send 'em along.

"Once go to grass, and your enemies will soon make a hey-day over you."

"Get all you can, and can all you get."

But that reminds me of a Beautiful Tale:--

Deacon K---- lacked the confidence of the inhabitants of M----. He was
most sincerely detested for his hypocrisy and double-dealing, and so
very unpopular, that a few wags conceived the idea of drawing up a paper
requesting him to leave town.

Once endorsed by two or three respectable names, the joke took; the
paper circulated like wildfire and soon contained every business name in
the place.

A most horrible position to occupy in respect to one's neighbors.

But the Deacon was a genius in his way. Getting possession of the
document, he adroitly changed the heading, and behold! the intended
rebuke was transformed into a humble petition to the President that
Deakon K---- be appointed Postmaster of M----. In due time the
appointment came, much to the consternation and chagrin of the
villagers.

The position was held one season in spite of all opposition; but the
Deacon did not prosper in the end, for after wandering about the streets
of New York a miserable outcast, he naturally drifted on to the
editorial staff of the _Sun_. The End.

Trusting, my dear 'NELLO, you will give me a good setting-up, and cast
my lines in pleasant places, I remain,

Yours in fun,

S. R. DEEN.

* * * * *

TIMELY.

They now put little watches on the outside of portemonnaies and
cigar-cases. There has been doubt expressed as to the value of these
time-pieces; but if they go as certainly as the money and the cigars,
they will do very well.

* * * * *

HEAVY.

There is now a strike among the blacksmiths, and as the men have already
come down very heavily, it is supposed it will be successful.

* * * * *

[Illustration: ADVICE TO YOUNG LADIES.

WHEN YOU HAVE NEW DRESSES OR BONNETS TO SHOW, ALWAYS GO LATE TO CHURCH,
SO THAT THERE MAY BE A FULL CONGREGATION TO PLAY OFF YOUR AIRS AND
GRACES UPON.]

* * * * *

MR. PUNCHINELLO'S POLITICAL MANUAL.

I. QUALIFICATIONS OF A VOTER.

Now and then Mr. PUNCHINELLO has noticed (with infinite scorn and
contempt) all the stuff and nonsense published in the newspapers about
registry and inspection, about citizenship and twenty-one years of age,
and other games and devices of that soft sort. The qualifications of a
voter may be stated with severe and scientific accuracy, as follows:--

_Ubiquity._--By this is to be understood the power, not of _being_, but
of _belonging_ in from six to twelve Wards at the same time. Analogous
to this is the capacity of being at once a subject of VICTORIA REGINA
and a loyal citizen of the United States--a talent most exquisitely
developed in the Hibernian nature.

_Receptivity_.--This may be divided into two classes, as follows:--

1. The material power, which is that of receiving from any candidate any
sum of money which, the said ass of a candidate may be willing to pay
for a vote.

2. The spiritual power, which is that of imbibing, at the expense of the
aforesaid candidate, any number of fluid pounds of anything good to
take, whether the same may be punches, cock-tails, smashes, slings, or
plain drinks.

_Pugnacity_.--This is a quality by no means to be lightly spoken of,
especially in a District represented by that eminent warrior, the Hon.
Mr. MORRISSEY. Our fathers fought, bled, and died for liberty, and the
least an independent citizen can do is to be willing to fight and bleed
(and even he "kilt") in the same behalf. There is a difference, however,
between dying and being "kilt," which we need not point out to those
noble champions of liberty who are also of the Celtic persuasion.

II. QUALIFICATIONS OF AN EDITOR.

_Mendacity_.--This is a talent mainly developed in the manipulation of
election returns. But it may be exhibited in various other ways. Here,
for instance, is an obnoxious candidate who is a quiet, respectable,
honest, church-going family man. The height of mendacious talent is
shown in representing this paragon of virtue to be a brawler, a
blackguard, a swindler, an infidel, and a bad husband and father. If he
mildly denies that he is any such person, the proper course is to call
him all the unpleasant names over again, adding, by way of clincher,
that he is popularly supposed to have murdered his grandmother. This
will floor him.

_Verbosity_.--This is the power of writing two columns in answer to a
three-line paragraph--of twisting, turning, transmogrifying, dissecting,
kicking, cuffing, illustrating, turning inside out, and outside in again
the aforesaid paragraph. The real master of this art will show his skill
by the great number of times in which he will manage to say "We" in the
course of his lucubration.

III. QUALIFICATIONS OF A CANDIDATE.

_Density_.--This indicates the utter incapacity of a candidate to
understand any public question. It is a very safe quality, for the more
he knows, the less likely is he to commit himself. It is an equally
pleasant quality, since it enables its possessor to take the fence and
to maintain it, while, by a sort of optical delusion, each party
supposes him to be upon its own side. It saves regular out and out
_lying_, if Mr. GREELEY will allow us to use so strong a word. For
instance, if asked, "Are you in favor of a Protective Tariff?" the
candidate may answer, "I am" (for he doesn't know whether he is) or "I
am not" (for he does not know but he may be a most cantankerous Free
Trader). In this way he may, with Roman honesty, satisfy everybody, and
promote peace and good-will and that sort of thing in the handsomest
manner.

_Capillary Attraction_.--This is analogous to receptivity in the voter.
If the citizen drinks hugely, the candidate must be able to keep up with
him; and to have a sponge stomach equal to the absorption of quarts, and
even of gallons, is a piece of excellent good fortune for the man who is
fool enough to want to go to Congress, instead of enjoying the delights
of obscurity. Verily, he has his reward. He who suffers in the gin-mills
of New York may recover himself in the Champagne-sparkling saloons of
Washington.

_Pecuniosity_.--"To him that hath shall be given." The candidate must
beg, borrow, or steal something to begin with. He must possess a power
of bleeding equal to that of twenty-four country doctors.

MR. PUNCHINELLO has here given a skeleton sketch of his great work upon
politics. The reader had better make the most of it; for the Great Book
will not be published until after the author's death, which he doesn't
think (if he knows himself) is likely to happen tomorrow. And so he
closes with a brief exhortation: Go on, worthy gentlemen! Continue to
spend, drink, war, falsify, for the good of your country! Are you a
Voter? Show yourself to be such indeed, by voting all day, all the time,
and at all the polling-places! Are you a Candidate? Show yourself to be
a good one by keeping your mouth shut (except for drinking) and your
pocket open! Are you an Editor? Ah! Mr. P. has nothing to say to you.
Mr. P. is an Editor too! We understand each other, worthy brother! We
know where the world keeps its cakes and ale!

* * * * *

CAPITAL REMOVAL.

MR. PUNCHINELLO having been invited to attend and address the
Capital Removal Convention (so called) held in Cincinnati, wrote a
letter declining to be present, upon the ground that he was exceedingly
comfortable where he was. However, he added his views at great
length, but the ingrates did not even read his letter. In this he advocated
the removal of the Capitol to some point so distant that twenty-three
months of an Honorable Member's term of twenty-four months
would be spent in going and returning. At the same time Mr. P. suggested
the abolition of the salaries of the Members; and the passage
of an act making it a forgery for any member to print in _The Globe_
a never-uttered speech. But, alas for the wisdom of age! he doesn't
see that the Convention acted on any of these suggestions.

* * * * *

SMALL POTATOES.--The "Murphy" Radicals.

* * * * *

[Illustration: VERY APPROPRIATE.

_Young Man_. "HELLO! MRS. CRUMBLETY, WHAT ARE YER DOIN' ALONG ER THAT
NEWFOUDLING DORG?"

_Mrs. C._ "WELL, HE STRAYED INTO OUR HOUSE LAST NIGHT AND AS HE DIDN'T
SEEM TO HAVE NO MASTER, I THOUGHT I'D JEST TAKE HIM ROUND TO THIS HERE
NEW FOUNDLING HOSPITAL."]

* * * * *

SARSFIELD YOUNG'S REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES DICKENS.

It is surprising that since Mr. DICKEN'S decease no one should have
conceived the idea of writing a sketch of that illustrious author. It is
perhaps too much to require that some competent person prepare his
biography, but the public have a right to expect at least a few
reminiscences. I am persuaded to sketch the following imperfect outlines
only from a conviction that the great novelist has in this respect been
neglected. I trust I shall not be deemed to have broken the seal of
private confidence in this disclosing how well I knew him, and (what is
still more remarkable) how well he knew me:--

[While Mr. DICKENS was on his first visit to this country, the writer
had not the pleasure of his acquaintance. He put up in Philadelphia, at
a well-known and fashionable boarding-house then kept by an aunt of
mine, at the corner of Second and Thirteenth streets. He never said
anything while there, until he came to pay his board bill, when bidding
my aunt farewell, he observed: _"Mrs. SAGOE, for terseness and brevity,
your steaks surpass any I have ever met with."_ Aunt Sarah had these
words neatly framed, and they have hung in her back parlor to this day.

Before he came again, the country had made wonderful progress. A new
generation had been born, including myself.]

When the steamer was signalled, I went down on the wharf. DICKENS was
standing near the rail, and wore a coat, vest, pants, and a hat. I
couldn't make out through the glass how much they cost, and I forgot to
ask him afterward. Shortly after she had hauled into the dock, I went on
board. We shook hands. Mr. DICKENS had a peculiar way of reserving his
right hand for this process, though on great occasions he would use
both. We employed all four, with the understanding that a more formal
demonstration should be made at PARKER'S. I offered to carry his valise.
Graciously declining my services, he betokened his appreciation of my
delicate attention by presenting me on the spot with a complete set of
his works--Author's Edition.

"My dear fellow," he whispered, "there's a Boston man down below,
blacking my other pair of boots, who'd feel hurt if I should let anybody
else take that bag."

I called upon him as soon as he was fairly settled, and found him in his
shirt-sleeves, writing vigorously. Mr. DICKENS'S intimate friends are
aware that he indulged in the habit, while writing, of occasionally
dipping his pen in the inkstand. I don't remember much about the room
except that there were several chairs (good chairs) and a table in it.
The distinguished occupant was sitting about nine and a half feet from
the door facing the Southwest, his hair well brushed, head a little
inclined to the right, except his eyes, which, were inclined to twinkle
as though he had just hit upon something particularly bright and happy.
The carpet was green with a red figure. You could see in a moment that
he was a man of genius. The room was lighted with gas. Was it possible
that the immortal author of "DICKENS'S Works" was before me? [Upon the
table was a cigar, half consumed, an inkstand, three pen-holders, a
bundle of envelopes, a brass key, several bouquets, a paper-cutter, a
stick of sealing-wax, a quantity of writing-paper, a table-cloth
(spread), a newspaper (the date has escaped me), and such other things
as are usually on such tables.]

DICKENS, as soon as he saw me, stopped writing, wiped his pen, ran his
fingers through his hair, took out his watch and wound it up, brushed
his coat and put it on (not forgetting to place a rose in the
button-hole), and then, waving his hands very gracefully (he wore
high-priced studs and a pair of elaborately built sleeve-buttons),
addressed me as follows:--

Mr. DICKENS _(with tender embrace)_ SARSFIELD!!!!

Mr. YOUNG _(representing American Literature)_ CHARLES!!!!

The remainder of our conversation was devoted to minor topics.

Early one morning we started from the Parker House, and walking rapidly
over West Boston bridge, passed through Cambridge, by the Colleges, and
kept on travelling, without speaking a word, the best part of a couple
of days, I should judge, though I didn't have my watch with me. Suddenly
he asked the name of the town we were rapidly approaching.

"Great Harrington," said I.

"Is it possible?" said he. And we turned and walked home again.

His first reading in America was a private one to me. We had come in
from a thirty-mile walk, and I was somewhat tired. Taking up the second
volume of his History of England, he began in an easy, careless way. So
did I. I went to sleep. Just as he was finishing the book I woke up; and
when he asked me how I liked it, I told him frankly that, in my opinion,
it never would do in the world--the plot was too eccentric.

He was a kind man. Frequently he would ride for days together up and
down a railroad, for no other purpose than to help take cinders out of
people's eyes.

He was fond of oysters, of children, dogs, and an international
copyright. I remember his meeting me once on Broadway and he didn't
recognize me. He never mentioned the incident afterward. It has been
said that he was also fond of dress. I regret that I never asked him
about this, though I recall the circumstance of my inquiring where he
had his vests made. Said he; "My waistcoats were made abroad."

He never liked to sit for his photograph; consequently, he generally
stood up.

It pleased him to receive letters requesting his autograph and a lock of
his hair. The articles were invariably sent by return mail. He was also
gratified at the privilege of shaking hands with people whom he was
never to see again. I once humored him by introducing in a body two fire
companies and a Sunday school.

As we parted he gave me excellent advice: "Write with vigor," said he,
"with sincerity, and blue ink; but don't write novels. It might injure
the sale of my books." I promised him I would not, and we saw each other
no more.

SARSFIELD YOUNG.

[Illustration: COMMENDABLE ENERGY.

Time: 4 o'clock P.M.

_Mr. Quickly_. "HALLO! SLOWCOME, RARE HAPPINESS TO SEE YOU THIS TIME O'
DAY."

_Mr. Slowcome_. "YAAS: BEEN ASLEEP SINCE YESTERDAY, BUT MUST EXERCISE A
LITTLE FOR THE DINNER PARTY AT DELMONICO'S, YOU KNOW."]

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

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 32, November 5, 1870" ***

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