Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year
1870, by the PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for
the Southern District of New York.
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD. AN ADAPTATION. BY ORFHEUS C. KERR CHAPTER XIX. THE H. AND H. OF J. BUMSTEAD. The exquisitely sweet month of the perfectly delicious
summer-vacation having come, Miss CAROWTHERS’ Young Ladies have
returned again, for a time, to their respective homes, MAGNOLIA
PENDRAGON has gone to the city and her brother, and FLORA POTTS is
ridiculously and absurdly alone. Under the ardent sun of August, Bumsteadville slowly bakes,
like an ogre’s family-dish of stuffed cottages and greens, with here
and there some slowly moving object, like a loose vegetable on a
sluggish current of tidal gravy, and the spire of the Ritualistic
church shooting-up at one end like an incorrigibly perpendicular leg of
magnified mutton. Hotter and hotter comes the breath fiery of nature’s cookery,
until some of the stuffing boils out of one cottage, in the shape of
the Oldest Inhabitant, who makes his usual annual remark, that this is
the Warmest Day in ninety-eight years, and then simmers away to some
cooler nook amongst the greens. More and more intolerably quivers the
atmosphere of the sylvan oven with stifling fervency, until there oozes
from beneath the shingled crust of a vegetarian country-boarding-house
a parboiled guest from the City, who, believing himself almost ready to
turn, drifts feebly to where the roads fork and there is a shade more
dun; while, to the speculative mind, each glowing field of corn, or
buckwheat, is an incipient Meal, and each chimney, or barn, a mere
temptation to guess how many Swallows there may be in it. Upon the afternoon of such a day as this, Miss POTTS is
informed, by a servant, that Mr. BUMSTEAD has arrived, and, sending her
his love, would be pleased to have her come down stairs to him and
bring him a fan. “Why didn’t you tell him I wasn’t at home, you absurd thing?”
cries the young girl, hurriedly practicing a series of agitated looks
and pensive smiles before her mirror. “So I did, Miss,” answers the attached menial, “but he’d seen
you looking at him with an opera-glass as he came up the path, and said
that he could hear you taking a clean handkerchief out of tho drawer,
on purpose to receive him with, before he’d got to the door.” “Oh, what shall I do? My hands are so red to-day!” sighs
FLCKA, holding her arms above her head, that the blood may retire from
the too pinkish members. After a pause, and an adjustment of a curl over her right eye
and the scarf at her waist, to make them look innocent, she yields to
the meteorological mania so strikingly prevalent amongst all the other
characters of this narrative, and says that she will receive the
visitor in the yard, near the pump. Then, casting carelessly over her
shoulder that web-like shawl without which no woman nor spider is
complete, she arranges her lips in the glass for the last time, and,
with a garden-hat hanging from the elbow latest singed, goes down,
humming un-suspiciously, into the open-air, with the guileless bearing
of one wholly unprepared for company. Resting an elbow upon a low iron patent-pump, near a rustic
seat, the Ritualistic organist, in his vast linen coat and imposing
straw hat, looks not unlike an eccentric garden statue, upon which some
prudish slave of modern conventionalities has placed the summer attire
of a western editor. The great heat of the sun upon his back makes him
irritable, and when Miss POTTS sharply smites with her fan the knuckles
of the hand which he has affably extended to take her by the chin, more
than the usual symptoms of acute inflammation appear at the end of his
nose, and he blows hurriedly upon his wounded digits. “That hurt like the mischief!” he remarks, in some anger. “I
don’t know when I’ve felt anything smart so.” “Then don’t be so horrid,” returns the pensive girl, taking a
seat before him upon the rustic settee, and abstractedly arranging her
dress so that only two-thirds of a gaiter-boot can be seen. Munching cloves, the aroma of which ladens the air all around
him, Mr. BUMSTEAD contemplates her with a calmness which would be
enthralling, but for the nervous twisting of his features under the
torments of a singularly adhesive fly. “I have come, dear,” he observes, slowly, “to know how soon
you will be ready for me to give you your next music-lesson?” “I prefer that you would not call me your ‘dear,'” was the
chilling answer. The organist thinks for a moment, and then nods his head
intelligently. “You are right,” he says, gravely, “—there might
be somebody listening who could not enter into our real feelings. And
now, how about those music-lessons?” “I don’t want any more, thank you,” says FLORA, coldly. “While
we are all in mourning for our poor, dear absurd EDDY, it seems like a
perfectly ridiculous mockery to be practicing the scales.” Fanning himself with his straw hat, Mr. BUMSTEAD shakes his
bushy head several times. “You do not discriminate sufficiently,” he
replies. “There are kinds of music which, when performed rapidly upon
the violin, fife, or kettle-drum, certainly fill the mind with
sentiments unfavorable to the deeper anguish of human sorrow. Of such,
however, is not the kind made by young girls, which is at all times a
help to the intensity of judicious grief. Let me assure you, with the
candor of an idolized friend, that some of the saddest hours of my life
have been spent in teaching you to try to sing a humorous aria from
DONIZETTI; and the moments in which I have most sincerely regretted
ever having been born were those in which you have played, in my
hearing, the Drinking-song from La Traviata. Believe me, then,
my devoted pupil, there can be nothing at all inconsistent with a
prevalence of profound melancholy in your continued piano-playing;
whereas, on the contrary, your sudden and permanent cessation might at
least surprise your friends and the neighborhood into a
light-heartedness temporarily oblivious of the memory of that dear,
missing boy, to whom you could not, I hear, give the love already
bestowed upon me.” “I loved him ridiculously, absurdly, with my whole heart,”
cries FLORA, not altogether liking what she has heard. “I’m real sorry,
too, that they think somebody has killed him.” Mr, BUMSTEAD folds his brown linen arms as he towers before
her, and the dark circles around his eyes appear to shrink with the
intensify of his gaze. “There are occasions in life,” he remarks, “when to
acknowledge that our last meeting with a friend, who has since
mysteriously disappeared, was to reject him and imply a preference for
his uncle, may be calculated to associate us unpleasantly with that
disappearance, in the minds of the censorious, and invite suspicions
tending to our early cross-examination by our Irish local magistrate. I
do not say, of course, that you actually destroyed my nephew for fear
he should try to prejudice me against you; but I cannot withhold my
earnest approval of your judicious pretence of a sentiment palpably
incompatible with the shedding of the blood of its departed object. If
you will move your dress a little, so that I can sit beside you and
allow your head to rest upon my shoulder, that fan will do for both of
us, and we may converse in whispers.” “My head upon your shoulder!” exclaims Miss POTTS,
staring swiftly about to see if anybody is looking. “I prefer to keep
my head upon my own shoulders, sir.” “Two heads are better than one,” the Ritualistic organist
reminds her. “If a little hair-oil and powder does come off
upon my coat, the latter will wash, I suppose. Come, dearest, if it is
our fate to never get through this hot day alive, let us be sunstruck
together.” She shrinks timidly from the brown linen arm which he begins
insinuating along the back of the rustic settee, and tells him that she
couldn’t have believed that he could be so absurd. He draws back his
arm, and seems hurt. “FLORA,” he says, tenderly, “how beautiful you are, especially
when fixed up. The more I see of yon, the less sorry I am that I have
concluded to be yours. All the time that my dear boy was trying to
induce you to relase him from his engagement, I was thinking how much
better you might do; yet, beyond an occasional encouraging wink, I
never gave the least sign of reciprocating your attachment. I did not
think it would be right” The assertion, though superficially true, is so imperfect in
its delineation of habitual conduct liable to another construction,
that the agitated Flowerpot returns, with quick indignation, “your arm
was always reaching out whenever you sat in a chair anywhere near me,
and whenever I sang you always kept looking straight into my mouth
until it tickled me. You know you did, you hateful thing! Besides, it
wasn’t you that I preferred, at all; it was—oh, it’s too ridiculous to
tell!” In her bashful confusion she is about to arise and trip shyly
away from him into the house, when he speaks again. “Miss POTTS, is your friendship for Miss PENDRAGON and her
brother such, that their execution upon some Friday of next month would
be a spectacle to which you could give no pleased attention?” “What do you mean, you absurd creature?” “I mean,” continues Mr. BUMSTEAD, “simply this: you know my
double loss. You know that, upon the person of the male PENDRAGON was
found an apple looking and tasting like one which my nephew once had.
You know, that when Miss PENDRAGON went from here she wore an alpaca
waist which looked as though it had been exposed more than once to the
rain.—See the point?” FLORA gives a startled look, and says: “I don’t see it.” “Suppose,” he goes on—”suppose that I go to a magistrate, and
say: ‘Judge, I voted for you, and can influence a large foreign vote
for you again. I have lost a nephew who was very fond of apples, and a
black alpaca umbrella of great value. A young Southerner, who has not
lived in this State long enough to vote, has been found in possession
of an apple singularly like the kind generally eaten by my missing
relative, and his sister has come out in a waist made of second-hand
alpaca?’—See the point now?” “Mr. BUMSTEAD,” exclaims FLORA, affrighted by the terrible
menace of his manner, “I don’t any more believe that Mr. PENDRAGON is
guilty than I, myself, am; and as for your old umbrella—” “Stop, woman!” interrupted the bereaved organist, imperiously.
“Not even your lips shall speak disrespectfully of my lost bone-handled
friend. By a chain of unanswerable argument, I have shown you that I
hold the fate of your southern acquaintances in my hands, and shall be
particularly sorry if you force me to hang Mr. PENDRAGON as a rival.” FLORA puts her hands to her temples, to soothe her throbbing
head and display a bracelet. “Oh, what shall I do! I don’t want anybody to be hung! It must
be so perfectly awful!” Her touching display of generous feeling does not soften him.
On the contrary, he stands more erect, and smiles rather triumphantly
under his straw hat. “Beloved one,” he murmurs, in a rich voice, “I find that I
cannot induce you to make the first advance toward the mutual avowal we
are both longing for, and must therefore precipitate our happiness
myself. My poor boy would not have given you perfect satisfaction, and
your momentary liking for the male PENDRAGON was but the effect of a
temporary despair undoubtedly produced by my seeming coldness. That
coldness had nothing to do with my heart, but resulted partially from
my habit of wearing a wet towel on my head. I now propose to you—” “Propose to me?” ejaculates Miss POTTS, with heightened color. “—That you pick out a worthy man belonging to your own section
of the Union,” he continues hastily. “Here’s my Heart,” he adds, going
through the motions of taking something from a pocket and placing it in
his outstretched palm, “and here’s my Hand,”—placing therein an equally
imaginary object from another pocket.—”Try the H. and H. of J.
BUMSTEAD.” His manner is as though he were commending some patent article
of unquestionable utility. “But I can’t bear the sight of you!” she cries, pushing away
the brown linen arm coming after her again. Taking away her fan, he pats her on the head with it, and
seems momentarily surprised at the hollow sound. “Future Mrs. BUMSTEAD,” he cheerfully replies, at last, “my
observation and knowledge of the women of America teach me that there
never was a wife going to Indiana for a divorce, who had not at first
sworn to love, as well as honor and obey, her husband. Such is woman
that if she had felt and said at the altar that she couldn’t bear the
sight of him, it wouldn’t have been in the power of masculine brutality
and dissipated habits to drive her from his side through all their
lives. There can be no better sign of our future happiness, than for
you to say, beforehand, that you utterly detest the man of your choice.” There is something terrible to the young girl in the original
turn of thought of this fascinating man. Say what she may, he at once
turns it into virtual devotion to himself. He appears to have a
perfectly dreadful power to hang everybody; he considers her strongest
avowal of present personal dislike the most promising indication she
can give of eternal future infatuation with him, and his powerful mode
of reasoning is more profound and composing than an article in a New
York newspaper on a War in Europe. Rendered dizzy by his metaphysical
conversation, she arises from the rustic seat, and is flying giddily
into the house, when he leaps athletically after her, and catches her
in the doorway. “I merely wish to request,” he says, quietly, “that you place
sufficient restraint upon your naturally happy feelings to keep our
engagement a secret from the public at present, as I can’t bear to have
boys calling out after me, ‘There’s the feller that’s goin’ to get
married! There’s the feller that’s goin’ to get married!’ When a man is
about to make a fool of himself, it is not for children to remind him
of it.” The door being opened before she can answer, FLORA receives a
parting bow of Grandisonian elegance from Mr. BUMSTEAD, and hastens up
stairs to her room in a distraction of mind not uncommon to those
having conversational relations with the Ritualistic organist. (To be Continued.)
A GOOD FIGHT. We presume that all the Boston people “lecture” at times; at
any rate they could, if they wanted to. No one doubts their ability. But, let the number of these imparters of information be ever
so great, we have reason to doubt whether any other of these
accomplished parties has grappled with so formidable, so tremendous a
subject, as that which is now exciting the powerful mind of Miss
LILLIAN EDGARTON. She is going to do it, though! If her life is spared, and her
constitution remains free from blight, (both of which felicities we
trust will be hers,) that subject has got to come under. That all may know how great is the task, and the confidence
required to pitch into it, we announce, with a flourish, that Miss L.
E. is about to attack that well-known Saurian Monster, termed GOSSIP!
Considered as a Disease, she proposes to find the Cause and the Cure.
Considered as a living and gigantic Nuisance (by far surpassing any
Dragon described by SPENSER,) she designs to hunt him out and slay him
incontinently. Courage, fair Knight! Our eldest Son is kept in reserve for
some such Heroine! If you would be famous, if you would make a perfect
thing of this Crusade, if you would render the lives of your fellow
mortals longer and happier, if you would win that noble and ingenuous
youth, our son, go in vehemently! And, while you are about it, LILLIAN, would you object to
giving your attention to certain relations of the monster which you
propose to slay? We name them, Detraction and Calumny. They are tough
old Dragons, now, we tell you; perhaps it were best to fight shy of
them. We have it, LILLIAN! Leave ’em to us! Us, with a big U! You
kill little Gossip, and see how quick his brothers and sisters will
fall, before our mighty battle-axe! (And so they will fall, sure enough, but it will be simply
because when our dear young knight, L.E., has killed her
Dragon, she will have wiped out the whole brood! They can’t live
without their sweet and attractive little sister. And so, like many a
bigger humbug, we shall take great credit, that belongs to somebody
else, and assume to have done big things, at enormous expense of blood
and money. Trust us, for that!)
NAPOLEON III AT SEDAN. September, 1870. I was an Emperor. Voilà
c’est bon!
BAZAINE, MACMAHON,
fought—’twas my affair.
Only, to please my doctor,
NELATON,
I left the throne, to take a
Sedan chair.
Unlimited Lie-Ability. Veritas writes to say that as he was crossing the ferry
from Wall Street to Brooklyn, yesterday afternoon, he counted 117
persons reading PUNCHINELLO. He did not observe a single copy of the Sun
on board, until the boat neared Brooklyn, when a man of squalid
appearance produced from a dirty newspaper some soiled articles, all of
which seemed to have been steeped in Lye, from contact with the sheet,
which proved to be the Sun.
A Con for the “Ninth.” What is there in common between Colonel FISK’S war-horse and a
New York Ice Company? Both are tremendous Chargers.
THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.  ere I am again,
back from the seashore, to find the theatres opening, the war closing,
and GREELEY burning to imitate the late French Emperor, by leading the
Republican hosts to defeat in the Fall campaign, so as to be in a
position to write to the Germanically named HOFFMAN—”As I cannot fall,
ballot in hand, at the head of my repeaters, I surrender to your
victorious Excellency.”
Being back, I went to see Julius Cæsar at
NIBLO’S Garden. It was the day when the French CAESER fell, and the
impertinent soothsayer, ROCHEFORT, who had so often advised him to
beware, not of the Ides of March, but of the Idées
Napoléoniennes, (there is a feeble attempt at a pun here)
obtained his liberty, and the right to assail in his newspaper, the
virtue of every female relative of the Imperial family. Of course I
know that JULIUS CÆSAR was not a Frenchman—for the modesty of his
“Commentaries” is proverbial—and that SHAKESPEARE never so much as
heard of the Man of December. Nevertheless the two CÆSARS were
inextricably mixed up in my mind. I know that two or three editorial
persons who sat close by me, were continually talking of NAPOLEON, and
I may possibly have confounded their remarks with those of the actors.
Still I could not divest myself of the impression that I was sometimes
in Paris and sometimes in Rome, and that the sepulchral voice of Mr.
THEODORE HAMILTON, was more often that of NAPOLEON than that of JULIUS.
The play presents itself to my recollection in the following shape. As
I said before, it was represented at the very moment that the French
republicans, being satisfied with the bees in their respective bonnets,
were obliterating the imperial bees from the doors of the Tuileries,
and being anxious to take arms against a sea of Prussians, were taking
down the imperial arms wherever they could find them. Remembering this,
the reader will be able to account for any slight difference in text
between my Julius Cæsar, and that of the respectable and
able Mr. SHAKESPEARE. ACT I.—Enter various Irish Roman Citizens, flourishing the
shillelahs of the period. 1ST. CITIZEN. “Here’s a row. Great CÆSAR is going to
march to Berlin. Hooray for the Hemperor.” 1ST EDITORIAL PERSON. “I grant you he was popular when the war
began, but to-day the people despise him.” CASSIUS. “I hate this CÆSAR. Once he tried to swim
across the British Channel with a tame eagle on his shoulder, and
couldn’t do it. When he is sick he takes anti-bilious pills, like any
other man. Obviously he don’t deserve to live.” CASCA. (Who is fat enough to know better, and not pretend
to be discontented.) “Let’s kill him and break all the glass in the
windows of Paris.” BRUTUS. “My friend, those who live in stone houses should
never throw glass about. I don’t mean anything by this, but it sounds
oracular, and will make people think I am a profound philosopher.” EDITORIAL PERSON. “What I say is this. He, CÆSAR,
governed the Roman rabble vastly better than they deserved. His only
mistakes were, in not sending CASSIUS, who was a sort of ROCHEFORT,
without ROCHEFORT’S cowardice, to the galleys, and in not sending
BRUTUS as Minister to some capital so dreary that he would have shot
himself as soon as he reached his destination.” ACT II.—Enter BRUTUS and fellow radicals. BRUTUS. “I have no complaint against CÆSAR, and I
therefore gladly join your noble band of assassins. We will kill him
and establish a provisional government with myself at its head.
CÆSAR is ambitious, and I hate ambition. All I want is to be the
ruler of Rome.” CASSIUS. “Come, my brave fellows. Haste to the stabbing. Away!
Away!” EDITORIAL PERSON. “What a farce is history. Here are
PUMBLECHOOK, BRUTUS and JOHN WILKES CASSIUS held up as models of
excellence and integrity. What did they and their fellow scoundrels do
after they had killed CÆSAR, but desolate their country with
civil war?” ACT III.—Enter ASSASSINS headed by BRUTUS and
GAMBETTA, CASSIUS and ROCHEFORT. CASSIUS. “Here is CÆSAR with his back toward us,
fighting the German’s hordes. Let us steal up and stab him before he
can help himself.” (They stab him.) CASSIUS. “Now we will kick his wife out of Paris and smash his
furniture. We will all become a Provisional Government, and fix
everything to suit ourselves. I will revive my newspaper, and hire a
staff from the New York Sun, who will make it more scurrilous
than ever.” Enter the Parisian populace crying, “Hooray for
CÆSAR.” CASSIUS. “Hush. CÆSAR is dead, and we are going to
proclaim a republic. Begin and abuse him with all your might. We’ll let
you smash some windows presently.” POPULACE. “Hooray. The tyrant has fallen. Let’s go and insult
his wife and smash everything generally.” 1ST EDITORIAL PERSON. “Yesterday these precious rascals voted
for him. To-day they insult him—it being safe to do so—and to-morrow
they will want him back again.” 2ND EDITORIAL PERSON, “There lies the ruins of the noblest
nephew of his uncle that ever lived in France or elsewhere. He was
unscrupulous, I admit, but he knew how to rule. Shall we stay and hear
MARK ANTONY praise him, and set the fickle rabble at the throats of
ROCHEFORT and BRUTUS, and their gang?” 1ST EDITORIAL PERSON. “That will take place very shortly, but
I can’t wait for it. I must go home to write an editorial welcoming the
new republic, and prophesying all manner of success for it. The
American people like that sort of trash, though they have already twice
seen the French try republican institutions only to make a muddle of
them.” 2ND EDITORIAL PERSON. “What do you think of the actors here at
NIBLO’S.” 1ST EDITORIAL PERSON. “DAVENPORT is good but heavy, BARRETT
rants like a raving French radical. MONTGOMERY is excellent, and the
rest are so so.” And the undersigned having seen the French revolution played
on the Roman stage at NIBLO’S, also went home without waiting to see
the prophetic fourth and fifth acts, in which the conspirators come to
grief, and the empire is reëstablished. We shall read all about it
in the cable dispatches a few months hence. Good Heavens! who can
listen calmly to the speeches of the players, while the grandest drama
of the century is acting across the sea, where a mad populace, freed
from the firm grasp of its master, breaks windows and howls itself
hoarse as the best preparations for holding the fairest of cities
against the resistless veterans of VON MOLTKE. MATADOR.
Insurrectionary. PUNCHINELLO, pondering over the vast sums that have been
forwarded to Cuba, in aid of the insurrectionary movements there, and
struck with the disadvantages under which the promoters of liberty
labor in that sunny isle, blesses his stars that, thanks to the
enterprise of Miss SUSAN B. ANTHONY, he can raise a Revolution
in New York City, at any time, for ten cents. Let those whom it may
concern take heed.
Bluff King Bill. L.N. declared his determination to kick old King BILLY, of
Prussia, off from French territory. Well, it would only have been a new
illustration of “footing the Bill.”
Query. As soon as the abominable fat-boiling nuisances have been
abolished, will it be right to say that they have fallen into de-suet-ude?
A Seasonable Conundrum. Why is New York City like the ex-Emperor of the French?
Because it has just got rid of its Census.
A Suggestion. In consideration of the splendid jewels worn by him, might not
Colonel JIM FISK be more appropriately called Colonel GEM FISK.
 THE SPIRIT OF THE WAR. A Sketch In the Bowery. Small Frenchman. “WHAT FOR YOU HIT ME WITH YOUR DAMBABY
VEN YOU PASS?” Big German. “WANTS TO FIGHT?—DINKS YOU CAN WHIP ME, EH?” Small Frenchman. “NO—BUT I CAN GIVE YOUR DAMBABY ONE
BLACK EYE!”
BY GEORGE! LAKE GEORGE, August 30. DEAR PUNCHINELLO:—I arrived here last Saturday, and as I would
be the last person to allow a commendable enterprise to languish for
want of proper encouragement, and in order to put the Hotel proprietors
out of suspense, I thought I would let you know without further delay
that I consider Lake George a success. Not being expected, as I supposed, I must admit I was somewhat
gratified to find a full band playing on the veranda as the coach I was
in drove up. It was a sort of delicate attention, you know. I notice, however, that they continue playing in the afternoon
since then, I suppose it struck them as a good idea at the time. The Fort William Henry Hotel is a gorgeous affair in every
respect. It is situated very near the old original Fort, just where the
French troops advanced to capture it, and made their celebrated charges. Perhaps the present proprietor can’t discount them at that
sort of thing. Perhaps not! Looking over one’s bills reminds you a good deal of the Police
Courts, five dollars fine, twenty-five dollars costs. The costs they make here are very good, however, altho’ they
do put a little too much mint in them, I must say. L.G. is all right, though. It is supplied with all the modern
conveniences. It isn’t within five minutes walk of the post office, but
its water conveniences are apparent to all. There is no end to its
belles, and as for its ranges, it has two of them—both Adirondacks. Yesterday I took a trip up the Lake and across to its
neighbor, Champlain. Everybody takes this trip because its “the thing,” and it is
therefore particularly necessary to take it. Ostensibly, you go to view
the scenery, really, to be inveigled into paying for a low comedy of a
dinner at the other end. The first place our boat stopped at is called the “Trout
Pavillion,” principally, so far as I can learn, on account of the
immense number of pickerel caught there, and from the fact that it is
unquestionably a good site for a Pavillion whenever the esteemed
Proprietor turns up jacks enough, at his favorite game, to build one. The next place was set down in the Guide Book as the “Three
Sisters” Islands, an appellation arising from the fact that there are
precisely four of them. I mentioned this apparent discrepancy to the boat clerk. This young man, who belongs to a Base Ball Club, informs me
that these islands invariably travelled with a “substitute,” as one
occasionally got “soaked.” This certainly seems a little curious, but as the young man
says he was born here, I suppose he knows. This same young man pointed out a beautiful spot called Green
Island and asked me if I wouldn’t like to live there. He said he thought it would just suit me. The attention of these people is really delightful. Some of these places, however, have very inappropriate names,
for instance another little gem is called “Hog Island.” No one knows
why it was so called. The clerk of the boat don’t either. He wanted to know if I had ever dined there. I always make it a point to get on the right side of these
Steamboat fellows, always. About half way up the Lake is a place called Tongue Mountain. A long time ago a colony of strong-minded women settled there. That may have had something to do with its name. Nobody ever goes there now. People go very near the mountain in boats, however, as it is
noted for something very extraordinary in the Echo line. It has what is called a “Double Echo.” I fully expected something of this kind. Now if there is anything I am particularly down on, it is
those unmitigated frauds known as Echoes. And if I ever throw four
sixes, it is when I am tackling some unsuspecting old ass of a watering
place echo. I consider them “holler mockeries.” Of course we steamed within proper distance, and I seized the
opportunity to “put a head on” this venerable two-ply nuisance, as
follows: First, I read a page of a Patent Office Report I go armed with. This the Echo, with very little hesitation, repeated in
duplicate as usual. From one side of the rock in English, and from the
other in fair French. I saw at once that old EK was pretty well filled. Next I sang “Listen to the Mocking Bird,” which it repeated
very creditably indeed, dropping but two notes on the third verse. This
it made up for, I am bound to admit, by throwing in some original
variations in the chorus. But I hadn’t played from my sleeve yet, so I recited HAMLET’S
Soliloquy. From the wooded slope on our right came the familiar “To be”
of BOOTH, while from the sloping woods on our left proceeded a finely
rendered imitation of the Teutonic FECHTER, in the same. This staggered me! I had one more jack in my cuff, however. I pulled out a copy
of the Tribune and read a few paragraphs of GREELEY’S “What do I know
about Farming.” That settled him! He never got to the first semi-colon. It knocked the breath
right out of him! The poor old fossil had to quit. He changed his repeater to a
leaver. But then you see he had held the office a good while. He hasn’t left the business to any one, either. In future no one will go fooling round there except the
fishermen. The sign is down. In my next I will finish the Lake trip, and give you some
account of the celebrated “Roger’s Slide.” SAGINAW DODD. [To be continued.]
RAMBLINGS. BY MOSE SKINNER. POPULARITY. Next to talk, popularity is the cheapest thing I know of. It
is achieved by three classes—those who have brains, those who have
money, and those who have neither. The first earn it; the second buy
it; and the third stumble into it, perhaps by waving their hat at an
engineer just in time to prevent the train from dashing over a
precipice, or by chopping off somebody’s head with a meat axe and
burning the remains up afterwards, in which case the next day’s paper
gives a faithful account of their pedigree, and their photograph can be
purchased at any respectable news-dealers, at a price within reach of
all. The most common-place sayings of popular men are handed down
to posterity, and a casual remark about the weather is often framed and
hung up in the spare-bedroom. It behooves every public man to keep a sentence or two on
hand, with a view to embalming them for future reference. I wish to
state, in confidence, that if any prominent man who can’t think of
anything that sounds well, will address me, I will furnish him at the
low price of one dollar a sentence. My stock is entirely fresh and
original, and embraces such gems as—”Don’t give up the ship,” “Such is
Life,” “How’s this for high?” “I die happy,” “A stitch in time saves
nine,” &c., &c. I am also prepared to furnish “last words of eminent men,” at
a moderate compensation. General GRANT has taken time by the forelock in this matter.
His “Let us have Peace,” was a most brilliant effort, because nobody
ever thought of it before. “I propose to move on your works
immediately, if it takes all summer,” was also a happy thought. When General GRANT was in Boston he said he liked the way they
made gravy in Massachusetts. Now this in itself would not, perhaps, be
called deep, because others have said the same thing before, but,
coming from a man like GRANT, it set folks to thinking, and it is not
surprising that something of this sort went the rounds: We have the best authority for
stating that General GRANT, during his recent visit to Boston, remarked
that he was gratified at the manner in which gravy was produced in
Massachusetts. Our talented Chief Magistrate is a man of few words, but
what he does say is spicy, and to the point.” At the Peace Jubilee, GRANT said he “liked the cannon best;”
but the reporters, being confidentially informed that the remark wasn’t
intended for posterity, it didn’t get out much. I didn’t hear of his
saying anything else. If a popular man takes cold, the whole public sneeze. His
opinions must go into the papers any how, though perhaps no better than
anybody’s else. Thus—from a daily paper: “The Hon. MONTGOMERY BLAIR recently
said in a private conversation, that the present war would probably end
in victory for the Prussians, and the overthrow of Napoleon.” Supposing he did? I heard JOHN SMITH say the same thing in an
eating saloon over a month ago, and out of twenty gentlemen present,
four were reporters, but they didn’t take out their note books in
breathless haste and put down the Hon. JOHN SMITH’S opinion, how Mr.
SMITH looked when he said it, and if he said it as though he really
meant it, and in a manner that thrilled his listeners. But JOHN hasn’t any popularity, you see, and the Hon.
MONTGOMERY has—though it may be a little mildewed. Soon after the war, I wrote an article on the Alabama Claims.
It was a masterly effort, and cost me a month’s salary to get it
inserted in a popular magazine. If that article had proved a success, I
could easily have gulled the public all my life on the popularity thus
achieved. But I made a wretched mistake to start with. Instead of
heading it “The Alabama Claims,” “By CHARLES SUMNER,” or “HORACE
GREELEY.” I said “By MOSE SKINNER.” I will not dwell on the result. Suffice it to say that I soon
after retired from literature, a changed being, utterly devoid of hope. MORAL SUASION. A friend of mine, an eminent New York philanthropist, relates
the following interview with a condemned criminal. The crime for which
this wretched man was hung is still fresh in our memories. One morning
at breakfast his tripe didn’t suit him, and he immediately brained his
wife and children and set the house on fire, varying the monotony of
the scene by pitching his mother-in-law down the well, having
previously, with great consideration, touched her heart with a cheese
knife. I will now quote my friends’ own words: “He was pronounced a hard case, manifesting no sorrow for his
act, and utterly indifferent to his approaching doom. A score of good
people had visited him with the kindest intentions, but without making
the smallest impression upon him. “Without boasting, I wish to say that I knew I could touch
this man’s heart. I saw a play once in which the most blood-thirsty and
brutal ruffian that ever existed was melted to tears at the mention of
his mother’s name, and childhood’s happy hours, and everybody knows
that what happens on the stage happens just the same in real life. “I naturally congratulated myself on having seen this play,
for it gave me power to cope with this relentless disposition. “He resisted all attempts at conversation, however, in the
most dogged manner, barely returning surly monosyllables to my anxious
wishes for his well being. “At last, laying my hand on his shoulder, and throwing
considerable pathos into my voice, I said: “My friend, it was not always thus with you. There was a time
when you sat upon your mother’s knee, and gathered buttercups and
daisies?” “Ah! I had touched the right chord at last. His brow
contracted and his lips twitched convulsively.” “And when that mother put you in your little bed,” I
continued, “she kissed you, and hoped you would grow up a—” “You lie,” said he, “she didn’t. The old woman was six foot
under ground afore I could chaw. Now, look a here, you’re the fourth
chap that’s tried the ‘mother’ dodge on me. Why don’t you fellers” he
added with a malicious grin, “go back on the mother business, and give
the old man a chance, jest for a change?” “After the above scurvy treatment I was naturally anxious to
witness the man’s funeral, which I understood was to be a gorgeous
affair, six respectably-attired females having been sworn in to kiss
the body, amid the hysteric weeps of three more in the background.”
 PRACTICAL. Housewife. “VAKE YOU UP, HANS—HERE’S ANODER BRUSSIAN
VICTORY.” Hans, (dreamily.) “ANODER BRUSSIAN VICTORY?—DEN LET US
HAVE ANODER BRUSSIAN BIER.”
Hot and Cold. The sensational paragraph writers had better “let up” on the
question of an imminent dearth of ice. There is no real probability
that we shall be without ice before winter sets in. It is only for the
purpose of keeping us in hot water that the newspaper men say we shan’t
have cold water.
 NOT JUST YET! Mr. Greeley. “PRAY, TAKE A SEAT, MR. WOODFORD; I
WOULDN’T ON ANY ACCOUNT DEPRIVE YOU,” etc., etc. Mr. Woodford. “No! NO!—TAKE IT YOURSELF, MR. GREELEY;
THE LAST THING I SHOULD THINK OF WOULD BE,” etc., etc. Governor Hoffman. “DON’T TROUBLE YOURSELVES, GENTLEMEN:
I SHALL PROBABLY CONTINUE TO OCCUPY THE CHAIR FOR A COUPLE OF YEARS,
YET.”
COMIC ZOOLOGY. Genus, Phoca.—The Seal. This is the common name of the inoffensive and fur-bearing
members of the Phocidæ family. The word seal is derived,
radically, from the German Siegel, so that to say a man has
“fought mit SIEGEL,” is equivalent to remarking that he has assailed a
harmless and timid seal. The Phocidæ, without distinction of sex, are known as
Mammafers, although it would manifestly be more correct to call the
males Papafers. Under the present classification, the confusion of
genders necessarily engenders confusion. Unless AGASSIZ is gassing us, the true seal has no sign of an
ear, wherefore the deafening roar of the surf in which it delights to
sport is probably no inconvenience to it. As distinguished from dumb
beasts in general, it may properly be called a deaf and dumb animal.
The false seal, on the contrary, has as true an ear as e’er was seen.
To the counterfeits belong the sea lion, the Mane specimen of the tribe
in the Arctic sea, and the sea leopard, which seems to be phocalized in
the Antarctic circle. All the varieties of the seal seek concealment in
caverns, and their Hides are much sought after. Sealing was at one time chiefly monopolized by adventurous New
Englanders, who combined the pursuit with whaling, but at present the
sealers of Salt Lake bear off the palm from all competitors, both as
regards numbers and hardihood. Whether they combine whaling with
sealing is not positively known, but probably they do. Such is the
universal passion for sealing among the people of that region, that the
old men act like Young men when engaged in this exciting occupation. The Phocidæ appear to have attracted the attention of
Mankind at a very early period—Seals being frequently spoken of in the
Scriptures. St. JOHN witnessed the opening of no less than seven
varieties, and must have been well acquainted with their internal
structure. The earless, or true species, are often seen in considerable
numbers on the British coast, and the Great Seal of England—only to be
found in the vicinity of the Thames—is of such remarkable size and
weight, that it never makes its appearance without producing a strong
Impression. The Green Seal, a much admired variety, is peculiar to
Madeira, and seals of various colors are often seen in close proximity
to the British. Ports; the number taken off Cork being prodigious. None of the animals of the Phoca genus are tenacious of life.
They may readily be destroyed with sealing whacks. A large stick
properly applied has been known to seal the fate of a dozen in the
space of half an hour. KANE knocked them over without difficulty, and
they never attempt to defend themselves, according to PANEY. In conclusion, it may be remarked that immense herds of seals
cover the coasts of Alaska. It is nevertheless difficult to catch a
glimpse of them, on account of the enormous flocks of humming birds,
which darken the air in that genial clime. Occasionally, however, the
Arctic zephyrs disperse the feathery cloud, and then vast numbers of
the timid creatures, with a sprinkling of the Walrus, may be seen by
looking in a Se(a)ward direction.
A LITTLE ACKNOWLEDGMENT. The Free (and Easy) Press has honored PUNCHINELLO with
a brief as well as premature obituary paragraph. Flattered as he is by
being thus noticed in the columns of a journal of the long standing and
well sustained popularity of the Free (and Easy) Press, it
pains PUNCHINELLO to be obliged to state that he still lives, and that
he is not only alive, but kicking. That he has come to an end, is
true—but it is to the end of his First Volume, as the F. (and E.)
Press can see by turning to the admirably written, dashing,
humorous, and absolutely unsurpassable Index appended to our present
number, which Index PUNCHINELLO cordially recommends to the perusal of
the F. (and E.) Press. The Preface to his Second Volume,
however, which is now in preparation, will, PUNCHINELLO confidently
assures the F. (and E.) Press, be altogether superior to the
Index to his First. Let the F. (and E.) Press look out for it.
But, meanwhile, the F. (and E.) Press can cheer itself by
frequent contemplation of the entertaining personage who serves as
tail-piece to the Index, and whose gesture is of that familiar and
suggestive kind that will doubtless be thoroughly understood by the F.
(and E.) Press, and, as PUNCHINELLO hopes, fully appreciated.
 “HUMPTY DUMPTY SAT ON THE WALL,
HUMPTY DUMPTY HAD A GREAT FALL.” AND IT HE HAD FALLEN AMONG THE PRUSSIANS, ONLY, IT MIGHTN’T
HAVE BEEN SO BAD FOR HIM; BUT, AS HE ALSO FELL UPON FRENCH BAYONETS, IT
IS QUITE CERTAIN THAT HE CAN NEVER GET UP AGAIN.
HIRAM GREEN IN WALL STREET. His Celebrated Speech before the Board or Brokers.—A few Words
of Sound Advice from the Squire. Doorin’ a breef sojern in the Emperor City, a deputation of
Wall Street brokers and smashers called and invited me to make a speech
afore the members of their church, whose Sin-agog is situated
in Brod Street. Thinks I, if I can make these infatuated worshippers of the
Golden Calf, Mammon, see the error of their ways and take a back track,
me thunk my chances for the White House would be full as flatterin’ as
Sisters WOODHUL, GEORGIANA FRANCIS TRAIN, or any other woman, in ’72. Layin’ off my duster, and adjustin’ my specturcals, at the
appinted hour, I slung the follerin’ extemperaneous remarks at ’em: My infatuated friends and Goverment Bondmen: As an ex-statesman which has served his country for 4 years as
Gustise of the Peece, raisin’ said offis to a hire standard than usual,
to say nothin’ about raisin’ an interestin’ family of eleven morril an
hily intellectooal children, I rise and git up, ontramelled by any
politikle alliances, to say: that when you fellers git on a mussy fit,
like the old woman who undertook to pick her chickens by runnin’ them
through a patent hash cutter, you make the feathers fly, and leave your
victims in a hily clawed up stait. Perfesser ARKIMIDEES, of Oxford, (and here allow me to stait,
so as to avoid newspaper contraryversy, as in the case of DISRALLY’S
novel Lothere, I have no refference to T. GOLDWIN SMITH whatsomever,
as I believe ARKIMIDEES is now dead,) said he could raise the hul earth
with a top section of a rale fence, if he could only find something
tangible to rest his timber on. My friends, that man had never heerd of Wall Street, and I’de
bet all the money I can borrer on it. With such a prop as this ere little territory, where games of
chance are “entered into accordin’ to the act of Congress,” to cote
from a familiar passage in every printed copy of PUNCHINELLO, the
Perfesser could have raised this little hemisfeer quicker than any of
you chaps can gobble up a greenhorn. And, sirs, I’me sorry to be obliged to speak plain, it would
be a darned site more to your credit if you’d try and raise the earth,
instead of daily usin’ Wall Street as a base of operations to raise
H—-, well—excuse me, the futer asilum for retired brokers. How do you manage, when you want to make a steak? You run up stocks and produce a crysis. Outsiders rush in lickety smash, and invest all the money they
can rake and scrape, in these inflated stocks. Suddenly you prick the
bubble, when, alas! besides the cry-sis, there’s more cry-bubs in and
about Wall Street than there was in Egipt, when NAPOLEON BONAPART
chopped off the heads off all the first born. Instances have been
known, where a good many of you chaps have rammed your head in the
Tiger’s mouth once too often. If my memry serves me correctly, FISKE and GOOLD made you
perambulate off on your eyebrows, last fall, and while the a-4-said
Tigers walked off with the seats of your trowserloons in their teeth,
you all jined in the follerin’ him: Wall Street is all a fleetin’ sho’,
From which lame ducks are
driven,
“Up in a balloon they allers
go,
To Tophet, not to Heaven.” Another little dodge of your’n, my misguided friends, is to
keel off K. VANDERBILT. What did you do t’other day? Why, when KERNELIUS was engaged in a friendly game of cards
for keeps, up at Saratogy, some poor deluded money-maniac
telegrafs that the Commodore had at last found his match, and had been
gathered to his fathers. While at the bottom of the dispatch was forged
the name of my friend, KISSLEBURGH, city editor of the Troy Times,
who, up to the present time, if this coot knows herself, hain’t bin
into the hiway robbin’ bizziness, not by a long shot. But, my friends
and feller citizens, old VAN is sharper that a two-edged gimlet. When he lays down his wallet among a lot of other calf skins,
like a great sponge in a puddle of water, it sucks every square inch of
legal tender, which is in suckin’ distance. For a regler 40 hoss power suction, K. VANDERBILT is your man.
I ones thought I could never take a locker to this ‘ere honest old
heart, but as I cast my gaze over this audience, and observe among the
Bulls and Bears, a cuple of Dears, I will retract that, payin’ in the
follerin’ Jew de spree: Come rest on this buzzum,
Oh! butiful broker,
With your arms clinchin’ tite,
This innercent choker. I’le stand it from thee,
If you’ll never go near,
The Bulls and the Bears,
When HIRAM is here. (This impromtu poetikism, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, kicked up quite a
little breeze, in the midst of which the pretty brokers blushed and
looked so bewitchin’ like, that it was enuff to make a feller throw
stuns at K. VANDERBILT if the pretty Dears only wanted him to.) I agin resoomed: My infatuated friends; afore I wind up, let me give you a few
partin’ words of advice. Give up this ‘ere gamblin’ bizziness. When you run up gold it
hits the hul mercantile body of this nation a wipe in the stummuck. A
good many little cubs, as well as a few ole Bears, have been gobbled up
by your confounded efforts at runnin’ up gold, while you grin and
chuckle like the laffin’ hyena, when ransackin’ Navy Yards and whisky
distilleries. But, if you insist on goin’ ahead and earnin’ your daily
peck by smashin’ things and layin’ out the onsofisticated, all I have
got to say is, that next time you’ve got a sure thing to make a
speck, by telegrafin’ me at Skeensboro, I won’t mind comin’ down and
takin’ a hand in, if my pocketin’ a few hundred thousands will be the
means of betterin’ your morrils, by my sharin’ your burden. In
concloosion, feller citizens, feelin’ in rather a poetical mood to-day,
I will close with the follerin’ tribute to Wall Street and its
inhabitants: “Imperious
SEIZER, dead, and turned to cla,
Mite stop a hole to keep the wind
away;”
Onless from Wall Street, was
blowin’ raw.
The tempestous breezes, from a
broker’s flaw. Amid tumultous cheers, and a general rushin’ to DELMONICO’S,
where Wall Street waters her stock, (of lickers,) I sot down. Ewers, without a dowt, HIRAM GREEN, Esq., Lait Gustise of the Peece.
Stage By-play. A sporting paper gives the following item: “Two nines, composed of members of BOOTH’S, WALLACK’S and the
Olympic theatrical companies, played an interesting game of base-ball
at the Union base-ball grounds, last week.” Imagine Sir HARCOURT COURTLEY batting splendidly to DIEDRICK
VAN BEEKMAN’S pitching; or picture Major DE BOOTS waiting patiently on
the short stop for a chance to put Captain ABSOLUTE out on his second
base. The experience of these gentlemen before the footlights may have
made them light-footed, but from mere force of habit they are all
pretty sure to be caught out in the “flies.”
Professional. “They may talk about nines,” said the Doctor, when base-ball
was the subject under discussion. “They may talk about their nines; but
I know of a nine that would lay them all out in double-quick time, and
it is called Strychnine.”
A FECULENT NUISANCE. Persons passing along Nassau Street, between Ann and Beekman
Streets, for some days past, have had their olfactories unpleasantly
assailed by a vile stench. On investigation by officers of the Board of
Health, the foul odor was found to exhale from the premises of 113
Nassau Street. Further examination disclosed the fact that the nuisance
arose from a quantity of Dead Rabbits deposited on the premises by one
JAMES O’BRIEN, for purposes best known to himself. It is said that the
entire concern is to be handed over to the New York Rendering Company,
for conversion into the kind of tallow used for the manufacture of the
cheapest kind of rush-lights.
The Greatest Joke of the Season. The idea of nominating JAMES O’BRIEN for the office of Mayor
of the City of New York. But it cannot be called a practical joke.
 “IT WAS IN THE CHAMPAGNE COUNTRY THAT LOUIS NAPOLEON CAME TO
GRIEF. THE FIZZ OF THE CHAMPAGNE WAS TOO MUCH FOR HIM, AND HE FIZZLED.”—(Letter
from a War Correspondent.)
PUNCHINELLO AS A “SAVANT.” MR. PUNCHINELLO: I have always taken a profound interest in
Science. When a child my fond parents observed in me a decided taste
for Entomology, the wings and legs of butterflies and grasshoppers
being the objects of my special investigation. As a school-boy I
obtained (despite the frequent closing of my visual organs)
considerable Insight into Physical Science in the course of numerous
pugilistic encounters. A close Application to Optics at that time
enabled me to get some Light on the Subject. I was quite a phenomenon in Astronomy. While yet an unweaned
infant I made numerous observations on the Milky Way, and when learning
to walk frequently saw stars undiscernable with the most powerful
telescope. Since my arrival at man’s estate I have frequently
experimented on the Elasticity of the Precious Metals, but have
generally found it extremely difficult to make both ends meet. Considering, therefore, that I had as just a claim to be
called scientific, as many who pretend to be Savants, I
determined to attend the late Scientific Convention at Troy. My
reception was most gratifying. On presenting my credentials to the
Convention, that learned body welcomed me with open arms, and I was
escorted to a place among the members by its distinguished head. Some of the speculations of these eminent philosophers were
exceedingly profound, and it is really wonderful, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, to
what an extent theory may be carried in the advance of science. Mr. GOOSEFELT read a learned and original paper—carefully
compiled from various sources—on the Steam Engine, in the course of
which he stated that his great aunt, who had been blown up on the first
steamboat that ever went down in the Mississippi, during the great
Earthquake of 1811, was still living. Also, that his godfather, the
celebrated Mr. NICODEMUS, assisted (probably in the interests of
science) in pulling down the statue of GEORGE III in the Bowling Green.
The importance of these two facts cannot be over-estimated, as they
will undoubtedly give a tremendous impulse to the wheels of science. Professor GREYWACKE, the eminent Geologist, delivered an
address on Natural Petrifactions, indicating the various specimens of
Ancient Fossils by which he was surrounded, and describing their
formation. The audience was probably Petrified with astonishment at the
immense learning and research he displayed, for it observed a Stony
silence, only interrupted by an occasional snore. A brilliant paper on the Illuminating Power of Gas was read by
Professor M.T. HEAD. It was a most Luminous production, and proved
conclusively that an immense expenditure of gas sometimes throws very
little Light on any Subject. The Professor is thoroughly versed in
Meters, and is the author of the “Volume of Gas” which has attracted so
much attention in the scientific world. Professor SUETT addressed the Scientists on the Effect of
Tallow upon Ox(h)ides. From certain experiments made by him it appears
that the Oleaginous principle is incompatible with Water, and
unfavorable to the action of rust. A member was of the opinion that this important discovery
might be turned to great practical advantage, as the application of
cart grease to rusty iron axles might possibly facilitate the rotary
motion of the wheels. This novel and valuable suggestion was hailed with shouts of
applause, and the thanks of the Convention were immediately voted to
the distinguished member, whose name I have unfortunately forgotten. Professor HYDRAGE read an Essay on the Transit of Mercury,
which he said would take place in the form of a Bed Precipitate in
1878. It may possibly take place before then, however, as the Faculty
of Medicine are said to be rapidly abandoning the use of calomel. The State Conchologist read an extremely interesting
disquisition on the Oyster, which was divided into sections and
literally devoured by the audience. He also exhibited some Specimens of
Conchs, which were regular Sneezers in point of size. An announcement which was made by the distinguished
Astronomer, Professor LOONEY, created a most profound sensation. He stated that with the aid of a powerful telescope he had
discovered an immense Fissure in the Moon. He was quite positive that
he had also observed a Man in the Gap. Although unable to distinguish
the features of this individual, he thought it might possibly be JAMES
STEPHENS, the missing Fenian Head Centre. When the excitement consequent upon this startling
announcement had subsided, I rose and addressed the Convention as
follows: “Ladies and Gentlemen: I cannot express, in words, the
profound gratification with which I have listened to the learned and
eloquent addresses which have just been delivered. The advancement of
Science is an object which is worthy the efforts of such distinguished savants
as I see around me, and to this object they have brought that
profundity of learning which is only to be gathered from the perusal of
elementary text books, that almost strabismal acuteness of perception
which enables them to descry such great scientific truths as can be
discovered through an orifice in a barn door, and that wonderful power
of discrimination which enables them to distinguish between the seed of
the leguminous plant known as the bean, and the other vegetable
productions of Nature, when the bag is open. As an humble member of the Brotherhood of Science, I desire to
contribute, in however insignificant a degree, to the Great Cause of
Learning. I will therefore, with Your Permission, read” (loud cries of
‘No! No!’ ‘Put him out!’ etc., to which of course I paid no attention,)
“the following papers: ‘An Inquiry as to Whether Diptheria has anything
to do with the Migration of the Swallow,’ ‘On the possibility of
straightening the curve of the African Shin Bone.’ ‘On Marine Plants
and Deep Sea Currents.’ ‘On the Laws of Mechanics, with observations on
the Mechanic’s Lien Law and the By-Laws of Trades Unions.’ ‘Some
Reflections on Reflection.’ ‘The Connection between Mathematics and
Versification, as illustrated by LOGARHYTHMS.’ ‘Minute Experiments with
the Hour-Glass,’ and ‘Important Speculations on the Sea Changes.'” I proceeded to read the first of the above named papers, but
before I had got very far, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, I was interrupted by a
peculiar sound, which I at first took for subdued applause, but which,
on investigation, I found proceeded from the noses of the audience. In
short, Mr. P., both audience and Convention were in a profound slumber.
Considerably mortified, I withdrew in silence. I am determined,
however, that my theses shall not be lost to posterity. I intend to
have them published, and to send you a copy of each. Profoundly yours, CHINCAPIN.
Pearing Time. We learn that “some of the pear trees in Suffolk County are
now in blossom.” Surely such a season as this one for pears has never
before been seen. Who knows but the fact may induce SUSAN B. ANTHONY to
go pairing with some Revolutionary bachelor?
A. About a Clock
Advice to Picnic Parties
Aerated Verbiage
Agricultural Column, Our
Albany Cock Robins
Allurements of the Period
All Aboard for Holland
All Hail
American Cutlery in France
Answers to Correspondents
Arrah, What Does He Mane, at All?
Astronomical Conversations
Associated Press Telegrams
Augean Job, An B. Ballad of Capt. Eyre, The
Bachelor’s Moving Day, The
Bad “Odor” in the West
Ballad of the Good Litttle Boy aged ten
“Behold how Pleasant a Thing,” &c.
Beautiful Snow
Bit of Natural History, A
Bird of Wisdom in Iowa, The
Bingham on Rome
Blocks and Blockheads
Book Notices
Boyhood
Bow-Wow!
Broadbrim to Aborigine
Business
By George C. Cause and Effect
Captain Hall, To
Cable News
Caution
Cats, On
Card of Thanks, A
Chat about Railroads, A
Chance for our Organ Grinders, A
Charge of the Ninth Brigade
Chinopathy
China Pattern, A
Chincapin at Long Branch
Chincapin among the Free Lovers
Church Militant
Cincinnatus Sweeny
Condensed Congress
Colonel Fisk’s Soliloquy
Cons, by a Wrecker
Comic Zoology
Congressman to his Critics, A
Consistent League, A
Coup d’etat, My
Correspondence Bureau
Contemporary Sentiments
Conversion of the “Sun“
Cool, if not Comfortable
Colored Troopa Fought Nobly, The
Criticism of the Period
Critical Intelligence
Crispin vs. Coolie
Current Tables
CARTOONS—March 4, 1869—March 4, 1870
Our Efficient Navy Department
The Descent of the great
Massachusetts Frog upon the Newspaper Flies
The Great National Game
Financial Belief
The Sick Eagle
The Financial Inquisition
Editorial Washing Day in New
York
The New Plea for Murder
International Yachting
The Wedding Ring as Sorosis
would like to see it
The Blood Money
“What I Know About Farming”
The Wedding Ring again
Modern Matrimony
Yan-ki vs. Yankee
The New Pandora’s Box
Lncifer’s Little Game with his
Royal Puppets
Death of the “Entente Cordial”
Wonderful Tour de Force
The Ovation of Murder
Law versus Lawlessness
What Will He Do With It?
At the Saratoga Convention
Humpty Dumpty D. Depressions for Chicago
Delights of Dougherty, The
Desultory Hints and Maxims for Anglers
Distinguished Visitor, A
Dorgs, On
Dogs Tale, A
Down the Bay
Drainage under Difficulties
Dreadful State of Things out West, The
Dubious English
Dwarf Dejected, The E. Earthly Paradise
Editorial Washing Day
Elevated Statesmanship
England’s Quandry
Episode of Jack Horner
Excellent Old Song Made New, An
Excelsior F. Fable
Ferocity of Failure, The
Female Gentleman, The
Fifteenth Amendment
Finances, On the
Fish Sauce
Fine Arts in Philadelphia
Fiscalities
Fish Culture
Fishery Question, The
Financial
Financial Article, Our
Four Seasons, The
Forty-four to Fourteen
Foreign Correspondence
Foam
Free Baths, The
From an Anxious Mother to her Daughter
Fun and Fin G. Gay Young Joker, A
George Francis the Ubiquitous
Glimpses of Fortune
Gossip in a School-house
Good for Something Better
Gravestones For Sale
Grant’s Blackbird pie
Greeley’s Aid to Literary Effort
Greeley on Bailey
Great Canal Enterprise, The
Great African Tea Company, The
Greek Meeting Greek H. Habits of Great Men
Hamlet from a Rural Point
Hall and Hayes
H. G. and Terpsichore
Hints for the Family
High and Low Church
Hints upon High Art
Hints to Car Conductors
Hints for Those Who Will Take Them
Hints for the Census
High Notes by our Musical Critic
Hiram Green at Saratoga
Hiram Green at the Tower of Babel
Hiram Green on the Chinese
Hiram Green Experience as an Editor
Hiram Green writes to Napoleon
Hiram Green on Jersey Musquitoes
Hiram Green at the Female Convention
Hiram Green on Base Ball
Hiram Green among the Fat men
Hiram Green to Napoleon
Hiram Green in Wall Street
How a Disciple of Fox Became a Lover of Bull
Horticultural Hints
Holy-Grail, and other Poems, The
Homodeification
Hyperborean I. Idiomatic Items
Important to Publishers
Indian, The
Interesting to Bone Boilers
Interior Illumination
Indian Question, The
Information Wanted
Inspiration vs. Perspiration
Items from our Rural Reporters J Joys of Summer, The
Jottings from Washington
Jumbles
Jupiter Bellicosus K Kellogg Testimonials, The
King Oakey, the First
King Craft Looking Up L Latest from Washington
Latest News Items
Latest about “Lo.”
Letter from a Friend
Letter of Advice, A
Letter from a Japanese Student
Letter from a Croaker, A
Leaven of Leavenworth
Literary Vampire
Lines by a Hapless Swain
Long Shot, A
“Lot” on a Lot of Proverbs
Love in a Boarding-House
Lucus a non, etc M Mariner’s Wrongs, The
Marriage Market in Rome, The
Maine Question in Massachusetts
Marine Mixture, A
Managers of Railroads, To
Medical Miss, A
Methodist Book Concern, Concerning the
Mercantile Library Association
Mind your P’s and Q’s
Miseries of a Handsome Man
Motley Melody, A
Municipal Competition
Murphy the Conqueror
Mythology, Of
Mystery of Mr. E. Drood.
Mythology, Further of
Mythology, More N National Taxidermy
Napoleon’s Latest Manifesto
Natural Mistake, A
New Conglomerate Pavement
New England to New York
New Railway Project, A
New “Process”, The
Ninety-nine in the Shade
Nothing like Leather
Notary’s Protest, A
Nought for Nought
Now We Shall Have It
Notes from Chicago
Now’s your Chance
Note from the Orchestra O Ode to the Missing Collector
Old Bailey Practitioner, An
Old Boy to the Young Ones, An
Old Saws Re-set
Old Iron
Olive Logan
Opinions of the Press
Orange Peel, Etcetera
Origin of the Mississippi
Orpheus C. Kerr, Sketch of
Organizing an Organ
Origin of Punchinello
O, that air!
Our Future
Out of the Streets
Our Literary Legate
Our Cuban Telegrams
Our Explosives P Patriotic Adoration
Pat to the Question
Parable About the 12th of July
Pardonable Solicitude
Perennius Ære
Periodical Literature
Philadelvings
Plays and Shows
Please the Pigs
Plea for Protection
Pluckily Patriotic, Still
Poems of the Cradle
Popularity, Our
Political Claptrap
Police Report, Our
Possible “Why” of it, The
Portfolio, Our
Prospectus
Pump, The
Punchinello’s New Charter
Punchinello in Wall Street
Punchinello’s Lyrics
Punchinello and the Aldermen
Punchinello on the Jury
Punchinello Is Sorry
Punchinello’s Vacations
Punchinello as a “Savan” Q Query R Raising Cain
Rather Mixed
Rather Flashy Idea, A
Ramblings
Real Estate of Woman, The
Religious Amusements
Remonstrance, A
Religion of Temperance
Receipe to be Tested
Reform in Juvenile Literature
Rejuvenated France
Right and Left
Robins, The
Romaunt of the Oyster
Rose by any other Name, A
Roar from Niagara, A
Romance of a Rich Young Man S Sailing Directions, &c
Science Forever
Seasonable Parody, A
Several Unsavory Renderings
Ship Ahoy!
Sic Semper Epluribus, &c
Sorosian Impromptu, A
Song of the Returned Soldier
Song of the New Babel
Song of the Red Cloud
Song of the Chicago Lawyer
Song of the Mosquito
Society, &c
Spencerian Chaff
Spiritual Susceptibility of Cats
Spring Fever
Spirit of the Navy
Standard Literature
Stridor Pentium
Summer on the Catskills
Summer at Sandy Point T Taking a Senator’s Measure
Take Care of the Wounded
Temperance Song
That Indian Talk
Thiers, Idle Thiers
Thirteenth Man in the Omnibus
Titans
“Tobacco Parliament” of Ohio, The
To Our Readers
Traveller’s Tales
Treatment for Potato Bugs
Truly Noble
Tutti Tremando
Turkish Bath, My U Ulyss, To
Umbrella, The
Uncle Samuel
Universockdology
Urbs in Rure V V.H. to Punchinello
Visit to “Sheridan’s Ride”
Voice from the Hub
Voice of the Turtle, The
Vultures Call, The W Wanted, a Sheriff
War, The
Wat Cum Snecst
Way to Become Great, The
Weather Prophecies for May
Western Nomenclature
What the Press is Expected to Say
What I Know About Free Trade
What I Know About Protection
What Is It
What Sigerson Says
What Shall We Call It?
Why is it so Dry?
Woman, Past and Present
Women’s Rights Again
Woman in Wall Street
Woman in the Census
Woman’s Right to Ballot and Bullet
Words and their Abases
Wrong Mouth
Wringer of the Future Y Y.M.C.A.
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