AT THE MERCANTILE
LIBRARY.  |  |  | Mr. Nottmuch, (to Clerk in Library.) “I
SEE BY YOUR CIRCULAR THAT VISITORS OF DISTINCTION
HAVE FREE ACCESS TO YOUR READING-ROOM, AND AS I
HAVE CONTRIBUTED A STORY TO THE ‘WAYERLY
MAGAZINE,'” etc. | Nottmuch, (having obtained access to
the reading-room.) “A VERY PRETTY GIRL, THAT
SUPERINTENDENT! HAS SHE PERUSED MY STORY, OR DO I
DAZZLE HER WITH MY LOOKS? HA! SHE
RISES!—.” | Lady Superintendent. (blandly but
firmly). “EXCUSE ME, SIR, BUT IT’S AGAINST THE
RULES FOR GENTLEMEN TO PLACE THEIR FEET ON
CHAIRS.” |
HIGH NOTES BY OUR MUSICAL CRITIC. PUNCHINELLO’S critic, always the friend of fair-play,
resents the insinuation that Mr. CARL ROSA has been a
careless director of Opera. The truth is that Mr. ROSA
has not produced the smallest work without a great deal
of Preparation. FLOTOW’S Shadow is to be brought out in London.
It will not stand the ghost of a chance unless well
mounted. Music light and sketchy; remarkable for a Chorus
of Fishermen, well known as the “Shad oh! song.” Lohengrin has had a run of eight nights at
Brussels, with average receipts of little less than four
thousand francs. This sort of tune is the only one in the
music of the Future which managers can understand.
Nevertheless Herr WAGNER is not out of spirits. Intent
upon laying the foundations of future wealth and fame, he
can lay Low and Grin. Brussels gold will serve him as
well as Rheingold. The difference between BACH’S music find a music-box
is yet an unsettled conundrum. Such is likely to be the
fate of the question raised with so much temper over the
Passion Music of that great man by the English critics.
Shame on all critics that condemn MOZART as a fogy and
BACH as a nuisance. Of course it is going back on BACH
with a vengeance, but what sympathy can exist between the
old fuguemakers and the modern high-flyers?
LATEST NEWS ITEMS. A SHEFFIELD paper has been prosecuted for asserting
that the Prince of Wales was a fast young man. The
prosecution was withdrawn as soon as the editor confessed
that the Prince was loose. The Treasury Department is much distressed by the
great genius for smuggling displayed by the Chinese
immigrants. They secrete opium in all sorts of wonderful
places, and so worry the custom-house officers
dreadfully. Several children have been arrested for
bringing their “poppies” over with them, and feeling in
favor of the offenders ran so high that a number of women
were fined for having a share in laud’n’m. The bull fights in London have come to a mournful
conclusion. The bulls refused to take part, and the
principal combatant instead of being all Matted O’er with
the blood of his taurine victims, has been sent to prison
for trying to Pick a Door lock. The Last of the Piegans is travelling East, on his way
to Philadelphia, to see “SHERIDAN’S Ride.” He was away
from home when PHILIP was there, and is very anxious to
know the young man when he sees him again. Hence his
laudable anxiety to study the picture. The Fenian Army. If the Fenians send an army to aid the Red river
insurgents, it may probably be the only “BIEL” work they
will attempt this year.
WHAT I KNOW ABOUT PROTECTION. DEAR PUNCHINELLO: Having skilfully illuminated Free
Trade, I now proceed to elucidate Protection. You see
when we reach Protection, the boot is on the other leg;
you make the conundrums then, and the other man
tries to guess them. There are many kinds of protection;
there’s the kind which a State’s prison-keeper gives to
one of his birds; the kind which a black-and-tan terrier,
or a freshly-imported Chinaman, extends to a good fat
rat; the kind which a pious young man offers to a fair
and tender damsel, when he places his arm around her
dainty waist, and gently absorbs the dew of innocence
from her rosy lips, (that idea, is, I think, plagiarized
from TENNYSON,) and the kind which a delicate
mother-in-law, blessed with nerves, pours out upon her
son-in-law. But I leave the discussion of such things to
weaker birds, and soar myself to a higher kind,
i.e., that Protection which is diametrically
opposed to Free Trade. Protection, in this sense, is—well, let me
follow my own admirable example, and illustrate: You own
a coal mine in Pennsylvania, which contains tolerably
poor coal, with which you mix a proper amount of stone,
and then sell the mixture for a high price. ICHABOD
BLUE-NOSE owns a coal mine in Nova Scotia, which
furnishes good coal; he puts no slate in it, and yet
sells it at a low figure. You reflect that with such
opposition you will never manage to dispose of all your
stone, so you apply to Congress, and have a high tariff
put on coal. That’s Protection. Metaphysically defined,
Protection is the natural right, inherent in every
American citizen, to obtain money in large quantities for
goods of small qualities. Protection is not a natural production; it was
invented about the time taxes were, though it must be
admitted that those very annoying articles appeared very
early in the history of the human race. I’ve no doubt
that ADAM levied taxes, though it’s very doubtful if he
could put as many things in a tax levy as a New York
politician can. Certainly there was a very high tariff on
apples in his day—so high that humanity has not yet
succeeded in paying off the duty on the one ADAM ate.
ABRAHAM paid taxes, and, as he was his own Senate and
House, doubtless he passed a tariff bill to suit himself,
and had any quantity of Protection. I have always
regretted that NOAH didn’t pass a bill protecting native
industry, because he could have enforced it, and had no
wrangling about it. There are one or two points about Protection which a
wayfaring man, even if people labor under the impression
that he is a fool, can understand. If you are JOHN SMITH
and own a coal mine or an iron mill, you go to
Washington, see your Congressman, (by see I mean look at
him, of course,) donate large sums of money to certain
poor, but honest men, who adorn the lobby of the House,
while they are waiting for generous patrons like unto
you, then go home and calmly await the result. Your
representative makes a speech, the exordium of which is
Patriotism, the peroration of which is Star-Spangled
Banner, and the central plum of which is your coal mine
or iron mill. Your poor and honest friends wear out
several pairs of shoes, the tariff bill is passed, your
mine or mill is abundantly protected, and the country is
saved. If, on the other hand, you are JOHN BROWN, and
raise cabbages and turnips on a farm, you are allowed to
pay high prices for SMITH’S coal or iron, but you expect
no Protection, and you’ve a sure thing of getting what
you expect. Of course you don’t imagine that I shall explain the
details of this profound subject. There are only two men
in this country who think they can do that, and each one
of those says that the other is an idiot. As a rule,
figures can’t lie; but look out for the exceptions when
you run across the subject of Protection. The very same
figures have an ugly way of proving both sides of a
question. You run down a fact, and think you’ve got it,
but, before you know it, it has slipped, like the “little
joker,” over to the other side. Personally, I am a Protectionist. Formerly I indulged
in that monstrous absurdity, Free Trade, but then I was
an importer; now, being a manufacturer, the scales have
fallen from my eyes, and I am of the straitest sect a
Protectionist. You can’t give me too much of it. Of
course I can’t see why pig-iron should be protected, and
pigs not. I think every native production should be cared
for, and that there should be an excessively high tariff
on foreign food. In that case poor REVERDY JOHNSON would
have been compelled to have passed a Lenten season at
Halifax, until he had eradicated from his system the rich
English dinners, before he could have entered this
favored land. And MOTLEY—bless me, he has eaten so
much that I don’t believe he could get it out of his body
if he fasted for the remainder of his natural life. I am informed, however, that Protection does us one
injury. All the World says that there is a Parsee
in our land, who is loaded with rupees, but who is unable
to spend them here because of our protective system, and
what all the World says, you know, must be true.
However, there are 40,000,000 of us, and, if Congress
will make all Americans buy my patent door-knobs, the
Parsee can go to—Hindostan. I don’t think any thing more can be said about
Protection. Any body who doesn’t understand it now had
better go to Washington, and listen to the debate on
scrap-iron. That will sharpen his wits. Pig-iron, of
course, is interesting, but then that’s a light and airy
subject. Hear the debate on scrap-iron, by all means. LOT.
A LITERARY VAMPIRE. No greater mistake was ever made than the supposition
that PUNCHINELLO is to be assailed with impunity by rival
publications. It is well known that he never courted
controversies or quarrels, and his best friends
understand perfectly his love for a peaceable career. But
when that flippant sheet, known as Rees’s American
Encyclopedia, comes out with a violent attack upon
PUNCHINELLO’S past life and present course, the assault
is such as would provoke a retort from any honest man.
The vile insinuation that PUNCHINELLO is printed and
published for the sole purpose of making money out of its
subscribers and the reading public in general, is too
mendacious for refutation; and when the reckless editor
of the periodical in question gravely announces that he
can never read PUNCHINELLO without laughing at its
contents, it will be readily seen that he goes so far as
to make use of the truth to serve his wicked purposes.
But the descent which this shameless conductor of a
journal, confessedly the organ of our ignorant masses,
has made into the private life of PUNCHINELLO, is without
precedent. He states that for the first fourteen years of
his life, PUNCHINELLO was, to all intents and purposes, a
person of little or no fortune, and that he depended
entirely upon his parents for support; that, until he had
reached his fifth birthday, he had absolutely no
knowledge of English literature, and was entirely
ignorant of even the rudiments of the classics; that he
never paid one cent of income tax at that period of his
life; and that his belief in the fundamental principles
of political economy was, at that time, doubted by all
who knew him best! Are such statements as these to be
submitted to by a man of honor? Never! PUNCHINELLO dares
the recreant editor of the dirty sheet to do his worst!
Of that base man he could tell much which would render
him unfit for the association of any person living, but
he forbears. This much, however, he will say. It is well
known that the said calumniator did, at many periods of
his life, make use of the services of a
calceolarius. Think of that, freemen of America!
He has often been known to submit to indignities, such as
nose-pulling from the hands of a common tonsor,
and has been frequently in such a condition that he could
not appear in public without the assistance of a
sartor! Is it fitting that a high-toned journalist
should engage in petty recriminations with such a one?
“Revenge,” says JAMES MURDOCK, “is the sweetest morsel
cooked in its own gravy, with sauce moyennaise.”
“Yes,” said Dean SWIFT, “and let us have some, and a
little gin, say five fingers, and a trifle of milk.” Thus
it is that we regard the editor of the
Encyclopedia. CARLYLE remarks, “Many a vessel, (for if not a Vessel,
then surely we, or our progenitors, in counting ships,
and the assumptive floatative mechanisms of anterior and
past ages; or as the Assyrians [under-estimating the
force of the correlative elements] declared a bridging,
or a going over [not of seas merely, but of those chaotic
gaps of the mind] are all wrong enough indeed,) has never
got there.” We also think of that editor in this way, and trust
that enough has been said to make it plain that
PUNCHINELLO is not to be attacked with impunity by every
little journal of the day.
Encouraging for Travellers. The managers of a leading railroad announce that they
take passengers “to all principal points of the West
without change.” Such unusual liberality, at a time when
Change is so scarce with many people, ought to insure for
that railroad a great success.
Alike, but Different. Poetry sometimes has a Ring in it. So has a pig’s
nose.
THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.  ilitary
dramas might, as a rule, be called with equal propriety
millinery dramas. In other words, their success is
generally due to their costumes. In this respect they
afford a marked contrast to ballet spectacles. The latter
give us inanity without clothes; the former, inanity in
particularly gorgeous clothes. Which, again, leads to the
further remark that the difference between the two styles
of inanity is, after all, a clothes thing. This is a
joke.
The Lancers, now running at WALLACK’S, (a
proceeding which implies no want of bravery on the part
of that distinguished corps,) is, however, unlike most
military dramas, inasmuch as it is a bright and brilliant
play. Moreover, it is acted by the best members of the
Company in their very best manner. Miss LOUISA MOORE,
whose golden hair and silvery voice become an actress of
genuine mettle as well as gentle grace, is ESTELLE, the
heroine; Miss EMILY MESTAYER is the Commanding Sister of
Col. EPÉE who is personated by Mr. FISHER; Mr.
WYNDHAM is the Graceless Private, who, having spent his
last penny, enlists in the Lancers and spends vast sums
in beneficiary beer in company with his comrades; Mr.
WILLIAMSON is the Kindly Sergeant; Mr. RINGGOLD is the
Genial Artist, whose velvet coat suggests that he has
recently managed a Starr opera bouffe enterprise;
and Mr. STODDART is happy in the congenial character of a
Clumsy Trumpeter. If any speculative manager pretends
that he has a better hypothetical cast in his eye than
the present cast of the Lancers, let him be given
to the surgical tormentors to be operated upon for
malignant strabismus. The curtain rises upon the Genial Artist searching for
his friend, the Graceless Private, in the empty jugs and
glasses at the Golden Sun Inn. To him enters the
Clumsy Trumpeter. Genial Artist. “Where can he be? It—it
must, and yet—” Clumsy Trumpeter (without Stoddart’s usual
oath.) “He’s got ’em. Hallo! friend. Do you want any
thing?” Genial Artist. “Yes—no—that
is—or rather it isn’t—” (Exit, while
Trumpeter makes faces at the gallery.) Enter ESTELLE and her maid, disguised as
peasants, and pursued by a troop of lancers. All the Lancers. “Let me kiss ’em.” Both the Girls. “Scr-r-r-r-e-e-e-ch.” (Enter Graceless Private.) Graceless Private. “I will protect you. Get
out, all you fellows.” (They get out.) A flirtation between the Private and ESTELLE is at
once begun, from which it appears that she came to catch
a glimpse of the Colonel, who wants to marry her. She and
the Private sit on the table, and fall instantaneously in
love. As soon as they are well in, the Lancers return,
and ESTELLE flies. Graceless Private, having no money,
pays for the co-inebriation of the entire corps, and
while engaged in this praiseworthy occupation is found by
the Genial Artist, who makes him promise to attend a ball
at a neighboring château. Enter Kindly
Sergeant, who arrests the Graceless Private, and puts him
in the guard-house. Curtain falls amid faces from
STODDART (without his usual oath) and applause from the
audience. Veteran Play-goer. “Well, I’ve seen STODDART in
every thing he has played this year, and this is the
first time he has failed to swear on every ineligible
occasion.” Young Lady who frequents Wallack’s. “Who is
that Clumsy Trumpeter? I don’t know him.” Accompanying Young Man. “Why, don’t you know
STODDART?” Young Lady. “Nonsense; that isn’t STODDART.
Why, he hasn’t sworn once.” Fast Young Man. “STODDART isn’t himself
to-night. He hasn’t the spirit to swear. Did you hear the
good thing he said Monday night about Miss MOORE? It was
devilish good. Says he—” (Repeats an indelicate
joke.) Irate Old Gentleman who overhears the story.
“If he said that, sir, he ought to have been hissed off
the stage, sir; and turned out of the company, sir! It
was an insult to an estimable lady, and an outrage on the
audience, sir!” The second act takes place in the salon of ESTELLE.
The Colonel and his Commanding Sister lay siege to
ESTELLE’S heart. Graceless Private, in evening dress,
countermines the Colonel’s forces and routs them, wading
deeper than before in the exhilarating surf of love, hand
in hand with ESTELLE. (This metaphor has been
leased for a term of years to a distinguished hydropathic
poet.) Clumsy Trumpeter drops books and things all over
the room, and recognises the Graceless Private. Finally
the Colonel and the latter quarrel, and go out in the
back yard to fight, where the Private is wounded in the
arm. The Colonel returns and announces the result to
ESTELLE, who swoons, or at all events, makes an
admirable feint of so doing. Curtain. Fast Young Man. “STODDART didn’t try his good
joke to-night. He’ll say something yet, though, before
the play is over.” Every body Else. “Did you ever see better
acting than WYNDHAM’S and Miss MOORE’S? And how capitally
FISHER and Miss MESTAYER are playing? STODDART positively
hasn’t sworn yet. What can be the matter with him?” Inquiring Maiden, to her travelled lover. “Are
the uniforms just like those of the real French
Lancers?” Travelled Lover. “Very nearly. There is one
button too many on the front of the Colonel’s coat. I
know the regiment well. It’s the crack artillery regiment
in the French service.” Act III. shows us the Graceless Private brought
before the Colonel for examination. He feigns
drunkenness, but the Colonel suspects him of having been
his adversary at the ball. ESTELLE visits the
Colonel in order to save her Private lover. He is proved
to have broken his arrest, and is sentenced to death.
ESTELLE offers to marry the Colonel if he will pardon
the Private. The latter’s discharge arrives in the nick
of time, and as he is thus beyond the reach of the
Colonel’s vengeance, he graciously pardons him, and joins
his hand to that of ESTELLE. He remarks—or
ought to—”Bless you, my children.” Every body
suddenly finds out that every body else is noble and
generous. And so the curtain falls upon a happy garrison,
including a Trumpeter who has not sworn a single
oath. One Half of the Audience. “How do you like it?
I like it so much.” The Other Half. “I like it immensely.” Chorus from Every body. “Why didn’t STODDART
swear?” Answering Echo from the Tipperary Hills.
“Because WALLACK has told him that the public won’t stand
it any longer.” And the public is right. Mr. STODDART is an
exceptionally able actor, but of late he has grown
intolerably coarse and vulgar while on the stage. His
profanity has disgraced himself and the theatre, and his
gratuitous insult to an estimable lady, who had the
misfortune to appear in the same scene with him on Monday
night, should have secured his instant dismissal from the
company, and his perpetual banishment to Tammany
or Tony Pastor’s. Let him turn over a new leaf at
once. He does not swear in the present play, and the fact
is creditable to him. He is a gentleman in private life;
let him be a gentleman on the stage. By so doing he will
soon be recognized as one of the best comedians of the
day. And PUNCHINELLO will be the first to praise him when
he lays aside the unnecessary vulgarity with which he has
latterly bid for the applause of the gallery. MATADOR.
THE RELIGION OF TEMPERANCE. Says Poet to Parson—To save men
from drinking,
Not many religions are
good to my thinking;
To be sure a good Baptist
a man of true grace is,
But a Hard Shell, my
brother’s the hardest of cases.
Your Shouter’s too noisy
for temperance talking,
Your Come-outer too harsh
for right temperate walking.
A Quaker’s not steady
enough on his beam-ends,
And a Shaker is bad for
delirium tremens.
But of all the hard
drinkers religion has warmed,
To my mind the most
hopeful’s the German Reformed.
 THE PET DOGS OF NEW-YORK PRESENT THEIR COMPLIMENTS,
WITH THE ABOVE CUT, TO MR. BERGH, AND REQUEST THAT HE
WILL CUR-TAIL THE SPORTS OF THOUGHTLESS CHILDREN WHO
INSIST UPON PLAYING AT “HORSE” WITH THEM.
Logical. One PULLMAN, who preaches the “milk of the word,” (not
without gin, PUNCHINELLO supposes,) declares that the
BIBLE is full of lies. Well, according to his own view of
it, PULLMAN must be full of Scripture.
The Real Fact. Mr. COLFAX, says the Cincinnati Gazette, intends to
call his new-born son CASABLANCA, the Vice-President
having once “stood on a burning deck,” etc. PUNCHINELLO
discovers a shrewder reason. The plain English for
Casablanca is White-House.
Concealed Weapons. Detroit drunkards, says an exchange, use a stocking
with a stone in it to avoid arrest—just as if a hat
“with a brick in it” were not enough!
Written With a Steal Pen. So great is the habit among editors of cribbing from
each other, that if one were to write an article about an
egg another would immediately Poach it.
The Battle of Hastings. The fight between the Commercial Advertiser and
THEODORE TILTON.
Triumphs of the Chisel. The Wall street “busts.” Good judges pronounce them
Per Phidias.
What an Asthmatic Artist can not Draw. A long breath.
“The American Working-woman’s Union” Most Sought
After. MARRIAGE.
The Latest Edition of “Shoo! Fly.” “MOSQUITO” at Niblo’s.
THE CONGRESSMAN TO HIS CRITICS. Well, talk, if you like; I suppose
it’s your way;
Each citizen, surely,
should say all his say;
I did just so,
when I’d nothing to do;
And if I felt like
doing so, why shouldn’t you! It’s republican,
pleasant, and safe, to find fault;
If a man can’t do
that, why he’s not worth his salt.
And never, since critics
(and fleas) learned their powers,
Was a country more blest
with such vermin than ours. You’ve learned much about
your old friend, it is said;
The farther I’m from you,
the plainer I’m read!
When “one of the people”
comes here to make laws,
The “people” disown him.
Now, what is the cause? You say I’m not
“dignified.” Well, friends—are you?
My language, my manners,
are rough, it is true;
My tones, and my jokes,
(since you say it,) are coarse;
But very few streams rise
above their own source. If we’re all
“politicians,” and they are such trash
As you have declared
them, why were you so rash
As to give us your votes?
What! will nobody “run”
But a “mere politician?”
Why, then we’re undone! Come, come—this is
nonsense! Be fair, my good sirs!
Let us look at this
question. Suppose it occurs
That a long, prosy speech
is about to be made;
If you say, “Stay and
hear it,” must you be obeyed? But ours is a “serious
business.” True!
And so are some other
things serious, too!
Such as courtships, and
dinners, and headaches, and blues,
And sight-seeing friends,
whom ’tis death[1] to refuse! Now, many of us (though
it should not be said!)
Are really stupid, and
haven’t much head.
We don’t take that view
of our duty that you do;
We’re often so bothered
we don’t know what to do! Our votes look
decided—as though we did know;
But that’s because BUTLER
or SCHENCK voted so.
Such points may come up,
in the course of the day,
As would puzzle the
Seraphim some, I should say! Besides, gentle friends!
did you ever think so?
Perhaps we are paying you
all that we owe.
If you want better
service, why send better men,
And be better yourselves.
It will all be right, then. [1]
Political death, of course.
Come on, Ladies! An Anti-mustache movement has begun in Boston.
PUNCHINELLO to explain that it begins altogether with the
ladies, and is, of course, Right Against the
mustaches.
For Lunatics Only. The latest whim of the Lunatics in one of the Indiana
Asylums is the notion that they can design and build
opera-houses. Well, we have lots of crazy architecture,
and more than one gentleman has acknowledged himself
insane for investing in opera-houses. But PUNCHINELLO
thinks that the tastes of the insane would be better
encouraged if directed to the building of Courts of
Justice. Every Court-house thus constructed, would be a
monument to the Plea of Insanity.
GLIMPSES OF FORTUNE. You may not think so, my dear PUNCHINELLO, but it is
true. I have had them. I am not one of your bloated
aristocrats—just at the present moment—but I
know as well as any one what WHITTIER meant when he said
“it might have been.” As an instance of this, I will just
state that it has not been a very long time since, in
looking over the columns of one of our principal dailies,
I saw something among the personals which seemed to touch
my interests in, a very decided way. I often look over
the “Personals,” for I know well the connection between
fortune and the Press. I have not forgotten the success
of A.T. STEWART and many other millionaires, and their
dependence on the newspapers—but never until that
day had I seen any thing in that mystic column which
could possibly be construed to apply to inc. As for the
rest of the paper, I knew that there was nothing to
interest me there. You see I was after Fortune. The
advertisement to which I refer road as follows: “If the gentleman in a dark hat and gray pantaloons,
who, in a Broadway stage, one day last week, passed up
the fare for a lady with blue eyes and high-heeled boots,
will call at 831 Dash street, second floor, he will hear
of something to his advantage. A.R.R.” Now, it so happened, that during the whole of the
preceding week I had worn a black hat and gray
pantaloons; indeed, I had them on yet, and, to tell the
truth, I had no others. Therefore, this part of the case
was all clear enough. There was no reason why the
gentleman inquired for should not be me. I had certainly
ridden in a stage in the last week, and I remember very
well that I passed up the fare for lady with blue eyes. I
performed a similar service for several ladies; but one
of them, I am sure, had blue eyes. As to the high-heeled
boots I suppose she wore them, but how was I to know
that? At all events it would be a piece of the most
culpable indifference to my welfare to neglect this
chance. Fortune! and through a lady, too! To think of it!
The promised advantage might be great or small, but
whatever it was, it would be most welcome. And the honor,
too! A piece of positive advantage for an act of manly
gallantry! I immediately put on that black hat, and with those
identical gray trowsers upon my legs, I strode down to
321 Dash street, and mounted instantly to the second
floor. As there was but one entrance door from the
stair-way on this floor, I felt certain that I had found
the right place. The business of Mr. A.R.R. was evidently a very
profitable one, for his room was quite full of people. I
inquired of a boy for the author of the notice I held in
my hand, (I had carefully cut it from the paper,) and was
informed that this was the right place, and that the
gentleman would see me in a few moments. I took a seat
and regarded the persons who were standing and sitting
about the room. They were all men, and in a few minutes I
discovered, to my great surprise, that they all wore
black hats and gray pantaloons! I must admit, that when I made this discovery, I
experienced a very peculiar sensation, as if some one had
suddenly dropped a little ice-water down my back. Was it
possible that all these men were here in answer to that
advertisement, which I considered addressed to me alone?
There were all sorts of them; old gentlemen with heads
grayer than their pants; young fellows who looked like
clerks; and middle-aged men, who seemed like very
respectable heads of families. Was it possible that each
one of those individuals had, in the last week, passed up
the fare of a blue-eyed lady with high-heeled boots? And
did each one of them expect to enjoy that advantage for
which I came here? One thing was certain; they did not
announce to each other their business, but looked at
their watches and tapped their boots, and knitted their
brows as if each one of them had come on very particular
business, which had nothing to do with the affairs of the
general crowd. But all those gray trowsers! There was no
concealing them. A door, leading into an adjoining room, now opened
quickly, and Mr. A.R.R. made his appearance. No one
doubted that he was the man, for he bowed politely, and
seemed to expect the company. He was a tall, thin, and
well-dressed man, and held in his hand a small package.
Instantly upon his appearance every man in the room stuck
his thumb and forefinger into his vest pocket, and
pulling out a little piece of printed paper, said, “Sir,
I called—” A.R.R. waved his hand. “Gentlemen,” said he, “I know why you called, and you
will allow me to remark—” “But look here,” said a tall man with a blue cravat.
“I think that I am the person you want to see, and as I
am in a hurry, I would like to see you for a few minutes
in private.” Dozens of angry eyes were now directed upon this
presumptuous individual, and dozens of angry voices were
about to break forth when the benign A.R.R. again waved
his hand. “Gentlemen,” said he, “I wish to see you all. No one
more than another. I have reason to believe that every
one of you is the person to whom that advertisement
referred. I see you are all gentlemen, and you would not
have made your appearance here had you not fulfilled the
conditions mentioned in the paper.” Here was a smothered hum, which seemed to precede a
general outbreak, but A.R.R., blandly smiling,
continued: “Gentlemen, do not become impatient. What I have to
say is to the advantage of every one of you. You all move
in good society—I can see that—and you
therefore are well aware of some of the penalties of
social pleasures and high living. Consequently,
gentlemen,” and now he spoke very fast, as if fearful of
interruption, “you must have, all of you, experienced
some of the evils of indigestion, and it is to relieve
these that I have prepared my Binocular Barberry
Bitters—” A roar of rage here broke forth from every man of us,
and a rush was made towards the smiling impostor, but he
quickly slipped through the door behind him, and locked
it in our faces. And then, before we could rush from the
room where we had been so shamefully duped, the head of
A.R.R. appeared at a little window in the partition-wall,
and he called out: “Gentlemen, this mixture is, as my initials declare, a
Radical Relief, and retails at one dollar per bottle, I
hope you will take some of my circulars home with you,”
and he threw among the crowd the package of circulars
which he had held in his hand. This, O friend PUNCHINELLO, was only one of my
Glimpses of Fortune. I may yet see the jade more nearly.
IMPECUNE.
 “COMPARISONS ARE ODIOUS.” Fond Mother. “YES, HE’S A PRETTY GOOD BOY,
BUT HE DON’T TAKE TO HIS LETTERS.” Squire. “WELL, HE OUGHTER, FOR HIS MOUTH IS
LIKE THE SLIT OF A POST-OFFICE BOX.”
 A TABLEAU OF THE DAY. GENERAL DANA, WHO HAS BROUGHT THE FIRE OF THE “SUN”
TO BEAR UPON EVERY BODY, NOW BEGINS TO REALIZE THE
FORCE OF THE PROVERB—”FOLKS WHO LIVE IN GLASS
HOUSES SHOULD NOT THROW STONES.”
THE INDIAN QUESTION. [AS VIEWED IN THE
WEST.] This is our
business, understand!
You Eastern folks, with
tempers bland
All get your views at
second-hand. We are the ones that take
the brunt
Of every lively
Indian-hunt,
So don’t be angry if
we’re blunt. If any body’s scalped
it’s us!
So we’ve a well-earned
right to cuss,
And you’ve no
right to make a fuss. Talk as you please about
their “rights;”
That don’t include their
coming nights,
And cutting out our lungs
and lights. You get your wife and
children shot!
(Here it might happen,
like us not,)
You’ll make your mind up
on the spot. “Humanity” ‘s played out
for you!
You’ve got some active
work to do;
No doubt you’ll see it
well put through. Until you’ve settled that
small bill,
(As honorable debtors
will,)
We fancy you will not
keep still. You will admit the tender
plea
Of “broken faith;” but
when you see
Your Red Skin, you won’t
let him be! Just so with us. We don’t
go back
Of our affair! We
were not slack
In justice to this
Devil’s pack! They settle with the
wrong concern;
And as they never,
never’ll learn,
We shoot ’em, and don’t
care a dern!
EDITORIAL WASHING-DAY IN
NEW-YORK. 
EDITORIAL WASHING-DAY. Observe PUNCHINELLO’S Cartoon, in which you shall
behold the editorial laundresses of New-York city having
a washy time of it all around. There is a, shriek of
objurgation in the air, and a flutter of soiled linen on
the breeze. Granny MARBLE, to the extreme left of the
picture, clenches her fists over the pungent suds, and
looks fight at Granny JONES, of the Times. The
beaming phiz of Granny GREELEY looms up between the two,
like the sun in a fog. But the real Sun in a fog
is to be seen to the extreme right. There you behold
Granny DANA, shaking her “brawny bunch of fives” in the
face of Granny YOUNG, whose manner of wringing out the
linen, you will observe, is up to the highest
Standard of that branch of art. Further away,
Granny TILTON flutters her linen with spiteful flourish,
nettled by the vituperation of Granny HASTINGS, who hangs
up her Commercial clothes on the line. The
tableau is an instructive one; and it is to be
hoped that all the U-Lye soaps used by the washerwomen is
used up by this time, and that they will replace it with
some having a sweeter perfume.
BOOK NOTICES. MRS. JERNINGHAM’S JOURNAL. New-York: Charles Scribner
& Company. A very cleverly-written narrative, in smooth verse,
detailing the experience of a bride who took to flirting
early in her matrimonial career, but was saved from
coming to grief by the decisive action of a stern
husband. The book contains a capital lesson for the Girl
of the Period, whose follies are satirized in it with a
sharp pen.
NOTICE. The attention of the Public is requested to
PUNCHINELLO No. 10, which will be issued upon Thursday,
May 26th. It will be a very brilliant number, illustrated
with flights of fancy by ten comic artists. In PUNCHINELLO No. 11 will be commenced a new
burlesque serial, “The Mystery of Mister E. Drood,”
written expressly for this paper by the celebrated
humorist, ORPHEUS C. KERR.
 MAKING A HASH OF IT. Customer. “I THOUGHT YOU HAD A GOOD PLACE
WITH MR. ASHE; WHY ARE YOU GOING TO LEAVE?” Cockney Waiter. “FACT IS, SIR, HASHE IS IN
THE ‘ABIT OF MAKING USE OF HODIOUS LANGUAGE TO HIS
WAITERS, SIR, AND NO MAN OF HEDUCATION COULD STAND
THAT, SIR, YOU KNOW, SIR.”
JUMBLES. MR. PUNCHINELLO, do you know when a woman is
perfection itself? “No.” I do. It is when she is from
sixteen to nineteen. Of course you take her judgment. At
sixteen she is the coming flower that has come—the
first Rose of Summer, and about the best that may be
looked for. Her ideas may not be solid, but they are
expansive. Her mind may not make a very great show, but
her hair (real and otherwise) is sure to. She is very
deep in love—with herself. The supremest divinity
is seen when she looks in the mirror. Call her ARABELLA
if you like. ARABELLA is mistress of that portion of the
dictionary which includes the common-place compliments of
society. In her mouth they have a common place, indeed.
Some people call such utterances “stuff,” “nonsense,”
“puerilities,” but nobody is so prejudiced and unreliable
as the above-named some people. They complacently think
they know a thing or two, but that is all it amounts to.
ARABELLA hasn’t any doubt about her being perfection.
Unfortunately there is a question about some matters in
this world in politics, religion, morality and other
kindred things, but on the doctrine of perfection, as
applied to her individual self, ARABELLA is clear and
settled. Did any body, she says sotto voce, to
herself, ever put vision on such an ensemble countenance?
Were eyes ever more sparkling? Were ever dimples dimpler?
Had ever peach such artistic hue, and teeth such pearly
pearliness, and lips such positive sweetness, and brow
such loveliness? We suppose not. ARABELLA is eighteen, is
of elastic notions, sees life as a romance, believes the
ground on which she walks ought to be grateful for the
honor, and wonders if every body who goes out don’t go
straightway to talking rapturously about her. ARABELLA is
a type—the type of a class of perfectionists.
ARABELLA is neither a worm nor a butterfly, but the
bridge between. For all this ARABELLA believes herself to
be the best of butterflies, with the capacity to fly in
the highest manner. At twenty-five her wings will be
clipped, her colors will modify, her notions renovate,
and her eyes open. She will perceive that the doctrine of
perfection is mythical, and angels upon earth only so in
name. Going to church is a good thing. All good people go,
and from good motives, of course. Mrs. BROWN, says a
wicked gossip, goes to show a bonnet; Mrs. JONES her
shawl; Mrs. SMITH her silk; Mrs. JENKINS her gloves and
fan. No sane person believes that these ladies go for any
such purpose. The case isn’t presumable. They are nice,
high-toned people, sit in $800 pews, adore Rev. Dr.
CANTWELL, and give very freely (of their husband’s money)
to the heathen in the uttermost corners of the earth.
They prefer, good souls, to give to the heathen under the
equator to those under their noses. It is not true
that ladies go to church for the display of dress. It
is true Mrs. JONES does not wish to be outdone by
Mrs. JENKINS, and isn’t if STEWART can help it, but she
is a good pious woman of simple tastes, though Mr. J.
thinks she tastes rather often. Going to church is a good
thing for example’s sake. It is so nice and strengthening
to reflect that, as the minister preaches piety, and you
practice poetry, (with a pencil in the prayer-book,) you
set an example to the rising generation. One can never do
too much for the rising generation, though it often rises
too frequently and too high. Besides, it encourages the
minister. Only think of talking to emptiness instead of
fulness—to people instead of plush. How can the
dear Rev. SPLURGE SPLUTTER have the heart or tongue to
drop his pearls of eloquence to the swine of empty pews?
And how dreadful for the gifted soprano, Miss SCREECH, to
tune her melodious voice to earless aisles! And then it
is so easy to “set” examples by sitting in soft pews,
doing to church should be a matter of conscience. Every
body not a dolt admits conscience to be a good thing,
though a thing every body cannot boast of possessing. I
like people of conscience—that is, I should like
them if I knew any. It is such a nice thing to talk
about—and how much nicer to have. Mrs. TODD often
wishes “to conscience” she could reach mine. I am sorry
to say that at times Mrs. T. is an irreverent woman. She
doesn’t perceive that some where under that hairless,
proud dome of mine there must be a conscience—I may
proudly say, an imposing conscience. I said to Mrs. T.
one day, “I have an imposing conscience,” and she
really thought so—adding the cruel expression that
she didn’t know of any thing about me but was
imposing, and that she first became aware of the sad fact
when she married me. TIMOTHY TODD.
THE REIGN OF COUPS. The situation of France is always striking. This is
because its people are always being struck with a
succession of Napoleonic ideas. They labor, for example,
under a constant coup d’etat. Their Press is the
victim of a regular coup de main; their Strikes
are daily evidences of coups de mains; their
Legislature suffers continually from coup de
théâtre; and their Emperor is
perpetually threatened with a coup de grace. The
energies of Frenchmen are not imprisoned; no, they are
only couped.
ELEVATED STATESMANSHIP—INSOBRIETY THE BEST
POLICY. Sir JOHN MACDONALD, the Premier of Canada, though an
eccentric leader, is a happy illustration of the most
elevated statecraft. “He has been drunk,” says the
Toronto Globe, “for several days, and
incapacitated for public affairs.” Considering what
Canadian affairs are (including Sir JOHN,) this does not
follow. Evidently it is not his policy to keep sober. But
Sir JOHN is often drunk, says the Globe; he was
tight before Prince ARTHUR, and he rushes to the bottle
whenever the Fenians give alarm. Now this strikes us as
very good policy. It helps us to see how convenient it
was for Sir JOHN to magnify a few O’BRIENS and
O’SHAUGHNESSYS into an army with green banners, and how
opportunely the Dominion became intoxicated with its
fears.
 A POWERFUL PROTECTOR. Mother. “WHY, ROSIE, HOW LATE YOU ARE
TO-DAY!” Rosie. “YES, MA, BUT I COULDN’T HELP IT.
THERE WAS A POOR LITTLE GIRL AT SCHOOL WHO HAD NO ONE
TO TAKE CARE OF HER, AND SO I HAD TO SEE HER HOME.”
COMIC ZOOLOGY. Order-Reptilia. THE VIPER. The supposition that this snake prefers a file to any
other species of nourishment is a vulgar error, and
belongs to the same mendacious category as the stories
that ostriches are fond of ten-penny nails and soldiers
of hard tack. It is true that old files are sometimes
bitten by vipers in localities where these serpents
abound, but in the lizard and hop-toad they usually find
metal more attractive. The viper, when in a state of
repose, is of an olive-brown color; but, if trodden upon,
turns rusty. He is about twenty-four inches in length, as
you may see by applying a two-foot rule to him, but it is
a good rule to keep two feet away from him. As a bosom
friend he is not to be trusted—a fact in natural
history that was discovered many years ago by a green
countryman, who got into a bad box by placing a viper on
his chest. It is a peculiarity of this serpent, that when
held suspended by his posterior extremity he can not
raise his head to a level with his tail. In consequence
of this provision in the economy of nature, he finds it
as impossible to make both ends meet as if he were a
human prodigal. In this respect he presents a marked
contrast to the hoop-snake, which has no more back-bone
than a timid politician, and can put its tail in its
mouth, and roll in any direction with the utmost
facility. The viper was at one time supposed to have an
envenomed tongue, and although this error has been
exploded, it is as well to avoid his jaw if possible, as,
when irritated, he is very snappish. This snake, according to some naturalists, is
oviparous, and according to others viviparous; but all
authorities agree that it is viperous in the extreme.
Serpents are generated in various ways; the horse-runner,
for instance, being derived from the fibres of horses’
manes and tails, which probably receive the breath of
life in a mare’s nest. That such is the origin of the
horse-runner the reader can verify for himself, by
putting a few horse hairs in a basin of water and
watching them till they begin to squirm. Possibly the
shorter fibres from the caput of an African might
in like manner produce vipers. The experiment is worth
trying. There are several varieties of the species in
this country; the most malignant and treacherous being
the Political Vipers—snakes in the grass—bred
from the spawn of the Original Cockatrices, and a curse
to the land we live in.
WOMAN IN THE CENSUS. A fresh blow has been struck at Woman’s Rights!
Gallant ladies, eager to cope with figures, have been
compelled to yield to numbers—inferior numbers at
that! Man, the minority, remains the popular tyrant of
population. Women, the majority, don’t count, can’t count
for any thing—even for women—at least in the
sense of being Census-takers; for General WALKER has
decided that Assistant Marshals LAVINIA PURLEAR and SARAH
BURGOYNE (hear it, shades of NEY and BLUCHER!) are
ineligible to such a warlike title. General WALKER is not
firm in his mind that Marshals PURLEAR and BURGOYNE
[would it be as well to say Marshal WALKER and Generals
PURLEAR and BURGOYNE?] are feminine. “These appear to be
the names of women,” he says. Why might they not be the
names of men? Is there no right or reason in these days
of domestic revolution for men to name themselves LAVINIA
and SARAH if they like it, and their wives like it? And
suppose LAVINIA and SARAH that ought to be, or might have
been, choose to call themselves MAHALALEEL and
METHUSALEM—who’s to prevent? Why should not the
Rev. Mr.—- style himself Miss NANCY if he pleases? Why
should not the Hon. Mr.—- rechristen himself BETTY if
he has a mind to? H’m! A pretty pass we are coming to if
these women folks who ask men’s rights and take men’s
names won’t lend us theirs! And alas, alas, ye lasses!
What if some-day ye do indeed abstract our census, and
marshal us into helpless minority. What if we have to
disguise ourselves, and shave our beards, and change our
names even to get on the police! Or will ye—ye
bullying Syrens!—grow whiskers and wear pantaloons,
and put us in station-houses, and clear us out of the
Census altogether?
A LETTER FROM A FRIEND. Friend PUNCHINELLO: Thee has doubtless sorrowed, in
spite of thy motley, with those bereft at Richmond.
Circumstances made that disaster a calamity which we have
all felt in common. But thee knows that “Blessings come
often in disguise.” Let us find what small comfort we can
in this thought. Circumstances, however, alter cases. How different the
feeling—how thin the disguise would have
been—had our Capitol fallen, at Harrisburg! Before
another Session we trust the proper spirit will move some
underpinning there, for the greater good of the
Commonwealth. It was formerly said that “Law is law;” but
not even a Philadelphia lawyer now knows what law is or
what law is not—for “any thing” is law here abouts.
Of one result we may boast, if that be not sinful, we are
ahead of thy wicked city.. Thee had thy delinquent Tax
Collector, but thee has him not. We sorrowed, for
we had him not, but now we rejoice in one whose name
is—not BAILEY—but HILL. We did not want him,
but got him involuntarily, as thee might get the
small-pox. Doubtless he will make it more up-Hill work than ever
with our taxes, but, if he would only shoulder them and
be off, what a blessing? For, verily, it cannot be said,
as of old, that a man “heapeth up riches, and knoweth not
who shall gather them.” But, perhaps, thee pays taxes also? If so, thee can
affirm to the gatherer, as well as thy friend, PHINEAS BRODBRIMME. Philadelphia, 5th month, 9th day, 1870.
OLD IRON. Somebody talks of the Iron Men of Congress. Does he
mean the Cast-iron members or the Pig-iron members? For
instance there are the rusty Heavy-weights, and then
there are the fellows who are greedy about Tariff.
Members of the scrap-iron and ten-penny nail order are,
of course, not alluded to. All these are iron men, but,
as every body knows, are not men of Iron. In view of its
rusty legislation and legislators, we recommend Congress
to hang out a sign—”Highest prices paid here for
old iron.”
Bar That! The Toronto Globe is at present treating the
Premier of the Dominion to a course of lectures, advising
him not to get drunk so often as he does. Now this is too
much to expect, since the gentleman referred to has, by
virtue of his official position, the run of the
Bar.
CONDENSED CONGRESS. SENATE.  MR.
MORRILL expressed his views upon what he is pleased, for
MORRILL is mirthful in his heavy way, to designate the
reduction of taxes. He said that we had been for some
time in a state of peace, and our expenses were not so
large as they had been. Therefore he thought we might
leave direct taxation alone. To be sure he was not
prepared to suggest any specific reductions in direct
taxation. But, doubtless, they would be made some day or
other. In the meantime let us pile on the tariff. This
was his notion of reducing taxation. Let the importers
and the consumers who don’t like
it—
Learn how
sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be
strong. Then the Senate betook itself to considering an
appropriation for educating the colored infant. Mr.
WILSON strongly approved it, not only on account of the
colored infant, for whose education he did not in a
general way feel any particular solicitude, inasmuch as
the less educated he was, the likelier he would be to
give his voice and vote to him, (Mr. WILSON,) and his
like; but also because the appropriation would provide
for a number of the supernumerary female school-teachers
of Massachusetts, who had become a great trial to him,
and particularly to his colleague, Mr. SUMNER. Mr. SUMNER said “that’s school,” and explained that he
believed he was venerated by the women of Massachusetts,
but that their reverence for him was too great to allow
them to approach him with importunities. Nevertheless, he
was in favor of the bill, as tending to break down the
accursed spirit of caste, and to disseminate throughout
the South the three or more R’s which he had so often had
the honor of reverberating throughout the Senate. Mr. YATES approved of the bill. It was his general
principle to vote for any thing that looked to the
disbursement of money. He was particularly in favor of
this measure, because he wanted an uniform education for
every body. He didn’t want any body else to know more
than himself, and he didn’t want to know more than any
body else. (Voices—You don’t.) Take spelling. There
was only one correct method of spelling—the one
that he pursued. And yet he had never found any other
person who agreed with him in it. Evidently, this was not
right. He demanded that the children of the country
should be taught to spell on proper principles, so that
his works might be intelligible to posterity, as they
were not to his contemporaries. Of course Mr. SUMNER seized the occasion to quote
crowds of authorities on education, which debilitated the
Senate to a dissolution. HOUSE. Mr. LYNCH wanted to revive American commerce in behalf
of the ship-builders of Maine. If he were a judge, as a
celebrated namesake of his once was, he would do it by
hanging a majority of members of the House he had the
honor of addressing. In default of that he wanted them to
legislate sensibly upon it. Of course nobody paid any attention to the suggestion.
The House did itself credit by refusing one land-grab,
out of a thousand or so submitted. Mr. BUTLER actually produced again his bill to annex
San Domingo, and refused to be comforted, because every
body laughed. Then came up the Tariff. COVODE said he supposed it
would be admitted that he had as little regard for the
right and wrong of the thing as any body. But this thing
had really gone so far that any man with any regard for
his re-election must protest. Nobody but SCHENCK and
KELLEY cared about the tariff. Every body cared about the
taxes. SCHENCK could not regard COVODE with any other
sentiment than disgust. He wanted a duty upon foreign
oysters. The oyster of Long Island and the oyster of
New-Jersey ought not to be trodden down by the pauper
oysters of Europe.
OUR PORTFOLIO. Personal advertisements having reference to the
matrimonial exigencies of divers widows, old maids, and
bachelors, are not without their influence upon the
sympathies of the age. Particular attention has been
recently directed toward an announcement made in a
Cleveland paper to the effect that “Two widow ladies,
strangers in Cleveland, wish to form the acquaintance of
a limited number of gentlemen with a view to happy
results. Please address in confidence,—.” One involuntarily regrets that a prospect thus bounded
by an horizon of “happy results” should have been
confined to a “limited number of gentlemen”. There is nothing so calculated to impair the
usefulness of what purports to be a purely benevolent
enterprise, as its selfishness. If a widow, or any number
of widows, really possess the means of realizing “happy
results” with a “limited number of gentlemen,” they
should either remove the limitation themselves, or make
known the secret to those who would be less sparing of
the joys which it is capable of communicating. A quack
who peddles a valuable remedy upon which he may have
stumbled, and yet refuses to disclose its ingredients for
the benefit of the whole medical fraternity, violates the
esprit du corps of the profession, and is by
general consent deemed a fit person to be kicked out of
it. Therefore, if any widows or single ladies in
Cleveland have knowledge of any “happy results” which
they advertise to share with a limited number of
gentlemen, we shall deem them unworthy of their sex,
unless they explain the process by which these results
are attained, for the benefit of those who are fast
verging toward the autumnal stage of maidenhood.
It may well be doubted whether the thought ever
occurred to ADAM that one day or other a hen would be
charged with the care and custody of a brood of goslings.
The pastimes of Eden were perhaps not favorable to
vaticinations in the line of Natural History, but in the
progress of the world since those most primitive times,
men have come to contemplate the spectacle of that
familiar barn-yard fowl made wretched by the aquatic
propensities of her supposed offspring, without a
particle of astonishment. The wicked and unfeeling even
go so far as to seek amusement in her misery. Her
“ducklings” and other symptoms of maternal agony at
beholding the feathered darlings tempting the dangers of
a neighboring duck-pond, do not move their stony breasts.
On the contrary, they decidedly relish that sort of
thing, and greet with positive hilarity the efforts of
some sympathizing rooster to cheer her. Fie, upon such
natures! If they must have an outlet for their ribaldry,
let them take PUNCHINELLO’S advice and select such
instances as that recently furnished in Sacramento, where
a hen took charge of a nest of kittens, and resolutely
maintained it against the parent cat. Here the case was
different. The hen had become a trespasser. She had no
business with kittens. There was no hypothesis by which
she could claim them as her own. Kittens are not
hereditary in the family of fowls, and she knew it. It
was an usurpation without any pretext of justification.
What would become of us if such a precedent could be
extended to the genus Mammalia? Hundreds of rapacious old
maids would be seizing all sorts and all sizes of babies
from agonized mothers, and asserting for themselves the
hallowed duties of maternity. Our infant days would have
been days of ceaseless motion. We should have been
shuttle-cocked from maiden to mother and from mother to
maiden after a fashion calculated to defeat the wise
purposes of ipecac and paregoric, and to frighten our
natural curls into a state of painful perpendicularity.
The mere presentment of such a possibility, carries its
refutation, and puts the aggressions of this Sacramento
hen in the category of outrages which all society is
banded to suppress. If you must laugh, O generation of
scoffers, make your jokes and gibes the instrument of
protecting the altars of all such feline households as
may be thus assailed.
Flag and Rag. What is the difference between a railroad danger
signal and a lost pocket-handkerchief? The one is a red flag, the other is a fled
rag.
 SOCIAL SCIENCE. Lecturer. “THERE IS A CUMULATIVE
APPROXIMATIVENESS, SO TO SPEAK, A PERIOD WHEN THE
RECALCITRANT CORPUSCLES BEGIN TO “— Stenographer. “CON-FOUND THE FELLOW! I KNEW
HE’D BREAK MY PENCIL WITH HIS INFERNAL
JAW-SMASHERS!”
FOREIGN CORRESPONDENCE. [BY ATLANTIC CABLE.] ROME. Being uneasy about our agent’s course at the Vatican,
I have come over to Rome to see about it. He is an
Irishman, with a little of Father TOM in him, and has got
into a “controversy” with his Holiness about
infallibility. Our African bishop (otherwise PHELIM
BURKE) insists that PUNCHINELLO is infallible! The Pope
says this is ridiculous! Father PHELIM replies that
“there are two that can play that same game.” I found
them in the midst of this when ANTONELLI ushered me into
the Papal presence. PIUS was up on his feet, talking
Latin like a crack student of the Propaganda. PHELIM had
his sleeves rolled up. ANTONELLI, with a “Pax
vobiscum” got the two contending powers quieted down;
and, after a proper salutation from me, we began our
talk. His Holiness is not much on English. Says he, “I
speak vat-I-can English.” Had he said non possumus
to it, it would have been better. However, PHELIM
translated him; so we got on. “Your Holiness enjoys, I hope, a good
constitution?” “The constitutio de fide is, indeed, very good.
Catholics must every where subscribe to it.” “Dr. DÕLLINGER, I trust, don’t disturb your
appetite?” “Anathema maranatha!” which means (said
PHELIM,) “Oh no, I never mention him.” Whereupon PHELIM,
who had breakfasted on gin-and-milk, began to hum that
tune. I at once trod upon his toe, and he stopped. “On the whole, what does your Holiness think of the
prospect?” “From this window, it is very fine. But I’m getting a
little dim-sighted. “Don’t you see that crowd of people coming up?” “No I don’t—it’s only a herd of cattle from the
Campagna.” “Take my glass. There, now; don’t you see, I am
right?” “Yes,” and the old man crossed himself, “It is so; I
was mistaken.” “Thrue for you!” gobbled out PHELIM; “we’ve got to
make a note of that! PUNCHINELLO never made the likes of
a mistake!” “But, what’s in your glass? I see strange men
there. GARIBALDI, and MAZZINI, and HYACINTHE,
STROSSMEYER, DÕLLINGER, DUPANLOUP, and CUMMING,
all together! I see a troop of schoolmasters; a larger
one of newspaper-venders; and a whole army of
colporteurs, each with a bag of Bibles on his
back! And, what do I see? They enter ST. PETER’S; they
leave the door wide open. Did I hear it? They are singing
LUTHER’S Hymn!” The old man fell now into his seat, and I took the
glass from him. “Only one of his attacks,” said
ANTONELLI. “He is not quite so strong as he was.” “Thrue
again,” said PHELIM. With that sense of propriety for
which your representative has over been distinguished, I
took PHELIM by the arm and retired. Poor Pius! He means well, and if we only had him for a
while out West, where I came from, we might make
something sensible out of him yet. But, when a man will
live so far away from the Rocky Mountains as away over
here, what can be expected? We can’t civilize the whole
world at once. Father PHELIM, by the way, is to be proposed as the
new King of Spain. His father’s uncle’s second cousin by
the mother’s side partook of a good deal of BOURBON.
That’s reason enough, you know especially as they only
want a King LOG. FRANCE. Those infernal machines, so called, with—which
the Emperor was supposed to be about to be blown up, turn
out to have been pewter plates. Out of one of them the
bottom had been cut, and the edges rolled up; and this
gave rise to a terrible suspicion. Two thousand people
have been arrested in consequence. That Press Ass has been at his blunders again.
He telegraphed to me that a conspiracy was afloat to
enact a kind of petticoat government. He meant to tell me
some gossip about Madame PATTI-CAUX. Then he wanted me to
believe that the “smaller catechism” talked about at Rome
was the catechizing of SMALLEY of the Tribune, concerning
GUSTAVE FLOURENS. That man never will learn.
PRIME. |
