EXCELSIOR. The Gold Hill Daily News, of Nevada, has found
a big sapphire—a regular Koh-i-noor of gems. It
says: “While at San Francisco, a few weeks ago, we had the
pleasure of seeing the SANGALLI ballet troupe at
MAGUIRE’S Opera House, and the artistic, glowing beauties
of the Sapphire dance yet pleasurably linger in our
memory.” The dance in question, which the Gold Hill editor
describes as “a higher order of the famous ‘Can-can,'” is
new to us. It makes us feel “blue” to think that we have
never seen the Sapphire dance. “Higher” than the Can-can!
Good gracious! if heels go higher in the Sapphire than in
the Can-can, may we not be pardoned for inquiring, “What
next?”
Nought for Nought. Alas! that poor SYPHER should Cipher to gala A seat he
must evermore Sigh for in vain; But why should we Sigh
for poor SYPHER’S defeat, When his friends couldn’t
Cipher him into his seat.
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 FINE ARTS IN
PHILADELPHIAPHILADELPHIA, April 12. Dear PUNCHINELLO: A few days since I received a card
of invitation for  admission to a private view of a very fine
collection of pictures, by European and American artists.
I visited the galleries, accompanied by an amateur friend
who has a fine artistic education, having travelled some
six months on the Continent. Being engaged in the
picture-auction business, I am not altogether a tyro in
art, and determined to send you a few notes taken on the
spot, the combined effort of amateur friend and myself.
The walk to the gallery, extending over a half-hour in
time, was taken up by my amateur friend aforesaid, with
an endeavor to give me some general ideas, more than
initiative, with reference to art matters. For instance,
he said the public liked glitter and varnish in a
picture, but it does not follow on that account that the
picture is good. He then mentioned the
“Mimminée-Pimminée” style, and the
“Pre-Raffaelite” style, and the Rarée shows of
art, and I had the whole subject so jumbled up that my
artistic ideas became quite confused. He made a
quotation, giving me to understand that it was not
original; it ran as follows: “Indifferent pictures, like
dull people, must be absolutely moral.” I am not
sufficiently informed to quite comprehend this selection
from another man, but as we were at the time about
entering the galleries, I remained quietly
ignorant. 
The first picture that attracted our admiration was a
“Sheep scene,” by Lambdin. Every particular hair on the
old ram is well made out. The frame on the picture is
beautifully embossed, with a rich velvet border of
sea-green mandarin pattern. The next picture worthy of notice is a “Street in
Venice,” by Canal-etti—a singular specimen of this
artist’s first manner. The figure at the crossing is
rendered with great feeling. It is needless to mention
that the street is covered with water, which is
beautifully clear and transparent, showing the depth of
mud and slime during the dry season. The frame is
ornamented with flowers in relief, and gilt in the very
best manner. 
“A Musical Party,” by Bass-ano, is very highly
finished, especially the party, who have evidently been
inhaling stimulants. This picture is painted on a gold
ground, and is considered a rare specimen of Italian art.
It was formerly in the Campo-Santo-di-Pisa
collection. The frame is the blue-lotus pattern, very curiously
gilt and chased.  This style of frame would sell without
difficulty. The picture called the “Star of the East,” by WEST,
has a scolloped frame in the Tuscan style, with extra
fine enamelling. This is a very singular picture. It must
be admitted that this frame is finished with great
care. There is a frame made from a curious kind of wood, on
a picture by CONSTABLE, entitled the “Midnight Arrest.”
The picture is certainly a matchless gem, very low in
tone. The mosaic border to the frame is quite unique in
its design. Among the works by American artists, we notice some
remarkably fine productions. The picture by a lady
amateur, entitled, “The Toilet of a  Girl of the Period,”
demonstrates the progress our artists are making in genre
painting. The subject is rendered with great purity of
feeling, and the smelling-bottle in the foreground adds
greatly to the spirit of the composition. The frame is
highly ornamented with scarce Japan gold, elaborately
chased in a superior manner. There is a picture by Miss T——n, called the
“Blonde’s Revenge,” that evinces talent of a superior
order. This picture has been noticed by various New-York
and Western journals, but I do not consider with any
degree of justice to its surpassing merits. The color is
equal to a beautifully polished Pompeiian brass
door-plate; the drawing is immense, though truth must
compel us to say that the costumes are rather slighted.
The principal figure of the group, which is taken from a
French model, seems to stand right out from the canvas;
this I consider a very high point of excellence. Visitors
should be cautioned against approaching this picture. I regret that time will not permit me to give you any
further notice of this collection, but I will endeavor to
get my amateur friend to go often and obtain notes for
me. Unless I accompany him, however, I fear he will not
pay sufficient attention to the frames. Yours, G.
“Cometh Up as a
Flower.” Very likely it does; but there is one thing that don’t
go down as the Flour—and that’s the price of
bread.
ASTRONOMICAL
CONVERSATIONS. [BY A FATHER AND DAUGHTER RESIDING ON THE PLANET
VENUS.] No. II. D. OH, FATHER, what funny things are caused by
the revolution of a planet! F. Well, revolutions are not always such funny
things, as those wretched creatures on the earth up there
must have found out by this time. D. How dry you are, pa! I didn’t mean the
revolutions on a planet, but the revolutions of a
planet. F. Well, a distinction, I admit. But what are
you driving at? D. Several things. For instance, seven
revolutions of the planet Earth produce a new number of
PUNCHINELLO—a funny thing, as you often say
yourself. F. Well put, truly. D. And seven revolutions also give rise to the
Revolution itself, which (being a woman all Right in head
and heart) I regard as about the funniest thing
going. F. “Funny,” child? Why, I never saw any thing
less so. It is dreadfully serious. It is even sanguinary;
sadder still, abusive and vulgar. What is there comical
about coarseness? D. You don’t take my idea, father. It is funny,
because it assumes so much. It does not realize that
womanly modesty is the great obstacle to its success, and
that if it was as well endowed with that quality as the
average of American women, it would promptly cease to
revolve. F. Why, HELENE! what has set you off? Where did
you pick up this nonsense? What can you possibly know of
Women’s Rights, as I believe they call the new
Movement? D. Why shouldn’t I know something about it,
when it has been in your mouth for months? And ain’t I a
woman? Besides, don’t we women know some things by
instinct? F. Well, well, child! I wish you could know
Astronomy by instinct; for I begin to see I’ve a job
before me, if only to keep you to the point. D. The Compass-point, do you mean, father? F. No; the Study-point. Do you call this
studying Astronomy? D. I think, pa, I like the practical part
best. F. Ah, that which allows you to study the
Fashions in Broadway! Well, woman is woman, I believe,
the Universe over! But, come; a short lesson, to begin
with. Here is a fine view of Saturn, with his Rings. D. “Rings?” Are they anything like the New-York
Rings you have read about? F. Well, yes; no, not exactly; but a Ring
within a Ring, is a phrase that applies to both subjects,
just now. D. Oh, pshaw! I thought you meant finger-rings!
What does Saturn want of Rings? F. And what does New-York want of ’em. They are
there, and there they’ll stay! D. But I mean, what does a gentleman want of
rings? F. Don’t we find, every where, that the most
Saturnine, the dullest, and stupidest, and lowest, are
generally the fondest of this sort of ornament? D. Oh, dear! Father, how you do try me! (Do see
him, gazing away, when he knows I’m dying to get a
squint! He pays me no more attention than though I was a
mere ANTHONY! Why, what ails him?) Father! Father, dear!
what—what’s the matter? Why are you crying? F. Come here, and look; quick! Oh, HELENE;
isn’t it horrible? D. Why—what is it, father? Console yourself;
it is a good way off to say the least! [Looks a moment.]
Why, it’s those savage Freedmen, I do declare! about to
sacrifice that amiable-looking white! A tender-looking
man; is he what they call a Ku—Ku— F. Klux? Oh, no. That is a Missionary; and the
blacks are not Freedmen, as you suppose, but Cannibals.
They are about to roast him. You see the fire? D. Oh, quite distinctly! look, father!—he is
making a sign to them. What does it mean? F. [Looking.] It means that he has lost the use
of his tongue—probably from fright—but would like to
write something. D. Like so many other tongue-tied scribblers!
Do they let him? F. Oh, yes; they bring a board, and a piece of
chalk. D. How large is the piece? F. The usual size. He is writing. D. What does the poor fellow say? F. He is laconic. He merely writes— COOK ME RARE. D. Boo-hoo-hoo-hoo! F. Boo-hoo-hoo-too!
WHAT I KNOW ABOUT FREE
TRADE. DEAR PUNCHINELLO: In a paper of such great influence
as PUNCHINELLO, vast subjects should be set before the
community. I know of none vaster than Free Trade. You
see, every body understands that subject and nobody can
explain it. I propose, therefore, to turn the light of my
penny dip upon it, and to set forth, in concise language,
what I know about free trade. It must be premised that there is a great deal to be
said on the other side, and that nothing can be more
abominable than free trade to a protectionist, unless it
be protection to a free trader. Free trade is—well—free
trade is—well—let me illustrate: cigars made out of
cabbages are not nice; not to put too fine a point upon
it, they’re nasty. We are greater at raising cabbages
than we are at sprouting cigar tobacco. Under these
circumstances the free trader (he’s a smoker, or if he
isn’t, his aunt or sister is) says we want Havana cigars
to enter our lips without the taint of revenue. That’s
free trade. Every youth is a free trader. Don’t you remember your
own youthful follies? If you are of the male persuasion,
would you have traded your jack-knife for TOM SMITH’S
bull-pup, if there had been a tariff on the pup. Or, if
you are of the feminine persuasibility, would you have
swapped your crying-doll for BETSY JONSES’ ring-tailed
cat, if the cat had been compelled to crawl through the
custom-house and pay duties? Besides, don’t you remember
how often your mother deprived you of a second cup of
tea, on the plea that it would injure your health? Much
as I respect your mamma, I can not refrain from informing
you that that plea was false, and that it was the absence
of free trade that deprived you of a second cup of China
whiskey. Then you know that the lump-sugar, the raisins,
the cake, etc., were always locked up in a pantry. All
the result, my dear sir, of an absence of free trade. Now that you have grown up, the result is the same.
You must have your soup, and (I do not mean to be
pathetic) what is soup without salt? You must travel on
the cars, but what are cars without rails? But, alas,
salt and rails are in the black list. What do you care,
whether or not TOM JONES and BILLY BROWN make money out
of their salt and iron mines? You want cheap soup and
cheap riding. Then every time that you pay one hundred
dollars for your wife’s dry-goods, you have the ecstatic
pleasure of knowing that you are paying fifty dollars
because Mr. JOHN ROBINSON can’t make goods as cheap as
the English manufacturers. In the natural state, man is a free trader. When our
good Christian brethren give an Indian a string of beads
for a buffalo-skin, the Indian charges no custom duties.
He don’t want to keep beads out of his country. When LOT
swapped his wife away for a pillar of salt, the trade was
free. When the Americans traded away good ships and
cargoes for Alabama claims, not a word was said about the
tariff. These, however, are cases in which nature rather
gets ahead of civilization. See the result of the lack of free trade in our
country. The brick manufacturers must be protected, so a
heavy tariff was placed on the foreign article. Our brick
men, finding that they had a soft thing, tried to solve
that conundrum which the Israelites gave up: “How do you
make bricks without straw?” They made a patent brick,
built the Howard Museum in Washington, (was it a museum
or a college?) the thing tumbled down, and a
Congressional committee sat among its ruins. Poor Gen.
HOWARD is in a muddle, and wishes, from the bottom of his
heart, that we had free trade in bricks. Then, morally, see the high position of the free
trader. Poor men who must have tea or cigars or English
or French manufactures, are never driven to smuggling,
where free trade prevails. The free trader would even
abolish the tariff of two dollars and a half, imposed on
human chattels who land at Castle Garden. That’s all I know about free trade. I thought I knew
more. I’m afraid I haven’t illuminated the subject;
however, I will turn my lantern next week on
protection. LOT.
SHOCKING AFFAIR. First Heavy Swell. “WHAT’S THE MATTER, OLD
FELLOW?—UNDER THE WEATHER, EH?” Second ditto. “WORSE THAN THAT. I’ve burst
my shirt-collar!“
OUR FOREIGN
CORRESPONDENCE. (BY ATLANTIC CABLE.) Your representative’s little speech at the great
PUNCHINELLO dinner may be better imagined than described.
A few words, however, may give you its animus. “If,” said I, “in this illustrious company, one may
indulge in a Wellerism”— “Spell it with a we, sir, if you please,” whispered
SAMIVEL, who stood right behind me. I resumed. “I have to say, that my feelings at this
hour are too many for me. Perhaps I might add, that the
courses have been so also. As my friend SOYER used to
observe when we were together in the Crimea, astronomical
and gastronomical laws are alike fixed. And one of them
is, that the precession of the dinner-plates, and the
nutation of the glasses, do not promote the music of the
spheres. But, Mr. PUNCH and gentlemen, although not one
of the heavenly bodies, indeed altogether terrestrial,
one feels, naturally, rounder in his orbit, and a little
more likely to see stars, after such a dinner as this,
than before. Do I not, indeed, see around me now, all the
stars of the intellectual firmament? Are not SIRIUS and
ARCTURUS here, in their glory, as well as ORION and the
rest? As my old friend CRISPIN would say, their name is
legion! I would blaze, gentlemen, too, if possible, in
honor of the occasion; but, as I can’t Comet, meteors
fall in lamentation of my poor ability. “The day we celebrate is truly a great one. Since the
time of OLAF, the Northman, our Anglo-Saxon-Celtic race
has loved its jesting philosophers. No fools are they, in
fact, even when to that name they ‘stoop to conquer.’
‘The wise man’s folly
is anatomized
Even by the
squand’ring glances of the fool.’ “The sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my
often rumination wraps me, is a most humorous
sadness. “But, gentlemen, your walls have, if not ears,
tongues, to recall the glorious humor and wit of our
race. HOGARTH looks down upon us. ADDISON tells us of
dear old Sir ROGER de COVERLEY; I am sure he must have
been the grandfather of Mr. PICKWICK. STERNE makes us
weep on one side and smile on the other, at the mention
of my UNCLE TOBY; GOLDSMITH, at the remembrance of
himself. And so does TOM HOOD, the prince of humorists.
THACKERAY we all remember; and neither he nor his Vanity
Fair will ever be forgotten. DOUGLAS JERROLD, and JOHN
LEECH, too—the only tears they ever made men shed were
at their graves. And who can fail to feel like a
“pendulum betwixt a smile and tear,” when he remembers
our ARTEMUS WARD? Over the water now we have some yet; of
whom we count “the TWAIN one;” and we can get up as good
BILLINGS-gate as ever went to market. Then, for right
Saxon wit, have we not SAXE himself? And, for the
luminous, PETROLEUM, the ex-postmaster of the
Cross-roads? “I represent a name, gentlemen, new with us, yet old
in Europe. You are well aware that, in Italy”— “That might ‘uv been tuk for granted; as the
donkey said ven his dam called him a hass”—whispered,
rather loudly, SAMIVEL, behind me. Now whether it was the Thames atmosphere that had got
into my head, or whether it was SAM WELLER’S unexpected
remark, I am unable, to this day, to say. But, somehow or
other, my speech had, by this time, gone up. So I went
down. If the speech was a rocket, I represented a stick.
Perhaps JENKINS may yet wake up to the importance to the
civilization of the century of reporting in full CHARLES
DICKENS’ speech, and BULWER’S, and the rest. If so, I
will send them on. PUNCHINELLO, however, was honored as
he deserves, at this dinner. Now for a little serious
news. GREAT BRITAIN. JOHN SMITH, Esq., (son of the elder Smith,)
finds it necessary to contradict the rumor that he is
going to the United States. He is fearful lest there may,
possibly, be another person of the same name in America;
which might cause confusion. On dit that one of VICTORIA’S daughters was to be
engaged to be married to a young member of the house of
ORANGE. But it is believed now to have been a sour
orange. Rev. Mr. MACKONOCHIE has been warned by the Bishop of
London that he must reform his ritual, in some
particulars. The Bishop is especially incensed at the
censer; and waxes censorious about the wax lights. He
insists that Father MACKONOCHIE must use Stearine or
Spermaceti. Moreover, when water is mixed with wine, it
must not come from the East River; and the wine must be
red. Blue wine will do if he can find any. Church parties are much excited about Mr. MIALL’S
Church-liberation scheme. But why so? Will not any Rev.
who has a living, say, “Who takes my living takes away
my all!” A bad pun; but a good argument. They
should not miaul about it, at any rate. FRANCE. PIERRE BONAPARTE has gone to be king of the Feejee
Islands. It has been stipulated that he shall not shoot
more than one man in a month; and part of the tenderloin
is to be given always to his Majesty’s Prime
Minister. M. GUERRONIER’S remark in the Senate, April 19th,
requires explanation. He said that “Europe can be
tranquil only when France is satisfied.” He was alluding
to the necessity of an early supply of copies of
PUNCHINELLO; without which that excitable population can
not be kept in a satisfactory state. I have made
arrangements to have them forwarded accordingly. GERMANY. POTOCKIS, new Minister of Public Instruction, has
offered his resignation. The reason is that a deputation
of the professors and teachers called on him to say that
it would take their pupils a year to learn how to spell
his name. It is TSCHABUSHNIGG. —PRIME.
POOR CAPTAIN
EYRE. It is really outrageous to find fault with poor
Captain EYRE. If ever a man had a full and perfect
defence to the accusations which are made against him,
EYRE is that man. Not content with offering one excuse,
he offers a large and varied assortment of excuses, any
one of which ought to be quite satisfactory. For example
he asserts: That instead of running into the Oneida, the Oneida
ran into him. That his ship struck the Oneida so lightly that he
never knew there had been any collision. That he saw the Oneida just after he had run into her,
and that she did not appear to have lost any thing but
her skylights. That he stopped his engines and blew his whistle, in
order to show that he was ready to offer any needed
assistance to the Oneida. That the reason why he did not stop his engines and
offer assistance, was that the collision had so injured
his own ship that he thought best to make at once for the
nearest port. That he never dreamed that any assistance was wanted,
and therefore did not offer it. That he would have gone to the assistance of the
Oneida had not one of his lady passengers been so
frightened by the collision that she begged him to make
all possible speed to land her. That not a single one of his passengers knew there had
been a collision, so light was the shock of the
contact. That it was only a Yankee ship, any how, and that it
is all “blarsted” nonsense to make a fuss about it. Captain EYRE has returned to England, and asks, on the
above grounds, that he be reinstated in command of his
ship. It would be absurd to refuse so just a request. His
defence could not well be more full unless he were to
strengthen it with an alibi. If Mr. SOLOMON PELL still
pursues the practice of the law, Captain EYRE should at
once employ that eminent barrister to prove an alibi for
him. His justification would then be too conclusive to
admit of question.
CRITICISM OF THE
PERIOD. [AFTER THE MANNER OF THE “NATION.”] Milton’s Paradise Lost.—The demand for a new
edition of this cumbrous piece of blank verse, proves
what we have often said, that the want, in CROMWELLS
time, of a literary journal of the character of the
Nation has had a permanent effect upon literature.
Had we been in existence when that obstinate and pedantic
old Puritan wrote, we might have suppressed him. Still,
there is no knowing what women and children will not
read. While MILTON’S lines certainly measure generally
about the same length, it is preposterous to call by the
name of poetry what could be written in prose with so
little modification. It is true that the same objection
might be applied to HOMER and SHAKSPEARE. The former has
the advantage of being written in Greek, so that very few
people can read it. SHAKSPEARE has a popularity that is
partly accounted for by the low taste of the people who
have gone to the theatre to hear SIDDONS rave and GARRICK
declaim, or who will persist in admiring MACREADY and
BOOTH. As to MILTON, we have detected, with the aid of
foot-notes to an old edition, a multitude of the most
absolute plagiarisms from various authors. From the Bible
mainly, and also from the Greek and Latin poets, he has
taken nearly all his ideas; and every one of the words he
uses are to be found in the dictionary. Talk of
originality, after that! His conceptions also are
sometimes absurd; for instance, the Address to Light. No
one, who has not been stultified by theological
nebulosities, ought to fail to know, as we knew
when we first began to go to school, that a blind man
cannot see anything at all. Therefore it is an insult to
the understanding, and paltering with all the rational
inductions of modern science, for an educated writer,
stone blind, to say a word about light. In fact, the whole plot of the poem flies in the face
of the cultivation of the Nineteenth Century. Such ideas
as Paradise, Adam and Eve, and angels, are getting
obsolete. While it is not to be expected that ordinary
persons should have the intelligence or learning of the
Editor and contributors of the Nation, we yet
wonder that they are not always ready to abide by the
instruction we are prepared to give them, at the small
price of five dollars a year. Subscriptions received at
this office.
INTERIOR ILLUMINATION. It gives us joy to state that the celebrated Dr. MILIO
(of whom we have never heard before) has invented a means
of illuminating men’s interiors. The doctor lives in
Russia; and he takes you and throws inside of you “a
concentrated beam of electric light;” and then he sees
exactly what particular pill you want, and he gives it to
you, and you go away (after paying him) exultant! This
quite does away with the necessity of a bow-window in the
bosom, so much desired by a certain ancient
philosopher. Mr. PUNCHINELLO begs leave most respectfully to
announce that he has determined to import, at any expense
whatever, one of Dr. MILIO’S Concentrated Electric
Beamers. With this Dr. PUNCHINELLO does not intend to
engage in private practice. His purpose is to throw the
light directly into the Body Politic, whether the B.P.
requests him to do it or not. Dr. P. confidently expects
to make some most extraordinary discoveries of various
diseases—of greed, foolish ambition, ossification of the
heart, moral leprosy, chronic stupidity, latent idiocy,
and that very common and often unsuspected complaint
usually known as Humbug. (Humbugna Communis.) His
fee in no case will exceed ten cents per week; and
patients WILL BE illuminated by the year.
THE DREADFUL STATE OF
THINGS OUT WEST. A dispatch received at this office from the office of
the Chicago Tribune states that the utmost public
distress is prevailing in St. Louis. A frightful
pestilence is raging, complete anarchy prevails, most of
the merchants have gone into insolvency, and ruin stares
St. Louis in the face in the most aggravating way. A dispatch from the St. Louis Democrat states
that the utmost public distress is prevailing in Chicago.
A frightful pestilence is raging, complete anarchy
prevails, most of the merchants have gone into
insolvency, etc., etc. A dispatch, from the Cincinnati Gazette states
that the utmost public distress is prevailing in both,
St. Louis and Chicago. A frightful pestilence is raging,
complete anarchy prevails, most of the merchants have
gone into insolvency, etc., etc., etc. The most painful part of the matter, in Mr.
PUNCHINELLO’S benevolent eyes, is that each city appears
to be perfectly delighted with the misfortunes and
miseries of both the others. Instead of getting up
subscriptions for each other, they chuckle and crow in a
perfectly fiendish manner. Until they can behave better,
we shall postpone the subscription which we propose to
open in their behalf.
PERSONAL GOSSIP.
(From the Daily Press.)
“THE WINNER OF A $25,000 PRIZE IN THE HAVANA LOTTERY
IS A BOOT-BLACK OF BROOKLYN.”
A Capital Letter. The property-holder who Lets his houses at reduced
rents.
A TOUCHING INCIDENT IN CONGRESS. THE RECONCILIATION BETWEEN GENERAL BUTLER AND
GENERAL
SCHENCK, ON THE SUBJECT OF THE TARIFF BILL.
COLONEL FISK’S
SOLILOQUY. THE NINTH TEMPTATION. Would I were young enough, to
go to school,
Or could but pitch upon some golden rule
For knowing what I am, and what to do,
When to the public gaze I am on view.
I’m Colonel, Admiral, and President,
A theatre manager, and resident
Director of the Opera House, and mine
Are Erie and the Boston steamboat line.
Of merchant, banker, broker, every shade
Am I; in fact, a Jack of every trade.
More varied than the hues of the Chameleon;
Far heavier than Ossa piled on Pelion
Are all my duties! Really it’s confusing,
At times, to a degree that’s quite amusing.
When am I this, when that, when which, when what?
And am I always FISK, or am I not?
Thus, constantly I get into a fix,
And one thing with another sadly mix;
Many a time absurd mistakes I’ve made
In giving orders. When I’m on Parade,
And ought to say, “Fours Right,” by Jove! I’m certain
To holloa out, “Come, hurry up that curtain!”
Going to Providence the other night,
I ordered all the hands, “Dress to the Right!”
I saw my error, and called out again,
“Hold on! I meant to say, The Ladies’ Chain.”
At Matinée the other afternoon,
When all the violins seemed well in tune,
I sang out to the Bell Boy, “What’s the hitch?
If the Express is due, you’d better switch!”
My order seemed the boy to overwhelm—
“Lubber!” I cried, “why don’t you port your helm?”
I made a speech the other night at mess,
And what my toast was, nobody will guess;
It should have been, “The Union”—’twas, “Be cheery,
Boys! the toast we have to drink is—Erie.”
The boys laughed loudly, being the right, sort,
And said, “Why, Admiral! you’re hard a port.”
One time, when GOULD and I were on the cars,
I thought th’ officials of the train were tars;
Told them to “Coil that rope and clean the scuppers,
And then go down below and get your suppers.”
This must be changed, or my good name will suffer,
And folks will say, JIM FISK is but a duffer.
To feel myself a fool and lose my head,
Too, takes the gilding off the gingerbread;
And makes me ask myself the reason why
On earth I have so many fish to fry?
The fact is, what I touch must have a risk
Of failure, or it wouldn’t suit JIM FISK,
I’ll conquer this, too—keep a secretary
To help me out when I’m in a quandary.
I will not budge! My banner is unfurled,
Proclaiming FISK the Problem of the world.
Query for Lawyers. If a man throws a huge stone at his wife’s head, would
he escape punishment on the plea that he only meant to
Rock her to sleep?
A Spring Blossom. Blossom Rock, in San Francisco Harbor, has just been
blown up with gunpowder. Of course Blossom Rock went “up
as a Flower”.
Justice in the New Territory. Whatever lack of law there may be in Alaska,
PUNCHINELLO is quite sure that there is Just-ice enough
in that domain to satisfy all demands.
A Rumor. It is rumored that the Fenian Organization have
offered Mr. FECHTER the position of Head Centre, in
recognition of the merciless manner in which he mangles
the Queen’s English.
THE FINANCIAL INQUISITION. Grand Inquisitor, U. S. GRANT. Associate
Inquisitors, G. S. BOUTWELL, F.E. SPINNER, JOHN
SHERMAN. Executioner, C. DELANO. ASSOCIATE SHERMAN. “WELL, UNCLE SAM DOES STAND A GOOD
DEAL OF PRESSURE. EXECUTIONER, KEEP PILING THE WEIGHTS
ON.”
NOW WE SHALL HAVE IT. It has always been one of the sorrows of our life that
we were prevented (by business) from being present at the
building of the Tower of Babel. To say nothing of the
great knowledge which we should have acquired of the
ancient languages, it would have been jolly to have
marked the foreman of the works swearing at the laborers
in Syriac, while they answered him in Hebrew, Chaldee,
and the Chinese tongue. However, as a next best thing, we
shall attend the meeting of the American Woman Suffrage
Association, which will be held in Washington during the
next session of Congress. We have as much regard as any
body for the drums of our ears; but for the sake of a new
sensation, we shall be willing to risk them. We can
imagine at this moment, the astounding effect of the
Grand Double Palaver! All the Senators and
Representatives are either barking, or bawling, or
screaming, or shouting, or yelling in the Capitol, while,
to complete the elocutionary duet, all the American women
are simultaneously indulging the unruly and unbridled
member. What the precise effect will be we don’t profess
to say; but we confidently predict some valuable
discovery in the science of acoustics.
FORTY-FOUR TO FOURTEEN. [IN WHICH THE YOUNG MEN OF THE PERIOD ARE TAKEN IN
HAND.] Forty-four is going to talk (with a pen) to Fourteen.
I am a female; and forty-four, as just hinted, is my age.
Fourteen is also a female—just the age I was once. How I
recollect that day! I was full of romance and hope; now
I’ve no romance, little hope, and some wrinkles. It is a
fine thing to be fourteen. I should like to go back
there, and make a long visit. But that can’t be. How much
I wish it could! If only there were life-renewers as well
as hair-renewers! They called me pretty at fourteen—said
I had pretty ways, (one of them was one hundred and
thirty-five avoirdupois,) and would certainly be a belle.
But I proved too much for that. One hundred and
seventy-five cut off all hope. I sighed, ate nothing,
studied poetry, did a good deal of melancholy by
moonlight and otherwise, but nothing came of it. I made
myself as agreeable as possible; but it was the old
story—I was too much for ’em—I mean the young men of
the period. I dressed and gave parties. I took lessons in
singing of Sig. Folderol, and in dancing of Mons.
Pigeonwing, and could sing cavatinas and galop galops
with the best of them. Ma said I was an angel, and Pa
declared I was perfect. But none of the young men said
so. My dear Fourteen, it may be just so with you. Your ma
and pa may say you are angelic and perfect; but where’s
the use of it, if nobody else can be made to see it? I
tried my best to catch the young men in my net. But,
provoking things, they wouldn’t be caught. Between
ourselves—mind, don’t blab it out—young men are the
greatest noodles that were ever put upon the face of the
earth. I never yet saw one that could be depended upon to
stand by. I am sure, as you know, no one ever stood by
me—when there was a parson at hand. At fourteen I didn’t
much care where they stood, if it wasn’t on my corns.
Twenty years later I shouldn’t have been so particular.
But I don’t much mind now, bless you! You wont at
forty-four. There’s nothing to these young men. All talk,
pretence, audacity, and paper collar, I assure you. I’ve
studied all of them. They are the same now as then. Human
nature, you know, my dear Fourteen, is the same
yesterday, to-day, and week after next. I used to think
it wasn’t; now I know it is. These young men—monsters
that they are—will pour the nectar of compliments over
your face, and the acid and canker of abuse down your
back; and all in the same breath, if they get a chance.
Pray have an eye and an ear out for them. If you go to
Long Branch, or Newport, or Saratoga, or the White
Mountains this summer, just look out for them. They are
dreadful creatures at home in the cities, but doubly
dreadful at these resorts. You are young, simple,
unsophisticated. I was at your age. But I soon got over
such weaknesses. You must very soon, or be a ninny.
“Simple,” “artless,” “unsophisticated,” and such terms
mean simply softness. Whatever else you are, or are not,
don’t be soft. The mistake of my fruitless life has been
that I believed, in other years, all that was told me by
the other sex. They said to my face that I was a beauty;
at Mr. Jones’s, they said I was a fright. They said I
sang like a Patti; at Brown’s, I screeched like an owl.
They said I danced like Terpsichore; at Smith’s, they
declared I wabbled round like any other lame duck. They
said my taste in dress was the pink of perfection; at the
Duzenbury’s, I was scandalously deficient in every thing
of the sort. It’s a way the young men of that day had
with all the girls; and they go the same vile way now.
Pray don’t have any thing to do with them. I don’t, and I
wouldn’t for the world. Folks say I’m prejudiced against
em; but it isn’t so—I hate ’em. It is healthy to hate
what is hateful. It is healthy to hate a bundle of
broadcloth, kerseymere, buttons, and brass, and it’s my
delight by day and dream by night. I’m forty-four—you’re
fourteen. I’ve seen the world—you haven’t. You look
through rosy glasses; I through the clear, naked eye. My
advice to you on the young men question is this: Discount
nine words in every ten spoken to you as absolute
trash—the gush of mere evaporative sentiment. If you are
called pretty, graceful, accomplished, neat in dress,
comely in person, that your eyes sparkle like diamonds,
and your lips are poetic, with whole volumes of such,
just make up your mind that there are plenty of fools
around trying to make a sillier one than themselves. It
may seem very fine for the moment, but it will realize
something very different afterward. Suppose you are not
caught up? All the better. I’m forty-four, independent,
free, a slave to no man nor monkey. Better live, to write
your own tale than be the abject one to another. Better
be forty-four and yourself, than a cipher belonging to
some body else. Far better beware of the young men than
be worn by them. At least so thinks and says FORTY-FOUR.
A NEW RAILWAY PROJECT. While every one agrees that a railway running through
the city of New-York, and transporting passengers with
rapidity from one end of the island to the other, is an
absolute necessity, no one has yet hit upon a plan which
satisfies the public. The Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Animals objects to the Elevated Road, on the
ground (though it is in the air) that the cars will
continually run off the track, and, falling on the horses
and dogs in the street below, crush them to a fatal
jelly. The Arcade plan is objectionable to the
shop-keepers, inasmuch as it will change the great
thoroughfare into a street consisting exclusively of
cellars, thereby driving the buyers elsewhere.
Conservative people, who like old things, naturally
dislike the Pneumatic Railway, and vehemently assert that
“they’ll be blowed if they travel over it,” which will
undoubtedly prove to be true. Evidently a new plan must
be devised if every body is to be satisfied. That plan
PUNCHINELLO rather flatters himself that he has
invented. It does not seem to have yet occurred to any one that
we are not necessarily shut up to the single plan of
fitting a railway to the city. Why can we not fit the
city to the railway? Every body remembers that when the
Mountain wouldn’t come to MOHAMED, that eminent preacher
went to the mountain. Here we have a precedent worth
following, To build any sort of railway in New-York will
take time and money. Why, then, should we do it when
there are plenty of nice railways already built in every
part of the country? There is a very nice railway
completed and in running order from Pokertown, in Montana
territory, to Euchrebend, just across the line in Idaho.
All we have to do is to box up our buildings, together
with the Central Park, the sewers, the docks, and the
Tammany Hall General Committee, and express them through
to Pokertown. The city can then be set up on each side of
the Pokertown and Euchrebend Railway, and then we shall
have the desired state of things—a railway running
through the heart of our city. This plan is both novel
and easy. At all events it is easy of execution in
comparison with the Arcade plan, and it presents no
features to which any one can reasonably object. Drawings
of the city as it will appear when this plan has been
carried out are now in process of publication, and will
soon be for sale at this office. (N. B.—Shares in the
Pokertown and Euchrebend Railway, and lost along the
route of that admirable road, also for sale on
application to the gentleman whose able pen presents this
scheme to our readers.)
“Curses Come Home,”
etc. The gay young men of New-York are said to be terribly
addicted to the use of absinthe. They pick up the
vice in Paris, and hence arises the singular paradox
that, even after they return home, they still continue to
be Absinthees.
A Logical Sequence. Paper made from wood cannot be claimed as a modern
invention, for Log books, as every body knows, have been
used by mariners since ever so long ago.
MODERN MATRIMONY. Young Wife. “YES, DEAR, MY HUSBAND IS ALL I COULD WISH
HIM TO BE.” Husband (who is making bread in the back room). “I
WISH I COULD SAY AS MUCH FOR HER.”
ABOUT A BLOCK. A “COUNTRYMAN” writes to us, asking whether the
extension of “Murderer’s Block” is among the current city
improvements, He says that, on recently visiting this
city, he had great difficulty in determining the exact
locality of the sanctuary in question. Some said it was
in the Eighth Ward; others located it in the Seventeenth.
A policeman in East Houston street, in reply to the
query, “Which is Murderer’s Block?” waved his hand with a
gesture indicative of unlimited space, and said, “You are
on it.” Not pleased with the impeaching tone of this
reply, our informant made his way to another ward, where
he put the same question to the first policeman who came
along. Without giving him a direct reply, the officer
winked, shifted his quid of tobacco so as to display his
Check to full advantage, and pointed with his thumb over
his shoulder at indefinite city “slums” behind him. Let
the “Countryman” understand that, as things are at
present, he may stand almost any where in the city and be
within a marble-shot of “Murderer’s Block.” Perhaps
Superintendent JOURDAN is quite aware of this.
Neptunian. Is it correct to speak of the waters of the Black Sea
as the colored element?
SONG OF THE RETURNED
SOLDIER. [WITH REMARKS BY PUNCHINELLO.] I’ll hang my harp on the
willow-tree, (And that’s a very sensible thing for him to do. A
hand-organ is what he wants now.) And I’ll off to the wars
again; (Not much. A fellow with only one leg, and perhaps
but half the regulation number of arms, is not wanted in
the ranks.) My
peaceful home has no charms for me, (Of course not. He gave up his home and business to
go to the wars, and he can’t expect to have all these
things when he comes back again, you know.)
The battle-field no
pain. (A great many other fellows besides him found the
battle-field no payin’ place.) The country I love stands up in her
pride, (That’s so. He’s right this time.)
With a diadem on her
brow; (Referring probably to what SUMNER calls the “dire
Democracy.”) Oh! why did she flatter my boyish
pride? (Because she wanted men; that’s all.)
She is going to leave me
now! (By no means. He can play his organ on the corner
as long as he wants to.) She took me away from my child and
wife, (That was all right enough. He couldn’t take his
wife and child into camp.) And gave me a shoddy suit; (Entirely the fault of the contractors.)
I quite forgot my good
old life, (That was perfectly proper. People in camp have to
forget that sort of thing.) While they taught me to march and
shoot. (Good lessons; worth learning.)
She seemed to think me
above the men (Made him corporal, most probably.)
Who staid at their homes,
you see; (And if he fought on principle he was above most of
them.) Oh, had
I jumped the bounty then, (Horrible idea!) It would have been better for
me. (That’s not so certain. To be sure, in that case he
might have got a good office in some of the Departments,
or been made a Consul, but why should he complain? He has
a first-rate organ, and nobody hinders him from sitting
on the corner and grinding it the livelong day, if it
pleases him. And then there’s the honor! His country may
not think about it, nor the people who give him pennies,
but if he feels it himself, what more need he want? How
ridiculous it is for some persons to insinuate that a
rich and powerful people, who can grant hundreds of
thousands of dollars to railroad companies, and North
Pole expeditions, ought to be ashamed to see their
disabled soldiers begging on the corners! Absurd beyond
comparison!)
NO GHOST AFTER ALL. MR. PUNCHINELLO, having been often scared out of his
senses (which are usually very good and trustworthy
senses,) by double tattoos on his library table, and also
by the eccentric movements of the table itself, is happy
to announce that, after all, there is nothing in it.
There is a Dr. HAMMOND who has sent all necessary
explanations to the North American Review. We do
not understand them at all, but they are highly soothing
and satisfactory. It seems that Mr. P. (in common with
less distinguished characters) has “a gray tissue.” This
does not refer to his coat, but to something inside of
him which renders him the nervous creature that he is.
Well, not to make too scientific a matter of it, it
appears that our “gray tissue” operates upon our “spinal
cord,” and raises the old boy (if we may be allowed the
expression) with our brains; and this, in some way, but
really we do not exactly see how, produces the raps, and
leads us to suppose that we are hearing (dear old lady!)
from our grandmother. It is astonishing how simple these
mysterious matters appear after a scientific
explanation.
THE DOG-BREAKER’S
DIFFICULTY. 
Philological Query. Is the following sentence, which Mr. PUNCHINELLO finds
in that respectable paper, the Boston Advertiser, to be
considered as English or Latin? “The constitutio de fide has been adopted by the
Ecumenical Council, nemine contradicente.”
A Place Appropriately
Named. SIGH-BERIA
FISCALITIES. Let no one read this title—rascalities. Fiscalities
are very different things. (That is to say, out of
Wall street.) PUNCHINELLO always had a strong liking
for fiscal subjects, and even now he would be glad to
write a fiscal history of the United States, provided he
was furnished with specimens of all the various coins,
bank-notes, greenbacks, bonds, and such mediums of
exchange that have been in circulation from colonial
times until now. (That is to say, he’d like very much
to have the coins and things, but if any one takes up
this offer, and wants to keep his coins, a money-order
for a corresponding amount, or ordinary bills, in a
registered letter, will be entirely satisfactory.)
But as he can not write a book this week, he desires to
draw the attention of his readers to the fact that fiscal
expansion ought to be the great end of man. (That is
to say, it often is, but in a different way from what
PUNCHINELLO means.) For instance, look at Colonel
FISK, of the glorious Ninth! Had not his vigorous
intellect been closely applied to the great questions of
fiscal economy, is it likely that the steady expansion of
his corporeal being would have given such a weight to his
wisely-planned movements? (That is to say, if he
hadn’t got rich he wouldn’t have got so fat, and then
buildings would not tremble when he drills.) A man
who is perfectly proportioned in a fiscal point of view,
can call himself a monarch of the world. The elements
will own they are his servants, and the seasons will
mould themselves to suit his will. (That is to say, he
can have one hundred and fifty fine young women to dance
the Devil’s Torchlight Cotillion in his own theatre, and
he can sit there, if he wants to, all alone and look at
them just as long as he pleases; and not one of them dare
stop till he’s ready.) Space bows before such a man,
and shrivels itself up into a mere nothing. Land and
water are alike to such a one. It matters not to him
whether the waves roll beneath his possessions, or the
solid ground upholds them. ST. CECILIA sits at the feet of this great exponent of
fiscal expansion, and TUBAL CAIN dwells serenely in his
court-yards. (That is to say, just wait until you hear
his new brass band!) Now, who would not be as this
financial monarch? Who would not say: “I, too, can do
these things?” (That is to say, which of us would not
gladly take every cent the good FISK possesses, and let
him beg his bread from door to door, if we only got a
decent chance?) If it were not for such shining
examples of the power of wealth and the glories that it
is capable of placing before our eyes, the souls of
ordinary men would much less frequently be moved to
extraordinary effort in the line of pecuniary progress.
(That is to say, if old FISK did not change the ballet
in his Twelve Temptations so often, and did not keep on
getting new dancers, and dressing them all up different
every week or two, we would not have to raise a dollar
and half so frequently to go and see the confounded
thing.) But it is of no use to try and calculate the
vast advantage of Fiscal expansion. Even with a WEBB’S
Adder, PUNCHINELLO could not do the sum, and it’s pretty
certain that it would make WEBB Sadder, if he tried it.
Among other things, a man of fiscal solidity is never
unprepared for emergencies, and, if necessary, he can
resort to extremities of which ordinary people would
never dream. (That is to say, have you seen FISK’S
last legs?) Therefore, it becomes us all to endeavor
to have a share in the prosperity of which we see such a
shining example, (that is to say, PUNCHINELLO does not
mean for us all to go buy stock in Erie,) and mayhap,
even the humblest of us may, in time, be able to whistle
“Shoo Fly” in marble halls. (That is to say, even a
poor ostler may get along very well if he attentively and
industriously waters his stock.)
Interesting to Mr.
Bergh. “Dog’s-Ear” shirt-collars (the ones that stick up and
are doubled down at the points,) are coming into
fashion. Says young SOLOMONS, the other day, “I want something
new in collars; I shall cut my Dog’s-ears.” And he went
and did it; which is decidedly interesting to Mr.
BERGH.
An Interesting Patient. New-Haven enjoys an elephant that has corns, and is
about to be operated on by a chiropodist. There is a
largeness, approaching to sublimity, in the idea of an
elephant with corns, though it naturally suggests the
query, “What Boots it?”
A Dogged Problem. If Sir WALTER SCOTT’S dog was worth—say—ten
“pounds,” what was his Kenilworth?
CONDENSED CONGRESS. SENATE.  he
gentle CHANDLER is occasionally goaded to rage and
rhetoric by perfidious Albion. The other day he had one
of these deliriums. In the language of the bard.
He shook his fists and he tore his hair Till they
really felt afraid; For they couldn’t help thinking
the man had been
drinking. He wanted to annex the Winnipeg district. It was true
that the Winnipeg district was an unmitigated nuisance to
England; and probably it would prove an unmitigated
nuisance to us if we annexed it. But it would make Great
Britain mad. The dearest object of his life was to madden
Great Britain. What was Great Britain? What business had
she on this continent? None but the right of conquest. It
occurred to him that that was all we had ourselves; but
that made no difference. His motto was, Great Britain
est Carthago, or
delenda must be
destroyed, or something of that sort—he forgot exactly
what. He knew we could whip Great Britain, and he wanted
to fight her. That is, he wanted some body else to fight
her. It would be the proudest moment of his life to
serve, exclusively as a sutler, in the grand American
army which should go forth to smash Great Britain. Queen
VICTORIA was only a woman. Therefore he would fight her
single-handed. Let her come on. Let her son, who was a
snob, come on. Let Mr. THORNTON come on. Let every body
come on. He defied every body. He expectorated upon every
body. (Mr. CHANDLER by this time became so earnest that
seven Senators were constrained to wait upon him, but it
produced no sedative effect.) Mr. CHANDLER kept on in
this manner until he had challenged the population of the
planet to single combat, and then subsided, and ordered
five hundred copies of the morrow’s Globe to send to various
potentates and constituents. Mr. DRAKE said of course no body minded CHANDLER. But
there were some glimmerings of sense in CHANDLER, and he
thought the Winnipeg war would be a good thing. Perhaps
CHANDLER might be induced to go out there, which would
make it pleasant for the Senate. Mr. SUMNER said he was
disgusted, not with CHANDLER’S principles, which were
excellent, but with his quotation, which was incorrect.
He considered correct quotation far more important than
correct principles. Every school-boy knew that
delenda est
Carthago was what Mr. CHANDLER attempted to cite.
To be sure Mr. CHANDLER was not every school-boy. (Cheers
for every School-boy.) Mr. SUMNER took advantage of this
occasion to relate several incidents of the life of
HANNIBAL, and closed with a protest against the accursed
spirit of caste. In support of this view he sent to the
clerk’s desk, and had read a few chapters from KANT’S
Critique of Pure Reason. HOUSE. Schenck scatters members to flight whenever he
introduces his tariff bill. This disgusts SCHENCK, and he
has been trying to bring back the erring Representatives
by the use of the Sergeant-at-Arms and fines. The House
has lately amused itself by listening to excuses. Mr. BUTLER’S name was called. Mr. BUTLER was not
there. Mr. SCHENCK proposed to fine him. Mr. COX objected. Why, he said, should the sweet boon
of BUTLER’S absence rouse the anger of SCHENCK. He would
suggest an amendment that BUTLER be fined when present
and blessed when away. The less they had of BUTLER the
better. Mr. AMES was making money, and therefore he could not
come. Mr. DAVIS was prosecuting MCFARLAND, which he
considered better fun than discussing the tariff. Mr. FITCH had gone to take a bath. Mr. LOGAN said that
was ridiculous. He himself had never found it necessary
to absent himself on such a ground. No representative of
the people ought to take a bath. He was sorry to see this tendency to aristocracy on
the part of members. West Point and the bath-tub were
undermining our institutions. Mr. POLAND said that he had been to call on a
clergyman. Mr. LOGAN said that was worse if possible than
the bath. He much preferred immersion to sprinkling. Mr. SWEENEY (who is Mr. SWEENEY?) had been
superintending the birth of an infant SWEENEY. Mr. KELLEY
said a man who would basely look after his young when the
fate of pig-iron was trembling in the balance, was
unworthy to represent American freemen. What was the
interesting situation of any individual, male or female,
compared to the interesting situation of “fish-plates.”
The same fiendish spirit that animated the Confederate
armies was still alive. But it now found expression in
vile and insidious attacks upon the “scrap-iron” which
was the pride of every true American heart. He did not
hesitate to say that the man who would vote against an
increase of 7000 per cent, ad valorem, upon railway
iron would, if his cowardly soul would let him, have
aimed the pistol of the assassin at the late Mr.
LINCOLN. Mr. LOGAN said there was no occasion for Mr. KELLEY to
say any thing about any man from Illinois. He, LOGAN,
could take care of that State without KELLEY’S
assistance. He had observed with grief and shame that
KELLEY had made several more speeches this session than
he (LOGAN) had. He did not intend to suffer this in
future. Mr. KELLEY said he voted for his constituents, who
were ironmongers; but ho spoke, in an iron-ical way, for
the whole country. He meant to speak early and speak
often. Mr. SCHENCK upheld the income-tax. He said it bore
very lightly on Congressmen, for none but honest men were
compelled to pay it.
OUR LITERARY LEGATE. Minister MOTLEY is a gentleman, a scholar, and, though
last not least, as genial a diner and winer as ever put
American legs under a British peer’s mahogany. There was
a time when he was for avenging British outrage by
whipping John Bull out of his boots, but now, clad in a
dress-coat of unexceptionable cut, he deprecates the idea
of international breaches. As a diplomatist he could
scarcely show more indifference to the Alabama claim, if
the claim itself were All a Bam. He roars for recompense
more gently than a sucking dove. When he presented our
little bill a grand
coup was expected, but the trans-atlantic turtle
seems to have shut him up. Listening to compliments on
the “Dutch Republic” he forgets his own, and renders but
a Flemish account to his country. Not content with
following the festive footsteps of his illustrious
predecessor, REVERDY, he has made new tracks to every
hospitable nobleman’s door. The scented soft-soap of
adulation is his “particular vanity,” and under its
soothing influence he seems to be washing his hands of
his official responsibilities. In point of fact, MOTLEY
has deserted his colors, and, as a diplomat, is by no
means up to the American Standard. As it is clear he
cannot maintain the prestige of the Star Spangled
Banner abroad, we call upon the Government to give him
Hail Columbia, and order him home.
CONS BY A WRECKER. Where are women wrecked? Off the
Silly Islands.
Where are men wrecked? Some off Port, some Half Seas
over,
some off the Horn, or wherever they Chews.
Where are rogues wrecked? In the Dock.
Where are brokers wrecked? On the Breakers.
Where are children wrecked? Some in Babycome Bay, and
some on the Coral Islands.
Where are bad musicians wrecked? On the Sound.
Where are would-be sharpers wrecked? On the Mighty
Deep.
BOOK NOTICES. IN SPAIN AND A VISIT TO PORTUGAL. By HANS CHRISTIAN
ANDERSEN. New-York: HURD & HOUGHTON. A good summer book of nearly three hundred pages. As
usual, ANDERSEN is not abstruse in his way of putting
things. His narrative is adapted alike for the juvenile
mind and for the adult. There is no periphrasis in it.
One understands his meaning at a glance; therefore the
book should be a very popular one when summer time sets
in, and people look for some quiet
délassement which will not compel them to
think.
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ATHOS
