Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 33, November 12, 1870

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Title: Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 33, November 12, 1870
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 33, November 12, 1870" ***

Vol. II. No. 33.

PUNCHINELLO

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1870.

PUBLISHED BY THE

PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY,

83 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.

* * * * *

FOR SALE.--22 VOLS., 52 NOS. EACH, OF London Punch, COMPLETE
FROM 1841 (1st YEAR) TO 1862, INCLUSIVE. PRICE Fifty Dollars.
ADDRESS P.F.G., P.O. BOX 2783, NEW YORK CITY.

See 15th Page for Extra Premiums.

[Illustration: FASHIONABLE RELIGION.

_Father._ "WELL, MY DEAR, DID YOU HAVE AN AMUSING SERMON THIS MORNING?"

_Daughter._ "O NO!--VERY STUPID. DR. CHIPPER ISN'T THE LEAST FUNNY
NOWADAYS--PREACHES THE REGULAR OLD MISERABLE SINNER SORT OF BUSINESS."]

* * * * *

GREAT MEN OF AMERICA.

By MOSE SKINNER

DANIEL WEBSTER

Was the sort of a man you don't find laying round loose nowadays to any
great extent. It's a pity his brains wasn't preserved in a glass case,
where the imbecile lunatics at Washington could take a whiff
occasionally. It would do 'em good.

We are told that as a boy DANIEL was stupid, but this has been said of
so many great men that it's getting stale. Some talented men were
undoubtedly stupid boys, but it doesn't follow that every idiotic youth
will make an eminent statesman. But there are plenty of vacancies in the
statesman business. A great many men go into it, but they fail for want
of capital. If they would only stick to their legitimate business of
clam-digging, or something of that sort, we should appreciate them, and
their obituary notice would be a thing to love, because 'twould be short.

But D. WEBSTER wasn't one of this sort. He didn't force Nature. He
forgot enough every day to set five modern politicians up for life. When
he opened his mouth to speak, it didn't act upon the audience like
chloroform, nor did the senate-chamber look five minutes after like a
receiving tomb, with the bodies laying round promiscuously. I should say
not. He could wade right into the middle of a dictionary and drag out
some ideas that were wholesome. Yes, when DANIEL in that senatorial den
_did_ get his back up, the political lions just stood back and growled.

Take him altogether he was our biggest gun, and it's a pity he went off
as he did, for he was the Great Expounder of the Constitution.

HON. JOHN MORRISSEY

Is also a Great Ex-pounder. Even greater than WEBSTER, for the
constitution of the United States is a trifling affair, compared with
the constitution of J.C. HEENAN.

Mr. MORRISSEY is a very able man and made his mark early in life. Before
he could write his name, I'm told. No man has made more brilliant hits,
and his speeches are concise and full of originality. "I'll take mine
straight." "No sugar for me," &c., have become as household words.

A man like this, though he may be vilified and slandered for awhile,
will eventually come in on the home stretch with a right bower to spare.

That's a nice place JOHN has got at Saratoga. Fitted up so elegantly,
and with so much money in it, it looks like a Fairy bank with the
fairies gambolling upon the green. It's all very pretty, no doubt, but
excuse me if I pass.

GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN.

This gentleman is yet destined to send a thrill of joy to our hearts,
and flood our souls with a calm and tranquil joy. This will come off
when his funeral takes place. He wasn't born like other people. He was
made to order for the position of common scold in a country
sewing-circle.

But he wasn't satisfied. He wanted to be an Eminent Lunatic and found
private mad-houses. And so he began to lecture. He used to rehearse in a
graveyard, and it was a common thing for a newly-buried corpse to
organize a private resurrection and make for the woods, howling
dismally.

A village out West was singularly unfortunate last summer. In the first
place the cholera raged, then they had an earthquake, and then G.F.
TRAIN lectured three nights. Owing to this accumulation of horrors the
village is no longer to be found on the maps. TRAIN'S second night did
the business for 'em. The once happy villagers are now aimless
wanderers, and one poor old man was found in the churchyard, studying a
war map of Paris and vicinity in a late New York paper.

It is said that TRAIN has his eye on the White House, and is indeed a
shrewd, far-seeing man. When he visited Europe and kissed all the little
Irish girls, could he have had in his mind the time when they, as
naturalized American Female Suffragers, would cast their votes for G.F.
TRAIN as President?

That the mind of the reader may not become hopelessly dazed by
contemplating this last paragraph, I will stop.

MOTHER GOOSE.

I cannot close these memoirs without a simple tribute to this remarkable
woman, who has probably done more to mould the destinies of this
Republic than any other man put together. She was an eminently pious
woman, devoted body and soul to Foreign Missions, and to the great work
of sending the gospel to New Jersey.

But it was as a composer that her brilliant talents stand preeminent.
MOZART, BEETHOVEN, and a host of others excelled in this respect, but
they all lack that exquisite pathos and graceful rhetoric which so
distinguished this queen of literature. The beautiful creations of that
fruitful brain are as a passing panorama of constant delight. Her style
is singularly free from affectation, and, while we are at one moment
rapt in wonder at her chaste and vigorous description of the annoyances
of a female in the autumn of life, training up a large family in the
limited accommodations afforded by a common shoe, we cannot but feel a
twinge of compassion for the singular Mrs. HUBBARD and her lovely dog,
who "had none," only to have those tears chased away by the arch and
guileless portrayal of the eccentric JOHN HORNER.

That we cannot to-day gaze upon the classic lineaments of her who welded
such a facile pen, is a source of the most poignant regret. It is a
crying shame, for I think I am correct when I say that there does not
exist on the civilized globe a statue of this peerless woman, but she
will always live as long as there are infant minds to form, or tender
recollections of childhood to remember.

P.S.--I forgot to say that I hold a copyright of old GRANNY GOOSE'S
works. I have just got it renewed, and it is as vigorous as a
kicking-mule. Send in your orders. Contributions to the old gal's statue
will be duly acknowledged, and deposited with my tailor.

* * * * *

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.

JANAUSCHEK is a Bohemian, and with the Bohemian propensity for picking
up things, has picked up the English language. The public is somewhat
divided in its estimate of her skill in speaking English. One-half of
her average audience insists that she speaks better English than
nine-tenths of our native actresses: the other half asserts that she is
at times nearly unintelligible. Neither of these statements necessarily
contradicting the other, they might both be easily true. The fact is,
however, that she speaks English like a foreigner. Mud itself--or a Sun
editorial--could not be plainer than this definition of her exact
proficiency in our unmelodious tongue.

If we go to see her play "Lady Macbeth," we meet evidences at every step
of her want of familiarity with English, or at all events with American
customs. We find her playing at the ACADEMY, and we at once remark that
no one but an unnecessarily foreign actress would dare to awaken the
sepulchral echoes of that dismal tomb. We find, too, that at the very
threshold of the house she defies the one of the most time-honored
institutions of our stage, by employing a pleasant and courteous
door-keeper--instead of the snarling Cerberus who lies in wait at the
doors of other theatres. We find again that she outrages the public by
the presence of decent and civil ushers, who neither insult the male
spectators by their surly impudence, nor annoy the lady visitor by
coloring her train with tobacco juice. So that before the curtain rises
we are prepared to lament over her unfamiliarity with American customs,
and to predict her ignorance of the American, as well as the English
language.

Divers well-meaning persons repeat the dialogue of the earlier scenes of
the play. There is a good deal of dramatic force in the legs of Mr.
MONTGOMERY, who plays "Macbeth," much animation in the feathers which
Mr. STUDLEY'S "Macduff" wears in his hat, and a foreshadowing of ghostly
peculiarities in the solemn stride of Mr. DE VERE'S "Banquo." We listen
to these gentlemen with polite patience, waiting for the appearance of
"Lady Macbeth." When at length that strong-minded female strides across
the stage, we hail her with rapturous applause, and listen for the
strident voice with which the average "Lady Macbeth" reads her husband's
letter.

We don't hear it, however, for JANAUSCHEK reads in a tone as low as that
which a sensible woman who was plotting treason and murder would be apt
to use. Why "Lady Macbeth" should proclaim her deadly purpose at the top
of her lungs is quite incomprehensible, except upon the theory that
stage traditions have confounded the Scotch with the Irish, and that the
"Macbeths" husband and wife--being the typical Fenians of the period,
were accustomed to roar their secrets to the listening world.

Be that as it may, we are constrained to note the actress's
unfamiliarity with the language, as evinced in the tone in which she
reads the letter, and also in the way in which she urges her husband
onward in the path of crime. The usual "Lady Macbeth" "goes for" her
weakminded spouse, and drives him by threats and strong-language to
consent to her little game. JANAUSCHEK, on the contrary, does not raise
a broom-stick, or even her voice, at "Macbeth," but actually coaxes him
to be so good as to kill the king, so that she can bring all her
relations to court, and appoint them surveyors, and internal revenue
collectors, and foreign ministers. This is not the tone of other
actresses in the same part, and we therefore at once charge her
departure from the common standard to her ignorance of English.

We listen with fortitude to the dismal singing of the witches and their
friends in mask and domino. The music, we are told, is "LOCKE'S music."
What is the proper key for LOCKE'S music, is a question which we have
never attempted to solve, but we heartily wish that the key were lost
forever, since by its aid the singers open vistas of musical dreariness
which are disheartening to the last degree. But we sustain our spirits
with the thought of the bloody murder that is coming. Talk as we ill, we
all enjoy our murders, whether we read of them in the _Sun_ and the
_Police Gazette_, or witness them upon the stage.

When JANAUSCHEK comes upon "Macbeth" with his bloody hands, and explains
to him that it is now too late to repent, either of murder or matrimony,
she furnishes us with more instances of her unfamiliarity with the
language. Her night-dress is not at all the sort of thing which an
English-speaking woman would be willing to sleep in. We are confident
upon this point, and we have on our side the testimony of a married man
who has lived four years in Chicago, and has been annually married with
great regularity. If he doesn't know what the average female regards as
the proper thing in night-dresses, it would be difficult to find a man
who does. Then, too, her gross ignorance of English is shown in her back
hair, which is a foot longer than the average hair of previous "Lady
Macbeths," and is as thick and massive as a lion's mane. Wicked and
punnish persons go so far as to call it her mane attraction. They are
wrong, however. JANAUSCHEK does not draw by the force of capillary
attraction. By the bye, did any one ever notice the fact that while a
painter cannot be considered an artist unless he draws well, an actress
may be the greatest of artists and not be able to draw a hundred people?
But this is wandering.

Owing to the imperfections of her English, JANAUSCHEK does not indulge
in drinking from the gilded pasteboard goblets which grace the banquet
scene. She also shows her lingual weakness in the sleep-walking scene.
For instance, when, after having reigned queen of Scotland for several
months, the happy thought of washing her hands strikes her, she commits
the absurdity of scrubbing them with her hair. On the other hand, she
pronounces the words "damned spot" with a, perfection of accent that
constrains us to believe that she must have taken at least a few lessons
in pronunciation from some of the leading members of WALLACK'S company.
Still, her way of walking blindly into the table, and falling over
casual chairs, ought to convince the most skeptical person that her
English accent is not yet what it should be. And in general, her walk
and conversation in this scene demonstrate that even the most carefully
simulated somnambulism may not resemble in all respects the most
approved Oxford pronunciation.

But when we are freed from the depressing influences of the Academical
Crypt, we forget all but our admiration of JANAUSCHEK'S superb acting,
and the exceptional command which she has gained over a language so
vexatious in its villanous consonants as our own. And we express to
every available listener the earnest hope that SKEBACH and FECHTER will
profit by her success, and at once begin the study of English, with the
view of devoting their efforts hereafter to the American stage.

MATADOR.

* * * * *

POISONING THE PLUGS.

A Rampant Virginia editor proposes to kill off the Yankees by putting
poison in chewing-tobacco, so that we shall meet mortality in
mastication, fate in fine-cut, and perdition in the soothing plug! In
short, Virginia not having got the best of it in political quiddities,
this pen-patriot is for trying the other kind. The short-sightedness of
this policy will be evident, when we remember how many Republicans
consider the weed to be the abomination of desolation. Virginia might
poison chewing-tobacco till the crack of doom, but what effect would
that have upon the eschewing (not chewing) GREELEY, who, even if he used
it, has bitten T(he) WEED so many times that he can consider himself
poison-proof. When, moreover, this LUCRETIA BORGIA in pantaloons
remembers that his scheme might prove more fatal to his friends than his
enemies, perhaps he will take rather a larger quid than usual, and grow
benevolent under its bland influences.

* * * * *

FIRM AS A ROCK.

All the newspapers are full of descriptions of the earthquake of the
20th of October, and of the panic thereby occasioned. We are proud to
state, although massive buildings quivered and great cities were scared,
that Mr. PUNCHINELLO was not in the least shaken. At the moment of the
quake (11h. 26m. A.M.) he must have been seated upon his drum partaking
of a lunch of sandwiches and small beer. He did not perceive the
slightest reverberation, nor did the drum give the least vibratory sign.
Mr. PUNCHINELLO has prepared a most elaborate and scientific paper,
giving a full and elaborate and intensely scientific description of the
various phenomena which he did not perceive, and which he proposes to
read before any scientific associations which may invite him to do so.
Terms, $50 and expenses.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE PREVAILING DISORDER.

_Planet (responsively)_. "WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH ME, EH?--GOT THE FEVER
AND EARTHQUAKER--GOT 'EM BAD."]

* * * * *

EDITOR'S DRAWER.

OH YES! PUNCHINELLO has an Editor's Drawer, and a very nice one, too.
(As no allusion is here made to any of the artists of the paper, you
needn't be getting ready to laugh.) This Drawer--and no periodical in
the country possesses a better one--is chock full of the most splendid
anecdotes, and as it is impossible to keep them shut up any longer (for
some of them are getting very old and musty), a few of the bottom ones
will now be given to the public.

A GENTLEMAN just returned from a tour in Western Asia sends to the
Drawer the following account of a little bit of pleasantry which took
place in the gala town of South Amboy:--

A young doctor, clever, rich, pure-minded, and just, but of somewhat
ambigufied principles, was strenuously married to a sweet young
creature, delicate as a daffodil, and altogether loveliacious. One
night, having been entreated by a select party of his most aged patients
to go with them on a horniferous bendation, he gradually dropped, by
dramific degrees, in a state of absolute tipsidity, and four clergymen,
who happened to be passing, carried him home on a shutter, and thus
ushered him in all his drunkosity, into the presence of his little
better-half, who was drawing in crayons in the back parlor. "My dear,"
said she, looking up with an angelic smile, "why did you come home in
that odd manner, upon a shutter?" "Because, _mon ange_," said he, "you
see that these worthy gentlemen, all good men and true, _mon_ only
_ange_, brought me home upon a shutter because they were not able to get
any of the doors off of their hinges. (Hic.)"

This is almost _too_ funny.

The descendant of the Hamnisticorious sojourner in the ark knows what is
good for him. For pungent proof, hear this: A young lady, a daughter of
the venerable and hospitable General G-----, of Upper Guilford, Conn.,
was once catechizing a black camp-meeting, and when the exercises were
over, a colored brother approached her and said:

"Look-a-yar now, 's MARY, jist gib dis nigger one obdem catekidgeble
books."

"But what would you do with it, CUDJO, if I gave it to you?"

"Oh, _dis chile 'ud take it_!"

Ha! ha! ha! Our colored brother will have his wild hilarity.

Two septennialated youngsters of Boston. Mass, (so writes their gifted
mother), thus recently dialogued:

"PERSEUS," said the younger, "why was the noble WASHINGTON buried at
Mount Vernon?"

"Because he was dead," boldly answered his brother.

Oh! the tender-aged! How their sub-corrected longings curb our much
maturer yearnings.

Here is an anecdote of a "four-year old," which we give in the exact
words of our correspondent, an aged and respected resident of Oswego
county, in this State:

"Well, now, ye see, I couldn't do nothing at all with this 'ere
four-year old 'o mine, fur he was jist as wild an onruly as anything ye
ever see; and so I jist knocked him in the head, and kep the hide and
the taller, and got thirteen cents a pound for the beef, which wasn't so
bad, ye see."

Strange, practical man! We could not do thus with all our little
tid-toddlers of but four bright summers.

A correspondent in San Francisco sends the Drawer these epitaphs, which
are entirely too good to be lost.

The first is from the grave of a farmer, much notorified for his
"forehandidification," and who, it is needless to say, was buried on his
own farm:--

"Here lies JOHN SIMMS, who always did
Good farming understand;
E'en now he's gratified to think
He benefits his land."

Here is one upon a gambler, who died of some sort of sickness,
superinduced by some description of disease:--

"His hand was so bad that he laid him down here;
But up he will certainly jump,
And quick follow suit for the rest of the game
When Gabriel plays his last trump."

Here is one on a truly unfortunate member of the human race:--

"Here lies CORNELIUS COX,
who, on account of a series of unhappy occurrences, the principal
of which were a greatly increased rent and consumption of
the lungs,
Got himself into a tight box."

The ladies must not be neglected. Sweet creatures! even on tombstones
we sing their praises. This is to the memory of a fashionable
and lovely siren of society:--

"She always moved with distinguished grace,
And never was known to make slips.
At last she sank down into this grave
With the neatest of Boston dips."

An old lady in Bangor, Maine, sends the following entertaining anecdote
of one of our most distinguished fellow-citizens:--

The late Senator R-----, who, by the way, was a very portly man, was in
the habit of riding over the fields to consult Judge B-----, his wife's
cousin, on points of extra-judicial import. One morning, just as he was
about to get down from his horse.--(NOTE BY ED.--The middle of this
anecdote is so long, so dull, and has so little connection with either
the head or the tail, that it is necessarily omitted.)

"Well," said the Judge, "what would you do then?"

"_I don't know_," said the Senator. "Do you?"

If our public men were, at all times, as thoughtful as these two, the
country would be better for it.

NECESSARY NOTE.--Persons sending anecdotes to this Drawer (or those
reading them), need not expect to make anything by the operation.

* * * * *

PRUSSIAN PRACTICE AND PROFESSION.

KING WILLIAM of Prussia thinks he has a mission to perform, and goes on
his present raid in France as a missionary. To an unprejudiced sceptic,
however, needle-guns, rifle-cannons, requisitions on the country,
devastations of crops, bombarding of cities, and the rest of the
accompaniments of his progress are, if possible, even worse in their
effects upon the unhappy people subjected to his missionary efforts than
the New England rum which accompanied the real missionaries in their
descent upon the now depopulated islands of the Pacific. Private people
with missions are nuisances, but public people with such ideas are
simply unbearable.

In the case of kings, if we may trust the democratic movement which this
war in Europe is aiding so greatly, the only mission the people will
soon allow to kings is dis-mission.

* * * * *

Prussian Cruelty.

"A PASS for THIERS," the telegrams state, has been promised by the King
of Prussia. There is a sound of mockery in this. Prussia's obstinacy in
pushing the war has made so many widows and orphans that all France is a
PASS for TEARS.

* * * * *

[Illustration: FRIGHTFUL SHOCK SUSTAINED BY BEAU BIGSBY ON BEING
SUDDENLY BROUGHT FACE TO FACE WITH ONE OF THOSE DISTORTING MIRRORS.]

* * * * *

OUR PORTFOLIO.

"Up in a balloon, boys!"--_Macbeth_.

TOURS, FIFTH WEEK Of THE REPUBLIC, 1870.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: To all men of lofty ambition I would recommend a
balloon excursion. The higher you get, the smaller and more
insignificant do earthly things appear. A balloon is the best pulpit
imaginable from which to preach a sermon upon the littleness of mundane
realities, first--because no one can hear you, and your congregation
cannot therefore be held responsible for indifference to your teaching;
and second--because at that height you are fully impressed with the
truth of what you say.

Aspirations of whatever kind, all longings and emotions of the
"Excelsior" order, all appeals to "look aloft," come handier when you
can "do" them in an aerial car.

You will pardon this philosophic digression in respect to the peculiar
feelings of a man who has just been "up in a balloon." Our air-ship had
been anchored in the _Champ de Mars_ two days, waiting for a fair wind.
An hour before we started, a Yorkshireman, who had evidently never seen
such a creation before, annoyed me with incessant questions as to what
it was. His large, wondering, stupid eyes never ceased gazing at the
monster as it tugged heavily at the stake which held it. "Na' wha' maun
_that_ be?" he exclaimed, starting back as it gave a very violent jerk.
I could stand it no longer, and thus broke forth:--

"See here, my good fellow, you've got plenty of cheek to be bothering me
with your confounded ridiculous questions; and so I'll answer you once
for all. What you see tied fast there is called a balloon, and it's only
a French method of drawing Englishmen's teeth." He left me--I trust not
in anger; but that was the last I saw of the Yorkshireman.

We got off, (M. GODARD and I) about four o'clock P.M., and ascended
steadily till Paris, with its rim of fortifications, looked more like
the crater of a volcano than anything else. I brought out my opera-glass
as we moved in the direction of Versailles, and reconnoitred the
situation. In a field adjoining the palace I saw an object that looked
like a post driven into the ground, and capped with a large-sized
clam-shell. GODARD levelled his glass and examined it. His lip curled
proudly with scorn as he said:--

"That is the butcher himself, WILLIAM of Prussia. The clam-like
appearance you notice is due to the baldness of his head."

I only said: "Can it be possible?" and we moved on. How my blood
throbbed as we cavorted through the blue depths of heaven! I was far
from feeling blue myself, and GODARD said that if anything I was green.
The bearings of the remark did not strike me at the time, as a
cannon-ball from the direction of Versailles whirled within twenty feet
of the balloon and lifted the right flank (a military expression) of my
moustache into your subscriber's eye, notwithstanding it was waxed with
LOUVET'S best, warranted to keep each hair _en règle_, even in the worst
gales. From that moment I renounced LOUVET. Following the cannon-shot
came a miscellaneous assortment of small projectiles, which had the
effect of creating some excitement among the atmospheric _animalculae_,
but failed to disturb the serenity of M. GODARD or myself. When about
ten miles from Blois I detected what I supposed was a large vein of
chalk-pits. It was very white, and apparently motionless. My companion
expressed his surprise at the difficulty I had in distinguishing objects
correctly, and seemed to lose patience.

"_Bigarre_, you no know zat? It ees ze dirty Proosien linen vashed out,
and hoong zere to dry!"

I told him in Arabic that he needn't get his back up; but he understood
me not, and continued playing with the cats which we were transporting
to Tours to protect the Commissary stores from the ravages of the rats
that the Prussians had despatched to eat up the provisions of the
garrison. Towards night I began to have a queer sensation in the
stomach. It wasn't like sea-sickness, nor like the feeling produced by
swinging. If a man just recovering from the effects of his first cigar
were offered a bowl of hot goose-grease for supper, I suppose he would
have felt as I felt. At the moment a queer twinge took me; I ejaculated:
"Oh! Lord!"

"Vat ees de matter?" inquired GODARD. If the man had had any other
nationality, I might have talked sense to him; but he was a Frenchman,
so I said:--

"Do you love me?"

"Do I loves you?"

"Yes!" I roared frantically, "do you love me?"

"_Begaire_ I dunno, but I zinks so."

"Then," said I, dimly discerning a chance of relief from my suffering,
"throw me out as ballast."

"Oh, _horrible! horrible! Mon Dieu!_ vat a man!"

I turned my sickly gaze upon him and saw that he was deadly pale, and
that the perspiration stood out in great drops upon his forehead. The
explanation was plain enough--he took me for a maniac. I would have
protested and moved the previous question, but taking a small phial from
his pocket he broke off the head and threw the contents in my face. Ten
seconds later I was totally oblivious, and upon recovering found myself
in this place, where such strange things are going on that my fingers
prick to write them.

DICK TINTO.

* * * * *

AN EX-MONSTER.

It is a bad day for monarchs. Boston has, for several weeks, had upon
Exhibition His Marine Majesty the Whale. The captive was shown for the
ridiculously small sum of two shillings, and great was the gathering to
gaze upon the spouter, who would have come just in time to attend the
political caucuses, only he happens to be dead, and cannot spout any
more, albeit his jaw is still tremendous. His defunct condition renders
it unnecessary to feed him upon JONAHS, which is lucky for a good many
superfluous voyagers upon the Ship of State. If the King of All the
Fishes can draw such crowds at a quarter a head, what a chance is there
for our friend LOUIS NAPOLEON! If he will but make an Exhibition of
himself in this country, we promise him full houses, and a greater
fortune than that which he has lost.

* * * * *

THE MICROSCOPIC MAN.

Bumps have a great deal to answer for. Of course we refer to
phrenological bumps, from which, possibly, the powerful adjective
"bumptious" is derived, it being applicable to a person whose
conflicting bumps keep him continually on the rampage.

Of all such persons, the one with microscopes in his bumps for eyes is
the most bumptious. He is continually detecting pernicious particles in
everything that he eats and drinks. One such will seize a pepper-castor,
invert it over his mashed turnips, spank it as if it were a child, and
then, peering at the dark particles with which the succulent heap of
vegetable matter is dusted, proceed to deliver a lecture upon the
poisons that we swallow with our daily food. He sees iron-filings in the
pepper. Also particles of the tail-feathers of Spanish flies. He will
tell you that if you continue to use pepper like that for a long
duration--say seventy or eighty years--you will have iron enough in your
stomach, from the filings, to make a ten-pound dumb-bell, and blistering
stuff sufficient from the Spanish fly to draw all the interest of the
National Debt. If the pepper happens to belong to the Cayenne
persuasion, he magnifies it into a hod of bricks. It is his hod way of
accounting for it. Keep using it daily for half-a-century, says he, and
see if you don't wake up some fine morning and find yourself a brick
chimney stuck up on the roof of a house for bats to live in. It will be
a just judgment on you; and small will be to you the consolation should
some poetical friend pen an epigrammatical threnody to your memory,
telling in "In Memoriam" stanzas how you "went up like a thousand of
bricks."

"Beef?" says the microscopic man, probing the meat with a pencil of
light that beams from his right eye (the other being closed for
concentration purposes), "Beef, sir?--not a bit of the _bos taurus_
about it, sir. Horse, donkey, mule, zebra--what you will, but not a
single fibre of ox. Did you ever see the fibres of beef run in a
direction due north and south, like these? If you did I should like to
know it, sir. I inspected this meat raw, sir, to-day, on the butcher's
stall, and the minute _ova_ perceptible in it were those of the horse
gad-fly, not the ox gad-fly, sir. Yes, begad, sir, and I'm prepared to
maintain the fact upon oath, sir."

Porter and other malt liquors are favorite subjects for the analysis of
the microscopic man. As you are placidly enjoying your pint of
GUINNESS'S brown stout, he will look at you for minutes with a
compassionate smile. Then, suddenly plunging into his favorite horror
knee-deep, he will ask you if you know what becomes of all the ends of
smoked-out cigars. Of course you submit that little boys pick them up
and smoke them to everlasting annihilation. "Pshaw! sir," exclaims the
microscopic person; "there is a man in the City of Dublin, sir--I
believe he is a baronet now, but will not force that as a fact--and he
made an enormous fortune by going about the streets at early dawn and
picking up all the cigar-stumps he could find, and they were not few, as
you may suppose, in that smokingest of cities. He used to furnish these
by the ton to old GUINNESS, who used them for giving color and body to
his famous 'Stout.' Body?--I should think so rather!--but only think
where the body came from! Just recall to mind the filthiest gutter that
ever you saw in your life, with the numerous ends of cigars that you
perfectly remember having observed sweltering in it, and then take
another pull at your GUINNESS, sir, and I wish you joy of it, sir!"

Once we remember to have heard the subject of the possibility of lizards
snakes, frogs, and other cheerful reptiles having resided for indefinite
periods in the stomachs of human subjects, discussed in the presence of
the microscopic man. A lady of the party was skeptical on the subject,
dwelling especially upon the impossibility of any person swallowing a
reptile unawares. "Observe those water-cresses of which you have been
partaking so freely, madam," said the microscopic man. "Beneath each
leaf I discern _ova_ of things that it might horrify you to enumerate in
full. Suffice it to say, then, for the present, that on the leaves of
this small sprig culled by me at random from the cluster, are to be
detected the germs of the _trigonocephalus contortrix_, than which, when
fully developed, no more deadly reptile wriggles upon earth. See this
minute agglomeration of yellowish specks on the stalk of the cress.
These are the eggs of the _lacerta horrida_, a lizard that within the
large warts with which its epidermis is studded secretes a poison of the
most virulent character. Others, too, I discern, but they are too
disagreeable to dwell upon--not to speak of one having _them_ dwell
inside one, instead--ha! ha! Now, remember that all these germs are
hatched by gentle warmth. No degree of temperature that we know of is
more gentle than that of the human stom--"

At this point the lady fainted, and the microscopic man was thrown
promptly out of the window by her husband, who has since been presented
by a committee of grateful citizens with a gold-mounted cane, as a mark
of consideration for his services in ridding the world of a monster.

* * * * *

"GREEK MEETS GREEK."

Oh, lovers of your lager beer,
Drinkers of wine and ale,
Ye editors and ministers,
Come listen to my tale,
And learn the very slight basis
Characters are built on,
By reading of the fight between
FULTON and friend TILTON.

In New York City, Broadway street,
Friend FULTON took his way,
Squinting in ev'ry restaurant,
For it was then mid-day;
He saw a bottle on a stand,
With words all in gilt on,
While right before that awful stand
Guzzling wine sat TILTON.

On Sunday night, while walking down
Bow'ry to the ferry,
TILTON did spy a lager shop
Where the folks were merry,
And saw a sight that op'd his eyes,
For, in that beery vat,
Nine lagers foaming by his side,
Reverend FULTON sat.

With spirit sword bound at his side,
And his hand the hilt on,
Brave FULTON smote at hip and thigh
Of our little TILTON;
Then TILTON took a mighty quill,
Called FULTON a liar,
FULTON took that to his church,
Will he take it higher?

Now TILTON says that FULTON lies,
FULTON says 'tis TILTON;
I wish this epic was told by
HOMER or by MILTON.
_I_ cannot tell which yarn is true,
Nor what each is built on,
But surely there's been lying by
FULTON or else TILTON.

* * * * *

A FINE OLD LADY.

In this day of monetary papyrus, it is pleasing to read of an ancient
matron in Lafayette, Ind., who, at the age of eighty-nine, has gone to
her reward, leaving no property save a $20 gold piece. For several
years, she has been reserving this honest coin to pay her funeral
expenses; and one cannot help surmising that she must have been
distantly related to the late Old Bullion BENTON. "No National Bank
nonsense at my tomb!" said she; "no grimed and greasy currency for my
undertaker! I will have a specie-paying funeral or none at all." As we
have the precedent of a great many Old Ladies in the Cabinet, we are
rather sorry that it is too late to invite this clear-headed dame to
take a chair in Washington.

* * * * *

[Illustration: A MODEST REQUEST.

_Disbursing Agent of Political Organization [to Delegation on biz.]_:
"AH! GENTLEMEN, YOU REPRESENT THE----"

_Spokesman_. "YES; WE WANT $200. I'M THE KNOCK-'EM-DOWN CLUB, AND HE'S
THE TARGET COMPANY."]

* * * * *

THE WRONG "DUMMIE."

Gatling (our countryman, you know) has invented a Battery Gun. They have
been trying this gun over at Shoeburyness (how is that, for a name?) in
England, to see whether they had not better order a few, in time for the
next war. It seems that they conducted their experiments by firing at
"dummies, representing men." (Oh, if they had _only_ had some of our
American Dummies there, who Represent Men so inadequately.) There were
136 of these _simulacra_, "99 of whom," says the report "would have been
killed." That is, if it had been possible to kill them. In fact, they
would have been killed four or five times over. "Kilt intirely."

We shall always feel that a great opportunity was here lost of ridding
the country of certain nuisances, who, if anything at all, are _worse_
than dummies, and deserve not four only, but four hundred balls in them,
"forty-two one-hundredths of an inch in diameter," or even larger. There
are so many, it would be useless to attempt to specify them: and
besides, everybody knows who they are. We would begin with the
Politicians, and end with the Brokers. And then the Millennium would
begin, "sure pop."

* * * * *

TROUBLE FOR THE RISING GENERATION.

Mr. PUNCHINELLO has often thought with what melancholy feelings the
naughty boys must gaze upon a fine grove of growing birches; but what
pangs would a knowing child experience upon finding himself in Randolph
county, Illinois, where they raise twelve bushels of castor-oil beans to
the acre! Of what depths of juvenile wretchedness and precocious
misanthropy is that crop suggestive! We see it all--the anxious
parent--the solemn doctor--the writhing patient--the glass--the spoon!
Howls like those of a battle-field, only less so, fill the air. The
wretched victim of pharmacy, conquered at last, gives one desperate gulp
to save himself from strangulation, and all is over! Ye who remember
your boyhood's home! tell us if there was any joke in all this!

* * * * *

THE GREAT MODERN O MISSION.--The English Mission.

* * * * *
[Illustration: THE LITERARY PIRATES.

SUGGESTED BY BIARD'S PICTURE, AND SHOWING THE PIRATICAL ROVER "HARPY"
SPRINGING A TRAP UPON THE GOOD SHIP "AUTHOR" IN A FAVOURABLE TRADE WIND.]

"THE HARPY."

With literary ventures stowed
As full as ship can be,
The good ship "Author" holds her way
Over the fickle sea;
Now sings the wind, and, all serene,
The ripples forth and back
Lap lightly round her gleaming sides
And whiten on her track.

Far westward, on the line of blue
That meets the pearly[1] sky,
There looms up large a stranger sail,
A sail both broad and high;
And as she near and nearer draws
She hovers like a bird,
And strains of music from her deck
Upon the air are heard.

Now closer draws the stranger sail--
Are sirens they who hang
About the quivering cordage with--
Hallo! what's that?--bang! bang!
The trap is sprung, the siren ship
Runs up the sable flag--
It is the pirate "Harpy," and
She takes the "Author's" swag!

[Footnote 1: A famous foreign writer offered us £500 to print this Pearl
Street, but we wouldn't do it for double the money.--[ED.]]

* * * * *

WEAPONS THAT TAMMANY HALL CAN NEVER BE TAKEN BY.--SHARPE'S Rifles.

* * * * *

HIRAM GREEN AT THE BROOKLYN NAVY-YARD.

Bread and Butter vs. Old Cheese.

I hadent got but a little ways into the Navy-Yard, when a soljer steps
up before me, and pintin his bagonet at my throack, said:

"Pass."

I stepped tother side of him to obey his orders, when he agin pinted his
gun at me and said:

"Pass."

Thinkin I was on the rong side of him, I undertook to pass into the
middle of the road, when he vociferated in louder tones:

"Pass!"

"Well," says I, by this time considerably riled at sich skanderlous
treatment at the _hands_ of this goverment, "if you'l stop rammin your
bagonet into my hash digester and let me _pass_, ile be hily tickled."

I was madder than if I had been a candidate for offis, and dident get
elected.

"See here, Mister hard-tack Cowpenner," said I, addressin him, "how dare
you stop _me_ in this ere outragous manner? You say 'pass,' and when I
try to pass, you jab at my innards with that mustick in a rather
oncomfortable manner. What do you mean?"

"I mean, sir," said he, sholderin his shootin iron, "that if you want to
go further, you must get a pass from the offis across the way."

"Oho! that's a gooseberry pie of a different flavor," said I, coolin
off; "why dident you say so before?" and I pinted for the offis to get
the pass.

After bein put through a course of red tape, such as feelin of my pultz,
lookin down my throte, and soundin me on my Spread Eagleism, I got the
pass.

While on my tower of observashuns, a mechanikle lookin individual
approched me, and says:

"Good mornin, Congressman WEBSTER."

I turned in cirprise, as several other men dropped their tools and
rushed out and surrounded me.

"God bless you, Mister WEBSTER!" said one.

"Make way for the noble and good WEBSTER," said another.

"Let me kiss the hand of the great statesman," says a third, fallin to
and gettin my thumb in his mouth.

"Mister WEBSTER, take care of me, I am yours to command," says a 4th,
who jumped wildly for an old tobacker cud I had just throde away.

On all sides, men was fallin down to worship me, just as if I was the
Golden Calf, spoken of in scripters, or else some great poletikle Mogul,
with a pocket full of blank commissions, ready to be filled out for good
fat offises.

All of a sudden, it popped into my mind that these 8 hour sons of toil
hadent heard that DANIEL WEBSTER was dead, or else dident see the joak,
when DAN said: "I aint dead," and supposed from my likeness to him that
I was D. WEBSTER.

I couldent blame 'em for makin such a mistake, when I reccolected the
time I was introjuced to the great man. It was when I was Gustise of the
Peace.

As our hands clasped each other, we was both revitted to the spot, and
the rivets was clinched tite.

"What! it can't be possible!" said Mr. WEBSTER, the first to break the
silence. "Well if you haint another WEBSTER, you'l pass for D. WEBSTER'S
bust, any day."

"And," said I, wishin to return the compliment, "if you haint _Green_,
you can pass any time for GREEN on a bust."

This was one of my witcisms, and it made DANIEL blurt with lafter.

But, Mister PUNCHINELLO, me and WEBSTER looked so much alike, that if
his tailor had sent him a soot of clothes at that time, I believe, in
the confusion, that just as like as not, I should have thought I was
WEBSTER, and wore off the clothes.

But, to "retrace my tale," as the canine said, when a flee was suckin
the heart's blood from his cordil appendige--

"Well, my friends," said I, humerin these men in their mistake, "what
can I do for you down to Washington?"

"Do for us? thou great and mitey!" said they all to once, "keep us into
offis--we 'go' _you_, Nov. 8th."

"Well," said I, "my good men, my word is law down to Washington.
Everybody respects the great DANIL WEBSTER."

"Eh!--who--what," exclaimed several.

"I say that I, DANIL WEBSTER, is great guns with the goverment," was my
reply.

"DANIEL WEBSTER be d--d," said the ring-leader. "No, Sir! ED WEBSTER,
the nominee for Congress, and Wet Nurse _pro tem._ over Unkle Sam's
family in this 'ere _nursery_, is the man we're after. Haint you that
man?"

"You don't mean the chap who was U.S. Assessor, agin whom I heard them
Wall street brokers and scalpers cussin and swearin like a lot of Rocky
Mountin savages chock full of fluid pirotecknicks, because he made them
pay a goverment tax?"

"The same! the same!" they all hollered.

"Well! sweet wooers of the bread and butter brigade," said I, "speakin
after the manner of men, you've got ontop the rong hencoop this time. As
Shakspeer, who is now dead and gone, says:--

'A rose by any other name
Is sweeter-er than I,
I've diskivered I haint the _game_
You want to see roost high.'"

They left me, yes, they left me. I wasent the man, but some awdacious
retch had sot 'em on tellin 'em I was _the_ man.

Surgeon GOODBLOOD, of the man o' war _Vermont_, then took me under his
charge. I found him one of them _noble_ docters, under whose
perscriptions a man could enjoy 'kickin the bucket.'

He took me to see the soljers drill.

"Thems the Marines," said he, pintin to the bloo cotes.

"Sho! you don't say?" says I. "Are them those obligin gentlemen who are
allways ready to listen to what is told 'em?"

"Yes," says the Dr.; "anything nobody else believes, we tell to the
Marines."

I mite okepy your hul paper tellin all about the war vessels, pattent
torpedoes, monitors, and sich, which I saw, but will close with the
remark:

That old rats never pile livlier onto roasted cheese, than a bread and
butter patriot does onto candidates who has the _cuttin_ of a good
_fat loaf_. That's wisdom which will wash.

Ewers,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

_Lait Gustise of the Peece._

* * * * *

SIMILE USED UP.

We regret to state, that in consequence of a late discovery by one
BÉCHAMP, of living things in chalk (he has actually seen 'em wriggle!)
we are no longer at liberty to say, "As different as Chalk and Cheese."
The difference is gone! If it is not, we would ask, where is it?

It is true, chalk is not in so general use, as an article of diet, as
cheese, except in boarding-schools; but the difference is plainly one of
degree rather than of kind. We have heard of "prepared chalk." It has
been whispered that gentle spinsters use it for a beautifyer. We rather
incline to the belief that it is prepared for the inside rather than the
outside of humanity.

At any rate, the two articles now agree in their most prominent
characteristics--which they did not, till M. BÉCHAMP looked into the
matter with his microscope.

'Tis thus, alas! our cherished similes are going. One by one are they
Bé-champ-ed (or chawed up) by the voracious creatures who hunger and
thirst after novelty. Why, we expect to be told, ere long,--and have it
proved to us,--that the Moon after all is actually and truly made of
Green Cheese. And there will go another fond comparison! Nay,
more;--perhaps Cheese itself is but Chalk, in its incipient stages of
development,--with the tenantry already secured, however, that make it
so lively inside.--_Si sic Omnes_.

* * * * *

To Our Youthful Friends.

We wish to do all in our power to keep the world cheerful. If there is a
youth of our acquaintance who despairs of ever raising a fine moustache,
we would remind him of that comforting apothegm of the Spanish: "Un
cabello haze sombra"--"The least hair makes a shadow." Courage, lad! and
do not cast that shadow from thy lip. If there is a single hair already
there, it is a manly and noble thing!

* * * * *

"Done Brown."

"TOM BROWN" is not looked upon as a sheepish person, and yet, the
English of his name is ewes ('ughes).

* * * * *

[Illustration: REAL HARDSHIP.

"HERE'S A GO!--STRASBOURG IN RUINS--TRADE DESTROYED--O DEAR! DEAR!
WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO FOR OUR PATTY DEE FOY GRASS NOW!"]

* * * * *

POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO X.

There was a man in our town, and he was wondrous wise,
He jumped into a bramble bush and scratched out both his eyes;
And when he saw what he had done, with all his might and main,
He jumped into another bush, and scratched them in again.

Some people have a very curious way of doing things. Nowadays when the
world has advanced by prodigious strides almost to the limit of
civilization, and having no further to go, is debating within itself
whether it shall lie down and take a rest, a man don't go to so much
trouble to have his eyes out. The age is a fast one, you know; so, when
the man feels like having his glims doused, he just jumps into the midst
of a crowd of real b'hoys, runs his head, good-naturedly, you know,
against a pair of knuckles, and the business is settled with "neatness
and despatch," as the job-printers say.

How different our poet's description. He must have been a man of
wonderful experience; and foresight, let us add, since from his simple
yet wonderfully powerful sketches there is gained an insight into all
the mysterious workings of humanity, from the lulling of the babe in the
cradle, the ruthless disruption of the apron-string that he is led with,
because some naughty little boys laughed at him, to the tolling of the
bell by the old sexton over another dead.

Well, there is no use in moralizing. The tale is before us, graphically
drawn; and to the reader is left naught but the pleasure of
contemplating its beauties. In his pithy way the poet describes a man
who, though possessed of some good qualities, evidently did not know how
to use them. Though the poet has never yet touched upon politics, yet
the careful reader will find that the hero of the sketch must have been
a young Democrat, since he is made to appear very nimble, and has a
fondness, partial to himself, of getting into rather thorny places. What
led him into those dangerous places we have very little chance of
knowing. "He was wondrous wise," saith the poet, and forsooth he jumps
into a bramble-bush, the last place in the world where a _wise_ man is
to be found. But then, perhaps, a tincture of irony flew from our poet's
pen; the hero was wise in his own esteem, perhaps; or was wise in the
opinion of his friends, whose wisdom seemed to be consummated in doing
something ridiculous.

It is very fortunate for the social welfare of community that all its
actions should not be sublime. Mankind would become too serious and
morose and cynical, and life would be a burden. The ridiculous makes it
enjoyable, but at the expense of those who cause the ridicule. Man
_must_ laugh, no matter what the cost to the object laughed at.

Ordinary intelligence would have decided the fate of the wise individual
who found no other use for his eyes but to scratch them out in a
bramble-bush. But our poet dealeth otherwise with his portraits. He
shows us the fate of an overwrought, badly instilled wisdom; yet when
that wisdom has been deserted by its cause, the promptings of a heart,
pure at the core, hold up to contempt the mad teachings of the sophist.

"When he saw what he had done,"

continues the poet, in a sense not entirely literal, for reasons which
are not necessary to be explained, this man of wondrous wisdom saw that
he had been made a dupe. Cunning as a fox were his would-be friends; but
having got him to the bush, there they let him gambol as he would,
ensnaring him to his own almost utter ruin.

A new light flashes upon his brain; his folly appears plainly to his
mind; he had ruthlessly deserted his fond parents; sought evil counsel;
was deserted by his false friends; and was now in a deplorable condition
indeed. Remorse sometimes brings repentance; at least it did in this
case. Our hero remembered the good teachings of his early youth; and,
like the prodigal son, was willing to return to the home of his fathers.
True, he was in a bramble-bush; but, _similia similibus curantur_
(which, interpreted, signifies, "You tickle me and I'll tickle you").

"He jumped into another bush,"

found his eyes as they were before his sad catastrophe, and without
ceremony returned them to their places, by another operation of
scratching.

What more need be said! No circumlocution of words will add to the
ending of a tale, but perhaps serve only to conceal the point. The
author is careful of his reputation. He restores the hero to his
original position, in full possession of his senses.

There let him be;
But O Be good, say we.

* * * * *

AGOSTINO THE GUNSMITH.

Of gun-tricks, old or new, the best that we know
Was that performed by JOSEPH AGOSTINO,
The gunsmith who, by burglars often vext,
A week or two since plotted for the next
By planting cunningly a wide-bored fusil,
With buck-shot loaded half-way to the muzzle,
Right opposite the window to which came
The nightly thief, to ply his little game;
And to the trigger hitching so a string,
That when the burglar bold was entering
The charge went off, and, crashing through the shutter,
Relieved the rascal of his bread and butter
By blowing off his head.

O! AGOSTINO,
Far better than the helmet of MAMBRINO,
Or steel-wrought hauberk, fashioned for defence,
Was this thy dodge; 'twas dexterous, immense!
Your health, GIUSEPPE; and for PUNCHINELLO
Construct to order--there's a jolly fellow--
A _mitrailleuse_, both long enough and large
To kill the burglars, all, at one discharge.

* * * * *

SORTES SHAKSPEARIANAE.

A Picture of the John Real Democracy:--

"What are these,
So withered and so wild in their attire;
That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth,
And yet are on't?"

_Macbeth, Act 1, Sc. 3._

A Portrait of Woodford as a General:--

"That never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a battle knows."

_Othello, Act 1, Sc. 1._

Punchinello to Gov. Seymour:--

"HORATIO, thou art e'en as just a man
As e'er my conversation coped withal."

_Hamlet, Act 3, Sc. 2._

* * * * *

PUNCHINELLO CORRESPONDENCE

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

_Nux Vomica._ Can you give me a description of the sellebrated needall
gun?

_Answer._ Your spelling is so eccentric that we guess you to be
connected with the _Tribune_. As for the "needall" gun, we should define
it as a gun without lock, stock, barrel, flint, percussion-cap, powder,
ball, or anything else.

_O.D.V._ Yes: a man may die of _delirium tremens_ produced by drinking
too much French wine. If the wine should happen to be Château Margot,
the verdict of a Coroner's Jury would probably be--"died of a margot on
the brain."

_Fumigator._ What is the proper spelling of the smoking mixture known as
"Killikinnick"?

_Answer._ Some authorities derive it from a story about an old Canadian
having smoked himself to death with it, and spell it "Kill a Kannuck."
Others spell it "Kill a Cynic," and believe that DIOGENES, the founder
of the Cynical School of philosophy, died of a surfeit of the article.

_Otis Bunker._ Was there not, in old times, a tax on fires in England,
and did it not lead to an insurrection?

_Answer._ No tax on fires that we ever heard of. You are thinking,
probably, of the Curfew Tolls mentioned by GRAY.

_Simon Succotash._ The expression to "wind a horn" is frequently used.
Do people wind one as they would a watch; and, if so, what sort of key
do they use?

_Answer._ Try the key of A Flat: _you_ are sure to have it.

_Pump-Handle._ Is it possible for a person to sleep during an
earthquake?

_Answer._ Yes: we are acquainted with persons who can sleep soundly upon
any kind of shake-down.

_Philander._ What is the best way of testing a horse's temper?

_Answer._ If you have a suspicion that the horse is quick to take a
fence, just dash him at one and try.

_Gorman Dyzer._ We think it quite proper, as you suppose, to eat
sausages with turkey on Thanksgiving Day. We decline to answer your
other question, as to whether it is right to eat turkey with sausages on
Thanksgiving Day. It is irrelevant.

_Caspar Van Keek._ Why is the height of a horse given in hands instead
of feet?

_Answer._ Because it is considered handier, of course.

_John of Boston._ I have been blackballed at a club. What am I to do?

_Answer._ Let things alone. Clubs are not always Trumps.

_Margaret Shortcake._--I have a great dread of being buried alive. Will
holding a looking-glass to the face of a person supposed to be dead
determine whether breathing has ceased or not?

_Answer._ The test is used by physicians. There is an instance on record
of a looking-glass being thus applied to a young girl who had been
unconscious for hours. She opened her eyes to look at herself in it,
which proved that she was wide awake.

_Widow McRue._--How soon after my husband's death would it be proper for
me to give up my weeds?

_Answer._ If your husband allowed you to smoke during his life-time, we
do not see why you should give up the practice after his death. Although
we do not approve of women smoking, yet a fragrant weed between pearly
teeth, with an azure cloud curling heavenward from it, has a certain
fascination, and so our advice is, "Dry up (your tears), and light a
fresh Havana."

_Speculator._--What is the best way to double a $20 bill?

_Answer._ With a paper-folder.

_Frost-on-the-Pane._--From languid circulation, or some other cause, I
frequently go to bed with cold feet. How can I remedy this?

_Answer._ Don't go to bed. Sleep in a chair.

* * * * *

POLITICS AS A FINE ART.

First Class in Politics, stand up.

First boy--Define politics as an art.

Politics are the art of eating, drinking, sleeping, and wearing good
clothes at the public expense.

Next--Is taking presents of houses, horses, &c., included in this art?

No sir, that's a natural gift.

Who invented politics?

It has been stated by Mr. SUMNER that politics were well known to the
early Greeks and Romans; but they were first reduced to an art by T.
WEED.

What are the elements of success in politics?

Cheek and stamps.

At what place is this art most cultivated?

At Washington.

How many classes of politicians are there?

Three: big strikes, little strikes, and repeaters.

Define them.

Big strikes are those who, when they make a haul, mean business. Little
strikes are those who look after the pence, while the big strikes are
looking after the pounds. Both these classes have steady occupation.
Repeaters are little strikes who are employed only at election time.

Where are they found?

In both the Republican and Democratic schools.

JOHN SMITH, go to the board and do this example: If the House of
Representatives has a Republican majority of thirty, and it remains in
session until 8 P.M. on the 4th of July, at what time will a Democrat,
whose seat is contested by a Republican, obtain that seat?

THOMAS BROWN, you can try the same example with the Assembly at Albany,
only taking the majority as Democratic, and the man whose seat is
contested as Republican.

Next boy--Who are the most successful artists among politicians?

Carpet-baggers.

What is the art now called in the South?

Black art.

Why?

Because the leading artists there are of an off color.

JOHN SMITH, have you finished your example?

Yes, sir.

When will that Democrat be admitted, if the session ends at 8 P.M. on
the 4th of July?

At 5 minutes after 8 on that day.

THOMAS BROWN, what is your answer? When will that Republican be
admitted?

At 5 minutes after 8 P.M. on the 4th of July.

Both correct. That proves that politics have been reduced to a fine art.
The class is dismissed.

* * * * *

BOSTON FIRST.

Even in the matter of earthquakes the proverbial superiority of Boston
to all other places, as a centre, has just been proved. A writer in the
_Evening Post_, discussing the comparative phenomena of the late
earthquake at various points, says:--

"Allowing seven and a half minutes for difference of local time, the
shock was two minutes earlier at Boston than at New Haven. This implies
that Boston was nearer to the centre of disturbance than New Haven."

Further developments will doubtless show that Boston was ahead not of
New Haven only, in the enjoyment of the refreshing young cataclasm
referred to, but was the absolute "Hub" from which it radiated, and
therefore ahead of all the rest of creation in regard of earthquakes as
everything else. Property has already gone up to a tremendous figure at
Boston, owing to the multifarious fascinations of the place; but the
greatest chance folks there ever had to "pile it on" is the admission of
the earthquake as a "Boston notion."

* * * * *

From the Seat of War.

What were the Francs-Tireurs before they were organized?

They wear leather gaiters.

* * * * *

Republicans.

It would be dangerous to elect the two leading Republican candidates.
They must have monarchical ideas, inasmuch as they both come from Kings.

* * * * *

[Illustration: DEVOTION TO SCIENCE.

_Mamma._ "AH YOU CRUEL, CRUEL BOY, HOW COULD YOU FRIGHTEN YOUR DEAR
LITTLE SISTER SO?"

_The Incorrigible._ "I--I ONLY WANTED TO SEE IF HER HAIR WOULD TURN
WHITE."]

* * * * *

An Advertising Parson.

There is nothing like judicious advertising--at least, we have been told
this often enough to believe it. So thinks a Pennsylvania parson, who
advertises himself in a newspaper as follows:--

"Cupid and Hymen. The little brown cottage at Cambridge, Pa., is the
place to call to have the marriage-knot promptly and strongly tied.
Inquire for Rev. S. J. Whitcomb."

--While he was about it, why didn't the Rev. WHITCOMB advertise the
other jobs for which orders might be left at the same shop? Why didn't
he say: "Funerals attended with neatness and despatch?" or, "Gentlemen
about to leave the world, will be waited upon at their own bed-sides
without additional charge?" or, "Cases of conscience adjudicated upon
the most reasonable terms?" or, "A fine assortment of moral advice just
received, and for sale in lots to suit purchasers?" Let the Rev.
WHITCOMB take our hint, enlarge the field of his advertising, and make
lots of the Mammon of Unrighteousness.

* * * * *

Fulton versus Tilton.

FULTON taps TILTON for wine, TILTON taps FULTON for beer; FULTON gets a
_tilt,_ because TILTON finds him full. In case of a trial, the verdict
would probably be, that a full FULTON ran _full tilt_ against a full
TILTON.

* * * * *

"AURI SACRA FAMES."

I saw a parson at his desk,
Silk-gowned and linen-ruffled;
The organ ceased--he rose to preach,
And smirked, and mouthed, and snuffled;

He talked of gold, and called it dross,
And prophesied confusion
To all who loved it--told them that
Their trust was all delusion.

'Twas filthy lucre, dust and dirt,
The root of every evil;
And its pursuit,--too strongly urged,--
Would lead straight to the Devil.

Midst other wicked (Scripture) rogues,
He talked of ANANIAS,--
He and his wife SAPPHIRA were
The wickedest of liars.

He showed us clearly, from their fate,
The sin of overreaching,
And making small the salaries
Of those who do the preaching.

And when his half-hour's work was done,
The miserable sinners
Rolled home in easy carriages
To Aldermanic dinners;

And as I plodded home on foot,
I thought it was all gammon,
To build a temple to the LORD
Of curses against Mammon.

The sin of gold is its abuse,
And not its mere possession,--
Wine may turn vinegar, and gold
May turn men to transgression.

Then tell the truth, O men of GOD!
Nor scorn the loaves and fishes,
Lest we should take you at your word,
And leave you empty dishes!

* * * * *

CHEERFUL PHILOSOPHY.

We remember a writer who merited more notice than he actually received,
for his well-considered thoughts on the behavior of Mourners,--whose
conduct, as a general thing, is certainly open to criticism.

It is all well enough--"due to decency," in fact--to wear "mourning,"
and now and then look grave; but "this idea of closing your house,"
observed our philosopher, "and silencing your piano, and abstaining from
your customary amusements and habits _for months_ [only think of it!],
because some one has departed from misery to happiness, is not alone
supremely ridiculous [though _that_ is bad enough], but it is sublimely
preposterous and [what is yet more] disgraceful to the last degree of
shame."

Precisely; just what we have always said, whether we believed it or not.
It is what any feeling man _would_ say.

The fact is, people sacrifice too much to their friends. Especially
after the friends are dead. "The cream of the joke is," as our lively
essayist remarks, "that the dead do not dream of your sufferings on
their account."

And suppose they did: what _is_ a friend, any way? Why, something you
would do well to rid yourself of as soon as possible. There is scarcely
anything mean, sordid, contemptible, and disgusting, that an average
friend won't do without winking.

It would certainly contribute greatly to the cheerfulness of one about
to leave this "mortial wale," to feel morally certain that nobody cared
a rap about him, or was going to make any fuss just for a trifle like
that.

We must say, however, we would prefer to see our mourning friends go the
whole figure, and not visit the opera in weeds. Be jolly, but also
_look_ jolly.

The trouble seems to be, that people _will_ be sentimental; they must do
a certain amount of tribulation, "whether or no." We would not even
counsel the wearing of black diamonds. We would refrain from jet, bog,
and ebony. We would not try to grin through a disguise of skull and
bones. Be gay (and by all means _look_ gay) in spite of your departed
grandmother.

* * * * *

No Great Shakes.

It's a pity that the earthquake came too late for the census, as it
cannot now be included among our native productions.

[Illustration: RATHER MIXED.

_British Swell._ "YOU MUST THINK US YOUNG ENGLISHMEN WAWTHER WAPID
FELLOWS."

_American Friend._ "WELL--YES--RATHER VAPID."

_B. S._ "I DIDN'T SAY WAPID--I SAID WAPID: WAWTHER FAST, YOU KNOW."]

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

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 33, November 12, 1870" ***

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