OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENCE.
(BY ATLANTIC CABLE.)
DOWNING STREET, LONDON, April 10, A.M.I have, as ordered, made extensive arrangements for a
world-wide
correspondence for PUNCHINELLO. Knowing your want of confidence in the
party called, so truly and briefly, the “Press Ass,” who sends
over
accounts of horse-races, etc., with an occasional item of news, I have
wires connecting this office with Paris, Madrid, Rome, and other places
of consequence. A special delegate of PUNCHINELLO has been already
admitted to a seat in the OEcumenical Council. Pope Pius remarked
kindly
that he was the only person there who honestly told what he came for.
His Holiness enjoyed, also, a hearty laugh at his first interview; the
subject being the proper title and costume of our delegate. It was
concluded, as he was somewhat dark in complexion, to dub him Bishop of
‘Ngami; which, you know, is one of those places that LIVINGSTONE (is
he living, though?) found out. When any body questioned him, the said
delegate was immediately to talk ‘ngammon Latin; and His Holiness would
interpret it to the council, as being the African for infallibility.
It’s wonderful how well this jolly dog gets on, with his dogmas and dog
Latin together. Now for news. After all, the most remarkable event has
happened on
your side of the water; but as Philadelphia is further from New York
than New York is from Philadelphia, (the latter is so slow,) I
don’t
believe you have heard it yet. There is a railroad, well known
thereabouts, going to Germantown. Well, the event is, that the
board
of directors of that road have–will you believe it? I hardly
do–ordered a new car–a palace-car! The way it happened was
that,
owing to the large use of cattle-cars on the Pacific Railroad, no more
second-hand cars could be got for a month or two, bad enough for the
directors to buy; and there wasn’t a builder in the country willing to
make their kind of cars to order. On this side of the “big pond” we have had nothing so
laughable as the
MORDAUNT case. The charge of the presiding judge to the Prince of Wales
has not been correctly reported. I am told that he spoke thus: “Your
Royal Highness is advised that, on this occasion, it is not expected
that your Royal Highness should tell the truth, unless your Royal
Highness pleases; indeed, your Royal Highness is rather advised not to
tell the truth. Now, will your Royal Highness, acting under this
advice,
please to say, whether he did, or did not, ever do any thing naughty?”
Some one said to me at the time–are there not some mordants
that will
dye beyond whitewashing? But I believe that Wales always was moral, is
moral, and always will he moral, (Balmoral!) Now, this last assertion I
call news! Is it reliable? More about Yokohama. An English sailor, from Captain EYRE’S
vessel, is
said to have murdered a Japanese, in cold blood, to rob his house. A
court sat upon the case; and, after trial, pronounced this decision:
“We
regret to be obliged to find, that the man, CHAN-JUN, lost his life by
an incision of his throat; and that the knife which made the incision
was in the hand of the sailor called BILL BLINKS, of the Bombay. While,
therefore, it would have been, undoubtedly, much better if the man
CHAN-JUN, and his house, had been out of the way of the said BILL
BLINKS, who by their proximity was placed under a temptation, we are
unwillingly compelled to regret that BLINKS should have made an
unfortunate incision of this kind. We are therefore of the opinion that
the said WILLIAM BLINKS ought not to be allowed to have any grog for at
least six days.” This very severe sentence was, we are told, afterward
remitted by request of Captain EYRE. Our Roman delegate sends me word to-day, that, the Pope’s
gardener at
the Vatican setting out a variety of early spring plants, every one of
them came up a Hyacinth! One after another was sent to pot; but,
hydra-headed, still they come! By the way, it is said that two newly
noted people in the church are Frère JONQUIL and Soeur DAFFODIL;
another
is a negro priest, black as two ravens, and he is called Father CROCUS. ROCHEFORT, we learn, the other day refused to eat any thing,
because his
prison food was at the cost of the Emperor’s government. M. OLLIVIER
forthwith sent him a polite autograph note of congratulation; telling
him that this was the first act of his, public or private, of which he
approved; and in the result of which the government, people, and world
would take satisfaction. ROCHEFORT, after reading the note, twisted it
up to light a cigarette, and then told his jailer to bring in his
dinner! You can’t please that man. M. CHASLES has just been appointed Curator of Autographs
at the
Bibliothèque Impériale at Paris, with VRAIN LUCAS as his
secretary. This
gives general satisfaction. Miss ANNE B—-, of Philadelphia, who lives at Rome, has just
written a
charming song, with music for the piano, entitled, “Liszt, O Liszt!”
The most famous aria, however, there now, is the malaria. Rome
is
sick. The people are sick of the Pope and his priests; the Pope is sick
of the Council; the bishops are sick of each other; and travellers are
sick of fever. Sic transit! Let me tell you of my experience, for one day, with the “Press
Ass” of
the Cable. On getting here, finding him to be amicable, I tried him on.
He gave me, for news, to send over to PUNCHINELLO, the following: GREAT BRITAIN. The Times has an article this morning upon the quality
of Virginia
tobacco. It speaks with great respect of the authority of Ex-Governor
HENRY A. WISE upon that subject. Mr. GLADSTONE was affected last night with a severe pain in
his stomach.
On going to his place in the House, he was overheard to say, “It must
have been that cabbage.” This morning he is better. 10 A.M. Mr. GLADSTONE did not say, “It was that cabbage;” but,
“It was
those beans.” 12 A.M. Right Hon. Mr. GLADSTONE is not any better. It is now
doubtful
whether it was the beans or the cabbage. 2 P.M. The Right Hon. W.E. GLADSTONE is a little better, but
ate only a
light dinner. Mr. BRIGHT thinks it was the beans. Now, my dear PUNCHINELLO, by this time I began to think it must
be the
beans, and so I sent word to my despi-telegraphic correspondent that that
would do. And so it will, also, from your
correspondent, –PRIME.
Women’s Rights, Again. Denver is said to be all agog about a performer named ANNIE
CORELLA, who
plays solos on the cornet. This is the latest manifestation of the
Women’s Rights movement, brass instruments having hitherto been played
exclusively by masculine lips and lungs. “Blowing” through brass is
very
characteristic of the advocates of Women’s Emancipation; and the next
thing we shall hear, perhaps, is that the ladies of the Revolution
have organized themselves into a brass band, and taken to serenading
HORACE GREELEY.
Latest Fashionable Intelligence from the Plains, INDIANS’ war-(w)hoops.
Our Future. PUNCHINELLO believes in a future. He believes in it first for
himself,
second for his country, and third for other people. He considers his
own
future very good and gorgeous, of course. He considers that of his
country as very hopeful. It has room to grow, and grows. It has
appetite
to eat by day and to sleep by night. It eats and sleeps. It rises in
the
morning refreshed and lively. It washes its face in the Atlantic, and
its feet in the Pacific. It raises great eagles, great lakes and
rivers,
and has a very large, and wise, and honest Congress. Its members of
Congress are all pure, unsullied men. Not a stain rests on their proud,
marble-like brows–not much. The future of PUNCHINELLO will be, to
borrow from the poet, a “big thing.” Its genial, mellow, shining face
will continue to beam through uncounted ages–as long as beams can be
procured, at whatever cost. Its good things will be household words as
long as households are held. It will keep its temper very sweet, its
age
very green, and its flavor very sparkling. It will help the country to
get on in its future, and be always glad to give government a good
turn.
If government wants any money, it will be PUNCHINELLO’S pleasure and
privilege to launch it out. PUNCHINELLO has faith in countries and
governments, and thinks if such matters were not in existence, its own
prosperity would be affected. It therefore says to government, “Go
on–be good, and you’ll be happy. Grow up in the way you are bent, and
when you get old, you’ll be there.” It sees a gigantic future for the
country. It sees the Polar sea running with warm water, the North Pole
maintaining a magnificent perpendicularity, and the Equinoctial Line
extended all around the earth, including Hoboken and Hull. It sees its
millions of people happy in their golden (greenback and currency)
prosperity, and also happy in a full supply of PUNCHINELLO to every
family. It sees its favorite Bird of Freedom spread its wings from
Maine
to Oregon; from Alaska to the Gulf, and it trusts its wings will not be
hurt or lose a single feather in the spread. It sees
itself–PUNCHINELLO, not COLUMBIA–enter upon its thousandth volume as
youthful and pretty as a June rose, and as vigorous as a colt. It sees
the time when one Fourth of July will not go round the national family,
and from two to half a dozen will have to be provided.
Mind your P’s and Q’s. Committees of State Legislatures are apt to use very slip-shod
English
in drafting their bills. This should not be. How can they expect to
Parse a bill unless it is couched in grammatical language?
Taking a Senator’s Measure. Apropos of a recent debate in the Senate at Washington, a
paragraph
states that “CARPENTER made SUMNER seem very small.” The carpenter who
made SUMNER is not to blame for this. In the first place, Mr. SUMNER’S
Measures are very difficult to take. In the second place, the best
Cabinet-makers have failed to make Mr. SUMNER appear very large. In the
third and last place, Ebony, which is the only wood with which Mr.
SUMNER has any affinity, is a mighty hard material to work, even when
treated with the application of a Fifteenth Amendment.
The Maine Question in Massachusetts. If New-York has had but little skating during the past winter,
Massachusetts just now displays a good deal of backsliding. Her
legislators have “gone back on” their liquor-bill, which they have
modified to suit their habits, and, should it become law, the druggists
of the Bay State will be at liberty to sell Bay and every other kind of
rum in quantities to suit purchasers. Sic semper Massachusetts!
the
English of which is, that Massachusetts will always keep Sick so long
as
liquor is to be had for physic.
Trying to the Patients. It is widely stated, though we cannot vouch for it as a fact,
that the
poultices used in St. Luke’s Hospital are supplied from the too
celebrated pavement of Fifth Avenue.
“Cometh up as a Flower.” It is stated that Père HYACINTHE is about to take a
wife. That’s right–Pair, HYACINTHE.
THE EPISODE OF JACK HORNER. Probably there is no choicer specimen of English literature
than the
familiar stanza which we herewith reproduce: “Little JACK HORNER sat in a
corner,
Eating his Christmas-pie,
He put in his thumb, and pulled
out a plum,
And said, ‘What a good boy am I!'” Although comprised in merely four lines, it contains more
instructive
truths and rarer beauties than some volumes whose pages can be
enumerated by the hundred. The opening line is singularly beautiful: “Little JACK HORNER sat in a
corner.” Here we hare the subject gracefully introduced without
unnecessary
palaver or reference to family antecedents–the simple name given
without a long rigmarole of dazzling titles or senseless adjectives.
The
Muse is neither pathetically invoked nor anathematically abused, but
the
author proceeds at once to describe his hero’s present situation,
which,
it strangely appears, is in “a corner.” The indefiniteness of the
locality–a corner–is not of the slightest moment; for it does
not
concern the general reader to know in what corner little JACK was
stationed. Suffice it, as is apparent from the context, that it was not
a corner in Erie, nor in grain; but rather an angle formed by the
juxtaposition of two walls of an apartment or chamber. Now, truly the subject of the poem must have been possessed
either of an
extraordinary modicum of modesty or of a bitter misanthropy; or
possibly
he had been guilty of a misdemeanor, and was cornered to expiate the
punishment justly due; yet conjecture is at once made certainty in the
second line, by which all doubts as to the reasons for his being in a
corner are immediately cleared up: “Eating his Christmas-pie.” The occasion was indubitably the universal annual holiday, and
his
object in going to the corner was manifestly to eat the pie. Perhaps
the
object had an antecedent. Perhaps he stole the pie, and
therefore
wished to avoid observation; or, more possibly, supreme selfishness was
his ruling passion, and he wished to eat it all by himself. As to this,
however, we are left slightly in the fog. In the third line, we are afforded an insight into the manner
in which
he partook of the Christmas delicacy: “He put in his thumb, and pulled
out a plum.” Interesting scene! Here we have at least an inkling of the
hero’s powers
of discrimination, and his regard for the little niceties of life. We
have also a beautiful metaphorical allusion to the postulate that
“fingers were made before forks,” an assertion respecting the truth of
which some antiquarians have expressed a doubt. We are not prepared to
decide as to the propriety of leaving the substantial of life and
employing sweets and frivolities to pamper the appetite–and there are
other questions that naturally arise from the interesting circumstance
noted above by the poet, but we will not dwell upon them here. We proceed to the concluding verse. The descriptive part of the narrative is ended, and we
naturally expect
a catastrophe in the denouement. We may at least suppose that
HORNER
made himself sick, if he did not actually choke to death from one of
the
plums he was voraciously eating. By no means. We are spared so painful
a
recital. All we know is, that he made a remark, evidently in soliloquy, “And said, ‘What a good boy am
I!'” This concluding line, pointless as it may appear, partially
clears up
the mystery as to his being in a corner. He certainly was not there for
misdemeanor; for he was a “good boy,” at least in his own estimation.
What a happy faculty it is, in this world, for a man to have a good
opinion of himself! It relieves life of much of its bitterness. We thus
perceive that, while JACK was tasting the sweets of a Christmas-pie, he
was also enjoying the sweets of self-contentment. As we have seen, JACK HORNER is an historical personage;
Christmas-pies
are historical; and dainties with plums are historical. JACK was an old
man, doubtless, when our great-grandmothers were very young–certainly
before the war. The world has had full opportunity to profit by his
virtuous example. Numberless little boys have been quieted to sleep by
the rhyme of JACK HORNER judiciously applied, and numberless little
ones, clamorous for more pudding and enlarged privileges at the
dinner-table, owe the success of their appeals to this same HORNER. The
moral, which runs all through the narrative, is one by which the world
may profit, and should. It la a good thing; but like a great many
things
that are good, in the sense in which we use the word, not relished. We
much fear that the ancient, the historical JACK, is extinct. He was a
moderate JACK. He only put in his thumb, when he might as well
have
put in his whole hand. The latter-day JACK is the representative of a
numerous class possessing larger capacity and a greater dynamic
capability. His pie is larger–has more and bigger plums. When we
contrast the present JACK with the past, we blush for the comparison.
When we encounter him in civic office or in the revenue service, we
tremble for the plums. He is grasping, remorseless, ambitious. The old
JACK was satisfied to sit in his corner and eat his pie; but this one
seeks a pie of dimensions so extravagant as to fill the remotest
corners
of the globe; and, what is worse, he is–any thing but a Good Boy!
A Voice from “the Hub.” A GRATULATORY Bostonian writes us that PUNCHINELLO’S voice (a
Great
Organ, truly) has reached the “Hub,” and actually silenced the Great
Organ of that pleasant rural town. So far, good; but he adds that
Massachusetts takes umbrage at the first syllable of our name, on
account of its being at variance with the prohibitory law of that
pleasant but Puritanical State. Certainly, in a moral point of view, it
is better to be in a Puritanical State than in a State of Punch; but
Massachusetts, it is said, is very sly about the liquor business, and
takes her “nips,” regularly, behind the door. This may account,
probably, for the “nipping air” by which so many of her denizens are
characterized. The Bostonian further states of the inhabitants of the
“Hub,” that “liquor finds little favor in their eyes.” Now, we are
acquainted with three thousand four hundred and seventy-three
Bostonians
of the most solid “stripe,” and we never yet knew one of them put
liquor
in his eye, wherever else he might stow it. That the great
Boston I
may be partially the result of liquor, is admissible; but then no true
Bostonian would call it liquor, you see–he would call it I water.
Why, Oh! Why? Why has NAPOLEON III. a very salty taste just now? Because he
prefers
his hash with THIERS and without GRÈVY.
An Established Fact. The British Association have received £1055 toward a
practical and
comprehensive inquiry into the utilization of sewage. Bless your
British
associated hearts! The Herald has demonstrated that long
ago–made
editorials of it.
Rather Mixed. The Jersey City Journal of April 1st, (appropriate
date,) contains the
following advertisement: “A few gentlemen can be accommodated with good board, washing,
and
ironing; or a gentleman and wife. Terms, $6 per week; or two single
ladies. Apply at –, corner of Newark avenue.” According to this advertisement, it appears that in Jersey a
“gentleman
and wife” are legal substitutes for “board, washing, and ironing.” Now,
it is bewildering to think how on earth a “gentleman and wife” could be
made available in lieu of washing and ironing; while, on the other
hand,
the idea of serving up a “gentleman and wife” as “board,” suggests the
horrible idea that cannibalism is practised in New-Jersey. With regard
to the terms, “$6 per week” seems to be reasonable enough, though how
“two single ladies” can be made legal tender for six dollars is
absolutely maddening to the mind, inasmuch as average spinsters are far
more apt to be tough than tender.
True. The World moves with the Sun.
Classic Grease. A Paris grocer ornaments his shop-windows with a bust of
ROCHEFORT, done
in lard, with prunes for eyes. After this, let us hear no more of the
sculptures of classic Greece. But why prunes? Why, to signify that
after
the funeral of VICTOR NOIR he dried his eyes.
A Little Berlin Game. Bismarck has sent Herr SILK to Pekin, to wind himself around
the
Celestial emperor’s heart, and also to make a cocoon for the Tycoon of
Japan, after worming himself into his affections. Perhaps, for being
such a darin’ man, he may be made a mandarin!
A NOTARY’S PROTEST. MR. PUNCHINELLO: I protest against certain annoyances to which
a man in
my office is subjected. Whereby it must be understood that I refer to
myself and my official position, not to the nine by twelve apartment
where the wicked and perverse can always find my sign without much
seeking. The drift of all this is, that I refer to Bores. It is not
new, I know;
if it were, a New Sense might be shown by telling whether it came from
me originally. I believe that in all walks of life man’s inhumanity to
man is mainly manifested by boring. Sometimes this is said to have been
done in past time, because the greatest “blower” known to the ancients
was called Old Bore as we know, and POLYPHEMUS complained of having
been
bored by ULYSSES. Let not the patient reader be alarmed now; for I am of a
retiring
disposition, and am here indisposed to tire by dilating upon a class of
people who always Die Late enough of themselves. But I will say that
the
worst bores with which a notary has to deal, are those who come to
swear, (and go out sworn,) and who either forget to pay or haven’t the
change to pay right. Several such patronize me–changelessly.
Singularly
enough, all hail from Boston, so that it is no wonder that I cry, All
hail, Boston! Here comes General X——, who swears and tenders me an
X, and asks for change. Then I swear myself, and say, with HAMLET, that
I will change that word with him; whereupon he puts the bill in his
pocket and goes da mit, which conduct is both Germain to the
transaction and Dutch to me. Again, enters Mr, KOPPER, affably takes an
affidavit, and finds, to his grief and astonishment, that he has but
eleven cents in his pocket. Of course, he has coppered and won. But
why–tell me why, could he not have given me the sentiment, which I had
a right to expect from him? He bears the stamp of a bad Kopper; a
regular old Nick, and has done that unbecoming thing so often that it
is
becoming monotonous And General X—— and Mr. K—— are types of a
large class who come before me to take acknowledgments and the like,
for
whom I have no liking; who may as well acknowledge now, severally each
for himself, (the aforesaid Nick being for all of them,) that they do
take the same, and then, like men shunning fees, go without mentioning
fees once, which is surely misfeasance, in the eye of the law. The Dues
take them; why should men of means be so mean? Then there is the man who stays; who is always the coming man,
but never
the going one. And there is the beggar woman, who enters my office like
a ghost, and is a very great bore indeed. But of course beggars are
bores of which every office has plenty. Every body knows these
characters, however, and owes them too–one, at least, does. Well, it
is
hard that because a man is bored dead at his boarding-house he can’t
have peace in his office, and so I have made my protest against the
bores, as I said I would. –A NOTARY.
A War of Castes. The Michigan University has been unsuccessful in its search
for a
President, as it has not offered enough to induce acceptance on the
part
of those to whom it has tendered the honor. It seems to be a case where
the Hire and Lore classes come in conflict.
An Old Story, even Here. The papers tell of a dog-race which is to take place at San
Francisco,
and some of them add that a dog-race is a common thing in England, but
a
novelty here; as if the canine Race were something new in America!
Shock-ing Intelligence. Another earthquake in San Francisco.
PUNCHINELLO ON THE JURY. PUNCHINELLO has been summoned on the jury. He is asked to try a
murderer. PUNCHINELLO is kind-hearted. He wishes neither to put himself
in suspense in a jury-box, nor a murderer so in a sheriff’s box that
the
murderer shall finally be put in suspense. PUNCHINELLO is to be asked
whether he has formed or expressed an opinion upon the subject of the
guilt or the innocence of the murderer, or whether he feels any bias
against an accused. Such questions, in PUNCHINELLO’S opinion, are
nonsensical. Jurors nowadays are influenced more through their stomachs
than through their heads or their hearts. Let a juror, when he comes to
be challenged, be rather asked, “Had you a good or a bad breakfast?”
“Were you out late last night?” “Have you had the dyspepsia lately?”
“Are you bilious?” “Do you habitually eat fried bacon or Welsh
rarebit?”
“Do you afflict yourself with reading the Tribune?” “Can you digest
stewed lobster or apple-dumpling?” so that whenever a juror shall be
found freed from dyspepsia, or to be a good sleeper, or a man who can
digest even the new Tariff or the Income Tax, it is PUNCHINELLO’S
opinion that such a juror will make a capital chap to listen
complacently to lawyers, keep patience with witnesses, respect the
judge, laugh at the crier, smile at the reporters, give “true
deliverances,” and contribute something toward redeeming our boasted
Anglo-Saxon jury system.
The Difference. Salt Lake City and Chicago represent the extreme ends of the
social
scale. In one place you get as many wives as you like; in the other it
is quite as easy to get rid of them.
Boston out of the Clouds. There is talk of reviving the old ordinance in Boston against
smoking in
the streets. This will aim a blow at side stove-pipes as well as at
meerschaums; but, fortunately, it will not prevent the smoking of hams
or of perpendicular chimneys.
“THIERS IDLE THIERS.” A newspaper item conveys the interesting intelligence that
THIERS, the
renowned statesman and historian, consumes snuff to the amount of a
quarter of a pound daily. That M. THIERS is thoroughly “up to snuff”
every body knows; but that he has so much idle time on his hands as to
be able to use a quarter of a pound of it daily, will be news to most
people. Let any one of our readers try it. Let him be ever so “good at
a
pinch,” he will find that to feed his proboscis from a quarter of a
pound of snuff until he has reached the last pinch, would take up, at a
moderate computation, no less than eight hours at a stretch, allowing
reasonable intervals for sneezing and blowing his nose. Evidently the
story is an idle one–more idle than M. THIERS ever could have been.
Perhaps it was “pinching” poverty in the way of items that drove the
itemizer to invent it. At any rate, he has made a “mull” of it.
Apropos of Susan B. Anthony. “Was ever woman in this humor One?”
A Gale Brewing. Boston is agitating a reproduction of the Coliseum, and
GILMORE hints at
an orchestra of three thousand, with eighteen hundred wind
instruments. A gale far more disastrous than that memorable southeaster
of last autumn may therefore be expected.
CHAT ABOUT RAILROADS. PARTIES: A Simpleton from the Wilderness, and a
Misanthropic Traveller. [The Simpleton asks for information.] “They say that railroads now
an’t safe.
Say, mister, how is that?”
It comes of “accidents,” my
friend–
Where cheap rails spread out flat,
Cheap axles break, cheap
boilers burst,
Cheap trestle-work gives way:
No wonder, when you think of
that,
They kill a man a day!
Well, folks must travel; must
go fast;
Must take the cars–and risk;
They can’t afford a Special
Train,
Like VANDERBILT or FISK;
They know a curve that’s pretty
sharp,
A bank that’s pretty steep,
Rocks that may roll upon the
track,
“Sleepers” that never sleep;
Here was a “smash-up” not long
since,
That killed about a score;
Two trains “collided” yesterday,
And maimed a dozen more.
But, go they must–by railroad,
too,
And all its risks defy:
For no American believes
That he will ever die! [The Simpleton, with open mouth, further questions the
Traveller.] “In God’s name, citizen, pray
tell
How this can go on, so!”
You ask a simple thing, my
friend,
As I will quickly show.
Directors know their
countrymen,
And that is why we bleed:
So long as nothing’s done to
them,
The slaughter will proceed.
It’s so in coal-mines, so in
mills;
It’s so on steamboats, too;
We’re killed by hundreds, every
year:
But what’s a man to do?
These harpies make our laws for
us–
Or do so through their tools:
No doubt we seem to all the
world
A wretched pack of fools!
We are so busy! We’ve no
time
To see that all is right!
We’ll give the danger all our
thoughts–
The moment its in sight!
Cheap iron and cheap souls, my
friend,
Have cursed us all along.
But what possesses you, good
friend?
I’m sure there’s nothing wrong! [The Simpleton from the Wilderness is terribly excited.] “I warn ’em not to serve me
so!
They’ll rue it, if they do!
No axle, wheel, nor rail must
break;
No bridge must let me through!
No other train must smash up
ours;
No culvert fall away;
The scaly boiler mustn’t burst;
And here cows mustn’t stray!
“Conductors’ watches must
keep time;
Switch-‘tenders must
“know beans,”
And engineers keep wide awake
And know what duty means:
And (in particular) no fiend
Must take into his head
To throw my train off down a
bank
For spite, or even bread!
“What! do these dreadful things
go on
That companies may thrive?
Is profit the sole
living thing
They care to keep alive?
Then, fellow-citizen, rouse up!
For you and I are kings!
Let us decree-and straightway have
A different state of things!” [“Well, you ‘decree’ it; and when it’s done, please let me
know,”
remarks the Misanthropic Traveller.]
Sugar-Cane. The friends of WILLIAM TWEED, in presenting a cane to him the
other
evening, desired to show the Young Democracy how many there are who
Stick to him.
TUTTI TREMANDO!  ruant Bards! where are the Triumphal Odes and the
Congratulatory Poems
which should have greeted Mr. PUNCHINELLO, who, after deserting his
beloved Italy, after a stormy voyage and unspeakable sea-sickness, has
arrived here with a view of settling and of becoming a citizen (having
already filed his first papers) of this magnificent Republic? Where are
the poets who should have greeted the venerable and illustrious
voyager?
Imbeciles! See you not that your congratulatory work would have been
easy? That PUNCHINELLO rhymes to fellow (good) and to mellow,
(decidedly,) to say nothing of bellow, (a proper word for singers,) and
to yellow, (although into this and the sear leaf we most decidedly have
not fallen, in spite of our three or four hundred years.) Had we but
been a Prince, and called VICTORIA R. our mother, we should ere this
have been invited to balls enough to ruin our small legs, and dinners
enough to destroy our great digestion. Yet, if it should come to the
comparison of pedigrees, the Signor PUNCHINELLO feels that he could
knock these princelings into a cocked hat, (or shall we say a cocked
coronet?) Mr. PUNCHINELLO proudly knows that he is His Own Ancestor and
the Perpetual Renewer of his own Patent of Nobility.
Gentlemen poets, it is too late! We will not now have your
melodious
ovations at any price! It would be a pretty piece of business indeed,
if, after sounding our own trumpet for ages, as we may say, we should
now succumb to an idiotic modesty. Do you not understand that we were
sonorously beating our own drum when the Onondaga Giant was a mere
baby?
We shall continue to play upon both these private instruments. If we
consider ourselves to be wise above our fellow-creatures, witty to a
degree most extraordinary, more Senatorial by nature and experience
than
most of the Potents and Graves in Washington; if we know ourselves (and
we hope we do) to be polished, polite, and profound, why should we go
hunting about for a bushel to put our light under? Away with modesty!
Can printer’s ink blush? Who blames the Tribunes and the Heralds
and
the Worlds and the Timeses for vaunting a circulation
which seems to
defy mortal numeration? A pretty market we should have brought our fish
to, if we should now squeamishly decline to wind our own mellow horn! If there be any poetical gentleman who desires to write an
Epic (in not
less than twenty-four Books) on the Life and Adventures of PUNCHINELLO,
to be printed on vellum paper, with profuse illustrations, and bound in
morocco, this ambitious and worthy person has our full permission to go
ahead, and may he find (which we do not believe he will) a publisher
sensible enough to produce his work!
New-England versus New-York. An item of literary news states that– “William R. Cutter, Esq., of Woburn, Mass., is preparing a
history of
the Cutter family of New-England.” This brings New-England directly into collision with New-York.
The
“Cutter family” was never, perhaps, so fully represented anywhere as it
now is in this city. Cutters are continually cutting each other down
with knives. Other Cutters–of a less harmful kind–are contented with
cutting their own throats, not always to the loss of the world, indeed,
but invariably to the profit of the Coroner. Then there are shoals of
Cutters who cut and run with funds belonging to others, and of such is
Collector BAILEY. Unfortunately, there are very few Cutters in New-York
who “cut their coats according to their cloth;” but, to compensate for
this, the “diamond cut diamond” variety of Cutter is very common
indeed.
Altogether it would take an ocean of ink and a promontory of paper to
write the history of the Cutter family of New-York.
RELIGIOUS AMUSEMENTS. The amusement-seeker must be thought of, even on a Sunday. For
life is a
most chillingly vaporous affair (reminding one of washing-day in
November) without a liberal sprinkling of liveliness. Recognizing this
truth, our religious brethren begin to impart zest to their Sunday
services by seizing on any passing incident of uncommon raciness, such
as a particularly enterprising murder or an exceptionably comprehensive
railroad accident, for the text of a sermon or the thrilling theme of
an
evening lecture. Any thing to fill the house. Thus, we find that “The
late Terrible Calamity which befell BANGMAN DONELEY and Family” was
advertised as the current attraction in the “West —-th Street United
Presbyterian Church,” a Sunday or two since. A fine theme! Full of
nicely harrowing details. It must have drawn well. We are not informed
whether the reverend sensationist had a “real house” made with which to
illustrate the overwhelming incident; and some “real people,” including
children, to be (apparently) crushed when it got blown over, (the
blowing being done by himself;) but here was a nice chance for dramatic
effect. And the same Sunday a rival attraction was advertised in the
dedication
of a new Catholic Church, with “Music by a select choir and orchestra.
Admission, $1. Reserved seats, $1.50,” Reduced admission fee to the
“Grand Dedication Vespers” in the evening. We do not know whether there
were opera-glasses on hire, but presume that the comfort of the
audience
was carefully attended to. Really, Sunday is not so stupid a day, after all!
Crispin’s Last. “About women’s rights,” says he, “there’s a great deal of
useless talk.
And then nobody says any thing about women’s lefts. Now, it’s my
opinion
that lefts are as hard to fit as rights, especially with widows and
single women. And as for suffrage, women suffer most from having too
little sole, and too much heel. MILL, to be sure! He may be well enough
on the Floss, but he’s not much on leather, believe that!”
A Western Boucicault. The Chicago Republican, says a Dubuque author, has
written a drama
called “The Ten Squaws.” There should be much Indianuity in the plot of
such a play.
FABLE. (BY OLD AESOP HIMSELF.) Once there was a large city that had the same name as the
State to which
it belonged. The people of the State made laws for the city, because
some of the citizens of the city had declared that life and property
were not safe unless they did so. But the majority of the citizens
disliked this kind of government so much that they began to find
themselves very discontented and unhappy. At length they decided to
pray
to Fate (which meant the Voters of the State) to relieve them from the
burden under which they were groaning, and restore their power. Then
Fate heard their cries and lamentations, and was kind enough to come to
their relief. “Now, why don’t you use your power?” she asked. “Oh!”
said
the late unhappy, and indeed wretched majority, “we only wanted a
chance
to quarrel a little among ourselves, and call each other hard names.”
“Couldn’t you have done that before?” asked Fate. “Why do you give me
all this trouble?” “To tell the truth,” said the Majority, “when we
wash, we like to show our dirty linen; and we couldn’t let enough
people
see it without getting you to help us.” “Well,” said Fate, “in future
you’ll get no assistance from me in washing your foul linen. If you
like
to be known as dirty people, go on being dirty, and every body that has
nose and eyes will finally understand you.”
Punchinello in Erie. In the Tribune’s report of the arguments on the Erie
case before the
Assembly Committee on Railroads, Mr. BURT is said to have stated his
belief that Mr, CROUCH is a contributor to PUNCHINELLO. Our best
thanks are due to Mr. BURT for his “first-rate notice,” though, at the
same time, we wish to inform him that no contributor of the name of
CROUCH has hitherto made his appearance in these columns. To speak
plainly, PUNCHINELLO never Crouches. As he has no “slouch” about
him, so he has no Crouch.
A Rather Flashy Idea. With regard to heating the Hôtel Dieu Hospital, in
Paris, by
electricity, a contemporary has remarked, “Of course, we know nothing
of
the apparatus by which this result is accomplished in Paris; but we had
the opportunity of witnessing on Wednesday last, at the Winder
building,
the experiments of Dr. LEIGH BURTON in applying electricity for warming
railroad cars, which were entirely successful and satisfactory.” Of
course, we know nothing about it either; but we hope the new
method is
a great improvement on the old one, as we have several times witnessed from
the Winder, buildings, barns especially, heated by
electricity in
a very unsatisfactory manner.
“On Two, Richmond!” RICHARD III. fancied that there were “two RICHMONDS in the
field.”
Singularly coincidental with this, and well worth the attention of
Shakespearean scholars, is the fact that Richmond, Va., is now running
two mayors. Of course, Richmond, Va., cannot now be looked upon as a
“one-horse” town.
Ritualistic. One of the latest allurements held out by the managers of a
celebrated
“high” church in this city, is a “three hours’ agony”–which is about
the most appropriate name for a long and tedious sermon we remember
ever
to have heard.
BOYHOOD. There can be no reason to doubt that METHUSELAH was blessed
with a
tolerably vigorous constitution. The ordeal through which we pass to
maturity, at present, probably did not belong to the Antediluvian
Epoch.
Whooping-cough, measles, scarlet fever, and croup are comparatively
modern inventions. They and the doctors came in after the flood; and
the
gracious law of compensation, in its rigorous inflexibility, sets these
over against the superior civilization of our golden age. At a time
when
the court-dress of our ancestors was composed of fig-leaves, or of
imperfectly dressed skins–nothing like the Astrachans of the
nineteenth
century–it would certainly have been very inconvenient to coddle
ailing
infantry through an attack of diphtheria, for example. So bountiful
Nature, then in the first blush of maidenhood, doubtless brought the
long-lived Patriarch through his nine hundred and sixty-nine years
without once calling in the family medical adviser. It is recorded,
however, that he was born and that he died, and he therefore certainly
passed through that stage of existence called Boyhood. And as he was
nearly two hundred years old at the birth of his first-born, it is
reasonable to suppose that the adolescent period was frightfully
prolonged in his case. Just imagine a youngster of a hundred and ten or
fifteen stealing apples or running to fires! The revelations of
ethnology, which is too youthful a science to reveal a great deal, do
not oppose the theory of all matured humanity, to wit, that the animal
boy is the same in all ages and in all races, an Ishmaelite, and Ara,
an
Outlaw, hedged in and restrained by laws and customs, it may be, but
innately antagonistic to society. The Philosophers who have traced humanity through all stages
of its
development, from the Aphis creeping on the rose-leaf to the full-grown
specimen in the person of a Member of Congress, have wisely and
invariably omitted all notice of boyhood in their lists of gradations
and transitions. Any thing like a fair examination of this particular
development scatters their doctrines to the four winds. Because the
salient traits to the next higher development, could not part with
their
own identity, or send these distinguishing characteristics, in one fell
swoop, through many stages, only to reappear at last in the upper type,
and only between infancy and manhood, and only in one sex. This
argument
is overwhelming, and the present purpose is to elucidate it by more
particular examination. It is proper, in the first place, to gather a blossom from the
negative
side of the discussion. Boys are not girls. While dogs, and foxes,
pigeons and ducks, have each a generic term applicable to both sexes,
there is a tacit understanding in civilized localities that boys
compose
a distinct genus. They are, in the eye of the law, considered human,
probably because they eventually pass from boyhood to humanity, There
is
an old nursery rhyme which marks the distinguishing characteristics of
juvenile members of society with remarkable accuracy: “What are little girls made of,
made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice,
And every thing nice,
Such are little girls made of. What are little boys made of,
made of?
What are little boys made of?
Snaps and snails
And puppy-dog tails,
Such are little boys made of!” There is so apparent an air of probability about this terse
statement of
the case, that it has satisfied the insatiable curiosity of infantile
minds for long ages. Little girls never doubt it, and little boys never
contradict it. If Paterfamilias has any thoughts upon the subject, he
probably thinks this expenditure of snaps and snails was a great waste
of raw material. Girls may be romps and hoydens, vixens and scolds, but
the sugar and spice will always be detected, and, with all drawbacks
allowed, the little girl is still entitled to Mr. MANTALINI’S cognomen
of “demnition sweetness.” At least, this is the universal verdict of
society. From the time when she dons her first chignon, (which never
matches the native hair, by the by,) she is nearly angelic, with some
few exceptions, perhaps, after marriage. In the way of direct proof, to return to the muttons, it may
be
observed that the next link to manhood, in the philosopher’s chain, is
that highly attractive animal which M. DU CHAILLU has recently
introduced to the general public. The points of resemblance betwixt the
Gorilla and the Boy are numerous and striking. In most cases, the two
animals have an equally pleasing exterior. They both have the ability
to
climb giddy heights, inaccessible to any other wingless biped. Their
language is not dissimilar, the same unintelligible chatter being
characteristic of both. As the argument proceeds, it will be seen that
distinctive traits belonging to lower classes of the animal kingdom are
totally extinct in the Gorilla, while they are emphatically visible in
his successor. Thus, taking the Laughing Hyena as the next illustration, it
will be
remembered by all students of GOLDSMITH’S Animated Nature, that
this
amiable quadruped invariably exercises his risibles when he is
crunching
the bones of some other less truculent quadruped. It is “solitary,
cruel, and untamable, digs its food out of graves,” cachinnating the
while like a thousand or fifteen hundred of brick. There are other
ravenous beasts in the world; but this one is peculiar in that he
laughs
over his work, which is also his pastime. Now, if you wish to hear a
Boy
laugh–a horse-laugh, a giant-laugh–just put some other animal, human
or otherwise, through a course of torture. Twist a pig’s tail until it
comes out; or, if you don’t like the occupation, the Boy will
cheerfully
do it–and will drown the squeal of the porker in his own uproarious
merriment. What do you suppose were the age and sex of the inventor of
the game called “Tying a tin kettle to a dog’s tail?” And do you
suppose
this inventor stood by, in silent gravity, to witness the success of
the
experiment? The yelp of the astounded dog, and the clatter of the
kitchen utensil so strangely misplaced, were doubtless swallowed up in
the loud guffaws of the Laughing Hyena on two legs. Another link is discovered in the person of the useful and
ornamental
domestic animal who is popularly supposed to furnish the material for
sausages. The accidental discovery of a suspender-button, or the claw
of
a kitten, in the sausage, gave rise to some doubt as to the composition
of this favorite edible; but statisticians usually admit that hogmeat
forms the staple. Doctor KANE speaks in glowing terms of the excellence
of rats when mixed with due proportions of walrus blubber, and cut out
in frozen chunks, probably with a cold-chisel. Why this fierce rodent
should make more savory meat than the innocent kitten, does not appear.
The latter is certainly much nicer to play with, in the ante-mortem
state. But this is a digression. Returning, therefore, not to the
mutton, but to the pork, consider the distinctive habits of both pig
and
Boy at meal-time, and see how nearly identical they are. Watch the
innocent in bristles as he places his graceful right paw upon the ear
of
corn, while he shells and masticates. Turn to the innocent in
broadcloth, and notice how he clutches the succulent turkey-leg, and
how
rapidly he polishes the femoral bone. Throw a second ear of the cereal
in the trough, and observe how promptly the left paw secures it, lest
it
should be transformed into lard through the agency of a companion pig.
Place the other turkey-leg, both wings, three slices of breast, the
side-bone and plenty of “stuffin'” within reach of the other embryo,
and
notice the glare of his famished eye, if some other plate than his is
presented. You would fancy he had been exploring the route of another
ship-canal across the Isthmus of Darien, and had tasted no food for
twenty-two days. Neither are the post-prandial habits of the two animals under
consideration dissimilar. The corn-cracker betakes himself to some
sunny
spot, where there is abundance of mud, and aids digestion by wallowing.
So does the Boy, especially if he is in dinner costume. If the
quadruped
can get into a garden and root up unreplaceable flowers and fruits,
before he retires to his lair, his bliss is perfect. So the Boy; if he
can manage to break two or three windows, tear his best clothes into
ribbons, chase the family cat up a tree with hound, whoop, and halloo,
and then stone her out of it, and, as she with thickened tail scampers
to some more secure retreat, follow her with hoots and missiles–he
also
retires, conscious that the day has not been wasted. And, finally, upon
this parallelism betwixt Pig and Puer one patent point of
resemblance
may be mentioned. Rouse up a pig, any hour of the day or night, with
his
maw full to the gullet, and offer him a little more, another ear of
corn, another bucket of swill, and you will be sure of his prompt
acceptance. And place before a boy, immediately after an astounding
dinner, if you choose, any thing edible, apples, cakes, pudding, or
cold
potatoes, and if his maw will not accommodate the additional
stowage,
you send for the doctor, knowing that the dear child is ill, that the
symptoms are novel, and that the case is urgent. The reference to the history of METHUSELAH with which this
paper began
was not without a purpose. It was to suggest the inquiry whether or not
the vim which prolonged his days would have sufficed to bring
him
through two courses of Boyhood. It is not unusual to hear grown
people
talk of “living their youthful days over again;” but the examples of
those who have gone through this ordeal are very rare. The amount of
wear and tear, the expenditure of vital force, involved in the transit
from infancy to manhood cannot be estimated. The abrasions of later
life
do not compare with the rubs of Boyhood, because none of the aids of
experience and philosophy are attainable by the tyro, who lives upon
his
inherent vis vitae, as his kinsman in the frozen zone subsists
upon
his own fat during long intervals of torpidity.
THE FOUR SEASONS. [An ancient Scottish ballad written in America in 1870, to
show how much
may be said by the judicious and economical use of a very few words.] Beneath the trees in sweet spring-time,
In sweet spring-time, in sweet spring-time,
Beneath the trees in sweet spring-time,
Vermonters turn the honest dime By
crystallizing sap. Beneath the trees in summer-time,
In summer-time, in summer-time,
Beneath the trees in summer-time,
The poet cons the curious rhyme. Or
takes the tranquil nap. Beneath the trees in autumn-tide,
In autumn-tide, in autumn-tide,
Beneath the trees in autumn-tide,
‘Tis rather nice for two to ride Where
no one else is near. Beneath the trees in winter wild,
In winter wild, in winter wild,
Beneath the trees in winter wild,
Ugh! Go home, you foolish child, What
are you doing here?
CONDENSED CONGRESS. SENATE  land Mr. MORTON has been making one of his little jokes in
the shape of
a petition from some more or less imaginary Quakers. These hypothetical
persons pretend to have converted to Christianity and soap some
hundreds
of warriors of the wild and bounding Shawnee variety. Of course, for a
basis of evangelical operations on this scale, it is requisite to have
some land on which to erect buildings for moral quarantine. To
disinfect
one Shawnee, you need to wash him in at least six waters–to inject his
veins, as it were, with Christian creosote. All this, as Mr. MORTON
justly observed, cannot be done without cost. But perhaps it was worth
it, considering the number of human scalps which were still available
for applications of sweet hair restorer, and balmy magnolia, and which
would by this time have been decorating the lower limbs of members of
the Shawnee profession, if these good Quakers had not turned them from
the improper pursuit of extraneous hair, and read them the commandment
which enjoins them from coveting their neighbor’s scalp. Therefore, and
in consideration of the good done by these Quakers, they and Mr. MORTON
thought they ought to have a grant of land to enable them to continue
their lavatory labors.
Mr. MORRILL protested in behalf of the wig-makers of America.
This
petition was an insidious blow at one of the most important of our
industries. How could wigs be made unless there were bald heads. And
how
wrong it was to divert any class of persons, under the shallow pretence
of making them wiser and better, from the making of bald heads. There
would be the deuce toupée if this kind of thing were to
be encouraged,
and their tonsorial constituents would bring them to the Scratch on
this
question. He was proud to say that he was an Old Wig. Others might hold
with the hair on this question. He would run with the Shampooers and
the
Shawnees. Mr. CARPENTER, who can see as clearly through a ladder as
almost any
body in the Senate, suggested that there were no such Quakers, and that
he didn’t believe there were any such Shawnees. It was an evident
little
“land-grab,” got up by some of Mr. MORTON’S constituents, and the
Quakers were hypothecated to promote it. He did not object to Quakers
occupying lands, but he did object to a Christianized Shawnee. He had
found that a converted Shawnee would steal considerably more than an
unregenerate one, and that he would steal various articles of the
toilet
which the wild Shawnee had no use for. Mr. CAMERON wanted some money for the Pennsylvania soldiers
who had come
first to defend the capital. He thought these men ought to be rewarded.
A good many of them had been re-Warded in Philadelphia on election day,
in order to express their political views with more frequency. That was
partly the cause of his being in the Senate, and he wanted something
done. Mr. THURMAN knew a man in Ohio who had enlisted before any
Pennsylvanian. Mr. CAMERON did not mean any disrespect to the Senator from
Ohio, but
that remark was a condemn lie. Mr. THURMAN said Mr. CAMERON was another. His man enlisted for
the
Mexican war, it was true, and not for the other war. But that slight
error didn’t affect the argument. Mr. SUMNER knew a colored boy who had been attacked with colic
when
South-Carolina seceded, on account of his sorrow and shame. It was true
he had been eating green tomatoes, but patriotism was unquestionably
the
cause of his colic. He was the first to martyr of the war, and he ought
to have a monument. He regretted to see the accursed spirit of Caste
which confined honors to whites. Mr. CONKLING said he thought he could suggest a compromise, on
a mulatto
from New-York who died in 1858. Mr. SUMNER called the Eyes and Nose on Mr. CONKLING, and Mr.
CONKLING
said his eyes were blue, but his nose was very flat. Mr. SUMNER thought this would be satisfactory. HOUSE. Mr. BINGHAM made a speech ostensibly upon the Tariff, but
really about
BUTLER. He said that BUTLER didn’t take Fort Fisher. This is a favorite
joke of BINGHAM’S. As to Mr. BUTLER’S opinion of his treatment of Mrs.
SURRATT, he didn’t care. He should continue to advocate protection to
home industry. Mr. FERNANDO WOOD paid a beautiful tribute to General HOWARD.
He said
that officer had been absorbing public money at a rate far exceeding
any
thing even in the municipal annals of New-York. The gentle freedom
might
need a bureau, but it certainly was not essential to his happiness to
have General HOWARD enriched by managing it. Mrs. HOWARD was not a
freedman. The idea was absurd. The other members of General HOWARD’S
family were not freedmen. Neither were General HOWARD’S staff. Neither
were any of the people who had benefited by this money. Mr. BUTLER didn’t see the why of this constant row about the
misuse of
money. What was the use of a man’s having an office if he couldn’t make
money out of it? He was proud to say that he entered the army poor and
came out rich.
The “Day” we don’t Celebrate. The Philadelphia one.
“The Man who Laughs.” The man who reads PUNCHINELLO.
Wanted–A Sheriff. The lovely city of Chicago, which needs about twenty sheriffs
to keep it
in order, at the latest date had none at all; for the gentleman holding
that office by law, in sheer despair (and some debt) has absconded,
actually leaving a man to be hung, who was not hung, do you see,
because
there was nobody to hang him. Plenty of rope there was, to be sure, and
a most beautiful gallows–but no sheriff! Of course, the thing came to
a
stand–perhaps it would not be proper to say a Dead stand–and the
embarrassed Governor was obliged to commute the sentence! The creditors
of the missing officer made a great complaint, but the Man who Wasn’t
Hung did not find the least fault. This shows the different views which
the human mind may take of the same transaction.
Municipal Competition. Poor New-York! We thought that there were some things in which
she could
not merely not be beaten, but in which also she was secure even from
competition. But the envious will never allow us to rest upon our
hardly-earned laurels. Will it be believed that they have actually
discovered and inaugurated a Wickedest Man in Cincinnati? He is called
COLLINS, and must be a descendant of the COLLINS who wrote an Ode on
the
Passions; for all the bad ones this Cincinnati COLLINS has in great
perfection. His Rage especially is beautiful. First, he knocks down his
fellow-creatures. Secondly, when the police are sent to capture him, he
knocks down the police. He is in jail, however; and we would suggest a
Convention of the Wickedest Men in all parts of the country to take
measures for his release.
Origin of the Mississippi. The contests for supremacy between Chicago and St. Louis have
banished
every particle of modesty from both cities, and each now considers
itself to be the Centre of the Universe. Geographers may not heretofore
have understood the origin of the Mississippi River, but the St. Louis Democrat
throws a great deal of light upon it. “We have
been visited,”
says that sheet, “by heavy showers. The rain poured down heavily all
night, flooding the gutters and adding to the volume of the river.” It
thus appears that this noble stream depends mainly for its water upon
the gutters of St. Louis. Will these not, however, be rather damp
resting-places for Members of Congress, should the Capital be removed
to
St. Louis?
The Repeater’s Idea of Voting by Ballot. All Stuff.
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