Entered, according
to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by the PUNCHINELLO
PUBLISHING COMPANY,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District court of the United
States, for the Southern District of New
York.
THE MYSTERY OF
MR. E. DROOD.AN ADAPTATION, BY ORPHEUS C. KERR. CHAPTER XII. A NIGHT OF IT WITH MCLAUGHLIN. Judge SWEENEY, with a certain supercilious
consciousness that he is figuring in a novel, and that it
will not do for him to thwart the eccentricities of
mysterious fiction by any commonplace deference to the
mere meteorological weaknesses of ordinary human nature,
does not allow the fact that late December is a rather
bleak and cold time of year to deter him from taking
daily airings in the neighborhood of the Ritualistic
churchyard. Since the inscription of his epitaph on his
late wife upon her monument therein, the churchyard is to
him a kind of ponderous work of imagination with marble
leaves, to which he has contributed the most brilliant
chapter; and when he sees any stranger hovering about a
part of the outer railings from whence the inscription
may be read, it is with all the swelling pride of an
author who, having procured the publication of some
dreary article in a magazine, is thrown into an ecstacy
of vanity if he sees but one person glance at that number
of the periodical on a news-stand. Since his first meeting with Mr. BUMSTEAD, on the
evening of the epitaph-reading, Judge SWEENEY has
cultivated that gentleman’s acquaintance, and been
received at his lodgings several times with considerable
cordiality and lemon-tea. On such occasions, Mr.
BUMSTEAD, in his musical capacity, has sung so closely in
Judge SWEENEY’S ear as to tickle him, a wild and slightly
incoherent Ritualistic stave, to the effect that Saint
PETER’S of Rome, with pontifical dome, would by ballot
Infallible be; but for making Call sure, and Election
secure, Saint Repeater’s of Rum beats the See. With
finger in ear to allay the tickling sensation, JUDGE
SWEENEY declares that this young man smelling of cloves
is a person of great intellectual attainments, and
understands the political genius of his country well
enough to make an excellent Judge of Election. Walking slowly near the churchyard on this particular
freezing December evening, with his hands behind his
bank, and his eyes intent for any envious husband who may
be “with a rush retiring,” monumentally counselled, after
reading the Epitaph, Judge SWEENEY suddenly comes upon
Father DEAN conversing with SMYTHE, the sexton, and Mr.
BUMSTEAD. Bowing to these three, who, like himself, seem
to find real luxury in open-air strolling on a bitter
night in midwinter, he notices that his model, the Ritual
Rector, is wearing a new hat, like Cardinal’s, only
black, and is immediately lost in wondering where he can
obtain one like it short of Rome. “You look so much like an author, Mr. BUMSTEAD, in
having no overcoat, wearing your paper collar upside
down, and carrying a pen behind your ear,” Father DEAN is
saying, “that I can almost fancy you are about to write a
book about us. Well, Bumsteadville is just the place to
furnish a nice, dry, inoffensive domestic novel in the
sedative vein.” After two or three ineffectual efforts to seize the
end of it, which he seems to think is an inch or two
higher than its actual position, Mr. BUMSTEAD finally
withdraws from between his right ear and head a long and
neatly cut hollow straw. “This is not a pen, Holy Father,” he answers, after a
momentary glance of majestic severity at Mr. SMYTHE, who
has laughed. “It is only a simple instrument which I use,
as a species of syphon, in certain chemical experiments
with sliced tropical fruit and glass-ware. In the
precipitation of lemon-slices into cut crystal, it is
necessary for the liquid medium to be exhausted
gradually; and, after using this cylinder of straw for
the purpose about an hour ago, I must have placed it
behind my ear in a moment of absent-mindedness.” “Ah, I see,” said Father DEAN, although he didn’t.
“But what is this, Judge SWEENEY, respecting your
introduction of MCLAUGHLIN to Mr. BUMSTEAD, which I have
heard about?” “Why, your Reverence, I consider JOHN MCLAUGHLIN a
Character,” responds the Judge, “and thought our young
friend of the organ-loft might like to study him.” “The truth is,” explains Mr. BUMSTEAD, “that Judge
SWEENEY put into my head to do a few pauper graves with
JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, some moonlight night, for the mere
oddity and dampness of the thing.—And I should
regret to believe,” added Mr. BUMSTEAD, raising his voice
as saw that the judiciary was about to
interrupt—”And I should really be loathe to
believe that Judge SWEENEY was not perfectly sober when
he did so.” “Oh, yes—certainly—I
remember—to be sure,” exclaims the Judge, in
great haste; alarmed into speedy assent by the
construction which he perceives would be put upon a
denial. “I remember it very distinctly. I remember
putting it into your head—by the tumblerful, if
I remember rightly.” “Profiting by your advice,” continues Mr. BUMSTEAD,
oblivious to the last sentence, I am going out to-night,
in search of the moist and picturesque, with JOHN
MCLAUGHLIN—” “Who is here,” says Father DEAN. OLD MORTARITY, dinner-kettle in hand and more mortary
than ever, indeed seen approaching them with shuffling
gait. Bowing to the Holy Father, he is about to pass on,
when Judge SWEENEY stops him with— “You must be very careful with your friend, BUMSTEAD,
this evening, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, and see that he don’t fall
and break his neck.” “Never you worry about Mr. BUMSTEAD, Judge,” growls
OLD MORTARITY. “He can walk further off the perpendicklar
without tumbling than any gentleman I ever see.” “Of course I can, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN,” says Mr. BUMSTEAD,
checking another unseemly laugh of Mr. SMYTHE’S with a
dreadful frown. “I often practice walking sideways, for
the purpose of developing the muscles on that side. The
left side is always the weaker, and the hip a trifle
lower, if one does not counteract the difference by
walking sideways occasionally.” A great deal of unnecessary coughing, which follows
this physiological exposition, causes Mr. BUMSTEAD to
breathe hard at them all for a moment, and tread with
great malignity upon Mr. SMYTHE’S nearest corn. While yet the sexton is groaning, OLD MORTARITY
whispers to the Ritualistic organist that he will be
ready for him at the appointed hour to-night, and
shuffles away. After which Mr. BUMSTEAD, with the I
hollow straw sticking out fiercely from his ear,
privately offers to see Father DEAN home if he feels at
all dizzy; and, being courteously refused, retires down
the turnpike toward his own lodgings with military
precision of step. When night falls upon the earth like a drop of ink
upon the word Sun, and the stars glitter like the points
of so many poised gold pens all ready to write the softer
word Moon above the blot, the organist of St. Cow’s sits
in his own room, where his fire keeps-up a kind of
aspenish twilight, and executes upon his accordeon a
series of wild and mutilated airs. The moistened towel
which he often wears when at home is turbaned upon his
head, causing him to present a somewhat Turkish
appearance; and as, when turning a particularly
complicated corner in an air, it is his artistic habit to
hold his tongue between his teeth, twist his head in
sympathy with the elaborate fingering, and involuntarily
lift one foot higher and higher from the floor as some
skittish note frantically dodges to evade him, his
general musical aspect at his own hearth is that of a
partially Oriental gentleman, agonizingly laboring to
cast from him some furious animal full of strange sounds.
Thus engaging in desperate single combat with what, for
making a ferocious fight before any recognizable tune can
he rescued from it, is, perhaps, the most exhausting
instrument known to evening amateurs and maddened
neighborhoods, Mr. BUMSTEAD passes three athletic hours.
At the end of that time, after repeatedly tripping-up its
exasperated organist over wrong keys in the last bar, the
accordeon finally relinquishes the concluding note with a
dismal whine of despair, and retires in complete collapse
to its customary place of waiting. Then the conquering
performer changes his towel for a hat which would look
better if it had not been so often worn in bed, places an
antique black bottle in one pocket of his coat and a few
cloves in the other; hangs an unlighted lantern before
him by a cord passing about his neck, and, with his
umbrella under his arm, goes softly down stairs and out
of the house. Repairing to the marble-yard and home of OLD
MORTARITY, which are on the outskirts of Bumsteadville,
he wanders through mortar-heaps, monuments brought for
repair, and piles of bricks, toward a whitewashed
residence of small demensions with a light at the
window. “JOHN McLAUGHLIN, ahoy!” In response, the master of the mansion promptly opens
the door, and it is then perceptible that his basement,
parlor, spare-bedroom and attic are all on one floor, and
that a couple of pigs are spending the season with him.
Showing his visitor into this ingeniously condensed
establishment, he induces the pigs to retire to a corner,
and then dons his hat. “Are you ready, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN?” “Please the pigs, I am, Mr. BUMSTEAD,” answers
MCLAUGHLIN, taking down from a hook a lantern, which,
like his companion’s, he hangs from his neck by a cord.
“My spirits is equal to any number of ghosts to-night,
sir, if we meet ’em.” “Spirits!” ejaculates the Ritualistic organist,
shifting his umbrella for a moment while he hurriedly
draws the antique bottle from his pocket. “You’re nervous
to-night, J. MCLAUGHLIN, and need a little of the
venerable JAMES AKER’S West Indian
Restorative.—I’ll try it first to make sure
that I haven’t mistaken the phial.” He rests the elongated orifice of the diaphanous flask
upon his lips for a brief interval of critical
inspection, and then applies it thoughtfully to the mouth
of OLD MORTARITY. “Some more! Some more!” pleads the aged MCLAUGHLIN,
when the Jamaican nervine is abruptly jerked from his
lips. “Silence! Com on,” is the stern response of the other,
who, as he moves from the house, and restores the crystal
antiquity to its proper pocket, eats a few cloves by
stealth. His manner plainly shows that he is offended at
the quantity the old man has managed to swallow
already. Strange indeed is the ghastly expedition to the place
of skulls, upon which these two go thus by night. Not
strange, perhaps, for Mr. MCLAUGHLIN, whose very youth in
New York, where he was an active politician, found him a
frequent nightly familiar of the Tombs; but strange for
the organist, who, although often grave in his manner,
sepulchral in his tones, and occasionally addicted to
coughin’, must be curiously eccentric to wish to pass
into concert that evening with the dead heads. Transfixed by his umbrella, which makes him look like
a walking cross between a pair of boots and a hat, Mr.
BUMSTEAD leads the way athwart the turnpike and several
fields, until they have arrived at a low wall skirting
the foot of Gospeler’s Gulch. Here they catch sight of
the Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON and MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON
walking together, near the former’s house, in the
moonlight, and, instantaneously, Mr. BUMSTEAD opens his
umbrella over the head of OLD MORTARITY, and drags him
down beside himself under it behind the wall. “Hallo! What’s all this?” gasps Mr. MCLAUGHLIN,
struggling affrightedly in his suffocating cage of
whalebone and alpaca. “What’s this here old lady’s
hoop-skirt doing on me?” “Peace, wriggling dotard!” hisses BUMSTEAD, jamming
the umbrella tighter over him. “If they see us they’ll
want some of the West Indian Restorative.” Mr. SIMPSON and MONTGOMERY have already heard a sound;
for they pause abruptly in their conversation, and the
latter asks: “Could it have been a ghost?” “Ask it if it’s a ghost,” whispers the Gospeler,
involuntarily crossing himself. “Are you there, Mr. G.?” quavers the raised voice of
the young Southerner, respectfully addressing the inquiry
to the stone wall. No answer. “Well,” mutters the Gospeler, “it couldn’t have been a
ghost, after all; but I certainly thought I saw an
umbrella. To conclude what I was saying,
then,—I have the confidence in you, Mr.
MONTGOMERY, to believe that you will attend the dinner of
Reconciliation on Christmas eve, as you have
promised.” “Depend on me, sir.” “I shall; and have become surety for your punctuality
to that excellent and unselfish healer of youthful
wounds, Mr. BUMSTEAD.” More is said after this; but the speakers have
strolled to the other side of the Gospeler’s house, and
their words cannot be distinguished Mr. BUMSTEAD closes
his umbrella with such suddenness and violence as to
nearly pull off the head of MCLAUGHLIN; drives his own
hat further upon his nose with a sounding blow; takes
several wild swallows from his antique flask; eats two
cloves, and chuckles hoarsely to himself for some
minutes. “Here, ‘JOHN MCLAUGHLIN,” he says, at last “try
a little more West Indian Restorative, and then we’ll go
and do a few skeletons.” (To be Continued.)
What is Likely to be Raised some day, regarding the
Pneumatic Tunnel. TUBAL. CAIN.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. In order to make this department of PUNCHINELLO as
complete as possible, we have secured the services of the
most competent authorities in literature, art, the
sciences in general, history, biography, and the vast
vague unknown. The answers furnished by us to our
correspondents may therefore be relied upon as being
strictly accurate. Scales.—How old was
DANIEL LAMBERT at the time of his death? Answer.—736 lbs. Ignoramus.—Why were
the Roman Saturnalia so called? Answer.—The proper spelling of the
word is Sauternalia. They were wine feasts; and
the vintage most in favor at them was Haut
Sauterne. Chasseur. Is the antelope to
be classed among the goat family? Answer.—No. MOORE calls it a “deer
gazelle.” Armiger.—Is “arm’s
length” a recognized measure? Answer.—Yes. It is a Standard
measure, as may be seen in the way that journal is
getting ahead of the Sun, which it keeps at arm’s
length. Molar.—Yes; burnt
Cork is an excellent dentifrice. It should not
be applied to the teeth
of children, however, as it is apt to impart
an
Irish accent, or, in
extreme cases, even a negro dialect. Bookworm.—Do two
negatives always constitute an affirmative? Answer.—That depends upon the price
charged by the photographer. Sunswick—Is it true
that JAMES FISK, Jr., has purchased Baden and
another German
Duchy? Answer.—No: but he could have both if
he wanted two. Rockland.—Who are
the suffering persons represented in DORE’S
remarkable picture of
DANTE and VIRGIL visiting the frozen ward of
the
Inferno? Answer.—The Knickerbocker Ice
Company. Solitaire.—On what
day did the Fourth of July fall in the year
1788? Answer.—On the
Fourth. James
Lobbs.—How long ago is it since desiccated
soup first came
into use? Answer.—At least as long ago as the
days of CROMWELL, whose advice to his troops was “Put
your trust in Providence, and keep your chowder
dry.” Bach.—Is the
practice of divorce a mark of civilization? Answer—It is. In the Gorilla family,
(the nearest approach to the human,) divorce is not
practiced, but it is in Indiana, which is usually
considered to be a State of Civilization.
PAT TO THE QUESTION. Our law-makers in Congress—or rather
law-cobblers, for few of them have risen to the dignity
of makers—are asked to repeal the per
cap. duty imposed by California on all Chinamen
imported there. The Californians have the authority of Congress
itself, for this duty. By reference to “HEYL’S Rates of
Duties on Imports,” page 36, art. 691, under head of “Act
of June 30, 1864, chap. 171,” “An act to increase Duties
on Imports,” etc., we find “on paddy one cent and a half
per pound.” Now if a good-sized Irishman pays $2.25, why
shouldn’t a “Celestial” pay as much in proportion to the
weight of his corpus?
ContradictoryIt appears that, by a joint resolution of Congress,
the use of “that first-class humbug and fraud, the
whiskey meter,” has been abolished. Now there are dozens
of members of Congress who are not only “first-class
humbugs and frauds,” but whiskey meters, to whom whiskey
is both meat and drink, and yet who ever heard of their
proposing to abolish themselves?
 STAY-AT-HOME
PEOPLE FOLKS MAY NOT BE ABLE TO GO TO NEWPORT OR LONG
BRANCH, BUT THEY CAN ALWAYS CREATE A LOCAL SENSATION BY
TAKING A FOOT-BATH IN THE BACK-YARD.
MURPHY THE CONQUEROR BY CORPORAL QUINN. Come tip us your fist, then, yer
sowl you;
Since iver I come from
the wars
The like wasn’t heerd.
Fill the bowl you
Bowld sons of MILESIUS
and MARS;
And dhrink to ould
Ireland the turfy
That’s shmilin’ out there
in the say,
Wid three cheers for
the conqueror MURPHY.
Whoo! America’s ours from
to-day. Och! SAYZAR he walloped
the Briton,
The Tarthars leap’t
China’s big wall,
ALEXANDTHUR did half
the wurld sit on,
But niver touched Ireland
at all.
At Clontarf ould BOBU
in the surf he
Sint tumblin’ the
murdtherin’ Danes—
But, yer sowl, the
brave conqueror MURPHY
Takes the shine out of
all of their panes. ULYSSES has made him
Collecthor,
(Sich choppin’ o’ heads
ne’er was seen;)
Sure the hayro will
make me Inspecthor
Whin there’s so many
“wigs on the green.”
And we’ll be
night-watchmen uproarious,
Wid big badges on our
coats,
And we’ll fight for TOM
MURPHY the glorious,
Wid our fists, our guns,
and our votes. At the Custom House,
Dutchman and Yankee
Are thryin’ to talk wid a
brogue,
They’re all
Irish, now—fat, lean, or
lanky,
And green are the
neckties in vogue.
They’re thracin’
themselves to some DURPHY,
O’NEILL, or McCANN, or
O’TAAFFE,
I’ll go bail the bowld
conqueror MURPHY
‘S too owld to be caught
wid sich chaff. Now Dutchmin may go to
the divil,
And Yankees to Plymouth’s
ould rock,
We’ll blast it, if they
are not civil;
While boys of the raal
ould stock
Will hurroo for ould
Ireland the turfy.
Whoo! Jibralthar is taken
to-day,
Our commandther’s the
conqueror MURPHY—
Now a tiger and nine
times hoorray!
COMIC ZOOLOGY. Genus Culex.—The American
Mosquito Few American birds are better known than the mosquito.
In common with the woodcock, snipe, and other winged
succubi, it breeds in wet places, yet is always dry. Like
them it can sustain life on mud juleps, but prefers
“cluret.” It is a familiar creature, seems to regard the
human family as its Blood relations, and is always ready
to sucker them. Being a bird of Nocturnal Habits, it is particularly
attracted to human beings in their Night-shirts. The
swallow preys upon it, but it generally eludes the Bat.
Although it cannot be called Noctilucous, like the
lightning bug, it has no objection to alight in the
darkness, and you often knock till you cuss in your vain
attempts to prevent its taking a Shine to you. The mosquito differs in most respects from all the
larger varieties of the winged tribes, and upon the whole
takes after man more than any other living thing.
Nevertheless, it certainly bears a noticeable resemblance
to some of the feathered race. Like the Nightingale, it
“sings darkling,” and like the woodpecker, is much
addicted to tapping the bark of Limbs and Trunks for the
purpose of obtaining grub. It may be mentioned as an
amiable idiosyncracy of the mosquito, that it is fond of
babies. If there is a child in the house, it is sure to
spot the playful innocent; and by means of an ingenious
contrivance combining the principles of the gimlet and
the air-pump, it soon relieves the little human bud of
its superfluous juices. It is, in fact, a born surgeon, a
Sangrado of the Air, and rivals that celebrated Spanish
Leech in its fondness for phlebotomy. Some infidels, who
do not subscribe to the doctrine that nothing was made in
vain, consider it an unmitigated nuisance, but the devout
and thoughtful Christian recognizes it as Nature’s
preventive of plethora, and as it alternately breathes a
Vein and a song, it may be said (though we never heard
the remark,) to combine the utile with the
dulce. All the members of the genus are slender and graceful
in their shape and Gnatty in their general appearance.
The common mosquito is remarkable for its strong
attachments. It follows man with more than canine
fidelity, and in some cases, the dog-like pertinacity of
its affection can only be restrained by Muslin. It is of
a roving disposition, seldom remaining settled long in
one locality; and is Epicurean in its
tastes—always living, if possible, on the fat
of the land. As the mosquito produces no honey, mankind
in general are not as sweet upon it as they are upon that
bigger hum-bug, the buzzy bee; yet it is so far akin to
the bee, that, wherever it forages, it produces something
closely resembling Hives. Few varieties of game are hunted more industriously
than this, yet such is the fecundity of the species, that
the Sportsman’s Club has not as yet thought it necessary
to petition the legislature for its protection. The New Jersey Mosquito is the largest known specimen
of the genus, except the Southern Gallinipper, which is
only a few sizes smaller than the Virginia Nightingale,
and raises large speckles similar to those of the Thrush.
Ornithologists who wish to study the habits of the
mosquito in its undomesticated or nomad state, may find
it in angry clouds on the surface of the New Jersey salt
marshes at this season, in company with its teetering
long-billed Congener, the Sandsnipe. During the last month of summer it reigns supreme in
the swamps west of Hoboken, the August Emperor of all the
Rushes, and persons of an apoplectic turn, who wish to
have their surplus blood determined to the surface
instead of to the head, will do well to seek the hygienic
insect there.
An Apt Quotation. The name “Louvre” has now been adopted by several
places of entertainment in New York and its suburbs. A
Boston gentleman, who visited seven of them a night or
two since, under the escort of a policeman, declares
that, by a slight alteration of a line of MOORE’s, New
York may be well described as— “A place for Louvres, and for Louvres only.”
THE WATERING PLACES. Punchinello’s Vacations. Mr. PUNCHINELLO puts up at the Atlantic Hotel when he
goes to Cape May; and if you were to ask him why, he
would tell you that it was on account of the admirable
water-punches which JOHN McMAKIN serves up. To be sure
these mixtures do not agree with Mr. P., but he likes to
see people enjoying themselves, even if he can’t do it
himself. It is this unselfish disposition, this love of
his fellow-men, that enables him to maintain that
constant good humor so requisite to his calling. In fact,
though Mr. P. often says sharp things, he never gets
angry. When, on Thursday of last week, he was walking
down the south side of Jackson street, and a man asked
him did he want to buy a bag, Mr. P. was not enraged. He
knew the man took him for a greenhorn, but then the man
himself was a Jerseyman. It is no shame to be a greenhorn
to a Jerseyman. Quite the reverse. Mr. P. would blush if
he thought there lived a “sand-Spaniard” who could not
take advantage of him. So Mr. P. bought the bag, and
because it was made of very durable canvas, and would
last a great while, he paid a dollar for it. He did not ask what it was for. He knew. It was to put
Cape May Diamonds in! He put the bag in his pocket and
walked along the beach for three miles. You can’t walk
more than three miles here, and if you hire a carriage
you will find that you can’t ride less than that
distance. Which makes it bad, sometimes. However, when
Mr. P. had finished his three miles, he didn’t want to go
any further. He stopped, and gazing carelessly around to
see that no one noticed him, pulled out his canvas bag
and did shuffle a little in the sand with his feet. He
might find some
diamonds, you know, just as likely as any of the hundreds
of other people, who, in other sequestered parts of the
beach, were pulling out other canvas bags, and shuffling
in the sand with other feet. At length Mr. P. shuffled
himself into a very sequestered nook indeed, and there he
saw a man smoking. His melancholy little boy was sitting
by his side. Perceiving that it was only General GRANT,
Mr. P. advanced with his usual grace and suavity of
manner. “Why, Mr. President!” said he, “I thought you would be
found at Long Branch this season.” “Long—thunder!” ejaculated the General, his
face as black as the ace of spades, (which, by the way,
is blue.) “I might go to Nova Zembla for a quiet smoke,
and some sneaking politician would crawl out from the ice
with a petition. I went fishing in Pennsylvania, and I
found twenty of those fellows to every trout. However, I
don’t mind you. Take a seat and have a cigar.” Mr. P. took the seat, (which was nothing to brag of,)
and a cigar, (which would have been a great deal to brag
of, if he had succeeded in smoking it,) and, after a
whiff or two, asked his companion how it was that he came
to send such a message to Congress about Cuba. “What message?” said GRANT, absently. Mr. P. explained. “Oh,” said GRANT, “that one! Didn’t you like it? CALEB
CUSHING wrote it and brought it to me, and I signed it.
If you had written one and brought it to me, I would have
signed that. ‘Tisn’t my fault if the thing’s wrong. What
would you expect of a man?” Mr. P. concluded that in this case it was ridiculous
to expect anything else, and so he changed the
subject. That afternoon Mr. P. bathed. He went to SLOAN’S and fitted himself out in a bathing
suit, and very lovely he looked in it, when he emerged
from the bathing house at high tide. With a red tunic;
green pants; and a very yellow hat, he resembled a
frog-legged Garibaldian, ready for the harvest. When he hurried to the water’s edge, he hesitated for
a moment. The roaring surf was so full of heads, legs,
arms, back-hair, hats and feet, that he feared there was
no room for him. However, he espied a vacancy, and
plunged into the briny deep. How delicious! How cool! How fresh! How salt! How
splendid! He struck out with his legs; he struck out with his
arms; he dived with his whole body. He skimmed beneath
the green waters; he floated on the rolling wave-tips; he
trod water; he turned heels over head in the emerald
depths; and thus, gamboling like an Infant Triton, he
passed out beyond the breakers. It was very pleasant
there. Being a little tired, he found the change from the
surging waves to the gentle chuck and flop of the deep
water, most delightful. Languidly, to rest himself, he
threw his arm over a rock just peeping above the water.
But the rock gave a start and a yawn. It was a sleeping shark! The startled fish opened his eyes to their roundest,
and backed water. So did Mr. P. For an instant they gazed at each other in utter
surprise. Then the shark began slowly to sink. Mr. P.
knew what that meant. The monster was striving to get
beneath him for the fatal snap! Mr. P. sank with him! With admirable presence of mind he kept exactly even
with the fish. At last they reached the bottom. Mr. P. was nearly suffocated, but he determined that
he would strangle rather than rise first. The shark
endeavored to crawl under him, but Mr. P. clung to the
bottom. The fish then made a feint of rising, but, in an
instant, Mr. P. had him around the waist! The affrighted shark darted to the surface, and Mr. P.
inhaled at least a gallon of fresh air. Never before had
oxygen tasted so good! On the surface the struggle was renewed, but Mr. P.
always kept undermost. At last they rested from the contest, and lay panting
on the surface of the water, glaring at each other. The shark, who was a master of finesse, swam
out a little way, to where the water was deeper, and then
slowly sank, intending, if Mr. P. followed him again to
the bottom, to stay there long enough to drown the
unfortunate man. But Mr. P. knew a trick worth two of
that. He didn’t follow him at all! He swam towards
shore as fast as he could, and when the shark looked
around, to see if he was coming, he was safe within the
line of surf. Need it be said that when he reached dry laud, Mr. P.
became a hero with the crowds who had witnessed this
heroic struggle? That evening, as Mr. P. sat upon the portico of his
hotel, there came unto him, in the moonlight, a maiden of
the latest fashion. “Sir,” she softly murmured “are you the noble hero who
overcame the shark?” Mr. P. looked up at her. Her soft eyes were dimmed with irresponsible
emotion. “I am,” said he. The maiden stood motionless. Her whole frame was
agitated by a secret struggle. At length she spoke. “Is there a Mrs. P.?” she softly said. Mr. P. arose. He grasped the back of his chair with
trembling hand. His manly form quivered with a secret
struggle. He looked upon her! He gazed for a moment, with glowing, passionate eyes,
upon that matchless form—upon that angelic
face, and then—he clasped his brows in hopeless
agony. Stepping back, he gave the maiden one glance of
wildest love, followed by another of bitterest despair;
and sank helpless into his chair. The maiden leaned, pale and trembling, against a
pillar; but hearing the approach of intruders, she
recovered herself with an effort. “Farewell,” she whispered. “I know! I know! There
is a Mrs. P.!”—and she was gone. Mr. P. arose and slipped out into the night, shaken by
a secret struggle. He laid upon the sand and kicked up
his heels. There isn’t any Mrs. P.! Mr. P. does not wish to sweep his hand rudely o’er the
tender chords of any heart, but he wants it known that he
is neither to be snapped up by sharks in the sea, or by
young women at watering places.
A DOG’S TALE. Dogmatic. I am only a dog, I admit; but do you suppose dogs have
no feeling? I guess if you were kicked out of every
door-way you ran into, and driven away from every meat
stand or grocery you happened to smell around, you would
think you had feelings. When I see some dogs riding in carriages, looking so
grandly out of the windows, or others walking along
proudly by the side of their owners, I have a feeling of
dislike for the very thought of liberty! I sometimes go with the crowd to a lecture-room, and
listen to the speeches about freedom and liberty, the
hatred of bondage, and all that sort of thing. I get my
tail up, and wish I could tell them what liberty really
is. There is nothing worse in the world than this running
around loose, with no one to look after you, and no one
for you to look after; no one to notice you when you wag
your tail, and to have no occasion for so doing. You go
out and you come in, and nobody cares. If you never come
back, no one troubles himself about you. Every day I hear men reading in the papers about some
lucky dogs having strayed, or having been stolen, a large
reward being offered for their recovery: and I envy each
lost dog! I wonder who would advertise for me if I got
lost! Alas! no one. They would not give me a bone to
bring me back, or to keep me from drowning myself. But
every boy in the street thinks he has a right to throw
stones at me; and tie tin-kettles to my tail; and chase
me when I have had the good luck to find a bone; and to
set big dogs upon me to worry me when I am faint from
hunger and haven’t much pluck; and worse than all, chase
me and cry “Ki-yi,” when I am almost dying of thirst! If you only knew how hard it is for a poor dog to make
his way in the world, with no one to help him to a
mouthful of food, you would feel sorry for us. But I think we might get along better if it wasn’t for
the scarcity of water. I hardly know a spot in the city
where I can get a drink; and many a time I have gone all
day without a drop. If I happen to hang out my tongue and droop my tail,
my ears are saluted with “Mad dog! Let’s kill him!” You
need not wonder I sometimes turn round, and snap at my
pursuers. I think you would snap, too, if you were chased
through street and lane and alley, till your blood was in
a perfect fever, and you hardly knew which way you were
running! I have, on many such occasions, actually run
past a beautiful bone that lay handy on the side-walk,
and never stopped to smell it. Oh! I wish some one would take me prisoner, and
continue to own me, and keep me in bondage as long as I
lived! I should only be too happy to give up my liberty,
and settle down and be a respectable dog!
A Bute-Iful Idea. The Marquis of Bute denies that he is going to return
to the Protestant fold. With reference to the rumor, the
Pope stated in the Ecumenical Council that “the Bute was
on the right leg at last, and that he would launch his
thunder against him who should dare that Bute
displace.”
WHAT IS IT? As the shades of night descend (in the neighborhood of
Mecklenburg, N.C.,) and harmless domestic animals begin
to compose themselves to sleep, suddenly the drowsy world
is awakened by a roaring like that of a lion! It proceeds
from the forest, in whose bosky recesses (as the
Mecklenburgers suppose) some terrible creature proclaims
his hunger and his inclination to appease it with human
flesh! All night long the quaking denizens of that hamlet
lie and listen to the roaring, which is an effectual
preventive of drowsiness, as the moment any one begins to
be seized with it he also begins to fancy he is about to
be seized and deglutinated by the horrid monster!
Naturalists are positive it is not the Gyascutis, but
admit that a Megatherium may have lately awakened from
the magnetic sleep of ages, with the pangs of a mighty
hunger tearing his wasted viscera. If our theory is correct, the good people of
Mecklenburg (was it not in Mecklenburg that the agitation
for Independence began?) may be assured that deliverance
from this unreasonable Dragon is possible. We think it
more than likely that it is simply GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN
practicing for the next invasion of Great Britain.
Nothing could be more harmless. One Ku-Kluxian youth,
armed with a double-barrelled shot-gun, four
bowie-knives, and a number of revolvers, could rout him
instantly, and even check the flow of his vociferous
eloquence so suddenly as to put him in imminent danger of
asphyxia.
 RETRIBUTION. THE BOYS OF SAN FRANCISCO, EXASPERATED AT THE
CONVERSION OF THEIR DOGS INTO PIE, TIE KETTLES TO THE
TAILS OF THE CHINAMEN.
Giving the Cue. “Is that one of your Chinese belles? asked Mr.
PUNCHINELLO of Mr. KOOPMAN-SCHOOP, as one of the
newly-imported yallagals passed. “Yes,” replied Mr. K. “You can always tell a Chinese
bell from a Chinese gong by the bell-pull attached to
it.” Mr. P. immediately presented his chapeau to Mr.
K.
HINTS FOR—THOSE WHO WILL TAKE
THEM. Mr. PUNCHINELLO: Your invaluable “Hints for the
Family,” published some time since, seem destined to work
a revolution in our domestic economy; as the plans you
propose must win the admiration of housekeepers by their
extreme simplicity, aside from any other motives to their
adoption. I have myself tested several of your methods,
and find that you speak from thorough and circumstantial
knowledge of your subject In bread-making, for instance,
we find that when the cat reposes in the dough, it (the
dough) will not rise, though the cat does. But in the
clock manufacture, we fear you have divulged one of the
secrets of the trade. Your little invention for carrying a thread should be
recommended to students and other isolated beings,
notwithstanding their unaccountable propensity to pierce
other substances than the cloth. They would find driving
the needle through much facilitated by a skilful use of
the table formerly described. Permit me to make a few additional suggestions. Get some worsted and a pair of needles; set up from
twenty to forty stitches, more or less, and knit till you
are tired. When finished—(the
knitting)—draw out the needles and bite off the
thread. You will thus have made an elegant lamp-mat, of
the same color as the worsted, and the very thing for a
Christmas present to your grandmother. This is a very graceful employment, and a great
favorite with ladies; in fact, some ladies seem so
infatuated with work of that kind, that, according to the
new theory of the Future, a fruition of fancy-work will
be amongst their other blissful realizations. And so,
after surveying Deacon QUIRK’S spiritual potato fields,
or perhaps some fresh (spiritual) manifestation of Miss
PHELPS’S piety and intelligence, we may have the pleasure
of seeing the sun and moon hung with tidies, and a
lamp-mat under each star. Take your rejected sketches and compositions, cut them
in strips two or three inches wide, and as long as the
paper will permit. Fold these strips lengthwise as narrow
as possible, and smooth the edges down flat with your
finger. When finished, or perhaps before, you will find
you have made a bunch of excellent lamp-lighters. Get a suit of clothes—broadcloth is the
best—and a pair of boots to stand them in.
Button the coat, and insert in the neck any vegetable you
choose, so that it be large enough, (one of the drum-head
species is the best,) and finish with a hat You will then
find, doubtless to your surprise and delight, that you
have a man, or an excellent substitute for one,
equal, if not superior to the genuine article, warranted
to be always pleased with his dinner, and never,
necessarily, in the way. Some people may object to its
lack of intelligence, as compared with the original, but
careful investigation has shown that the difference is
very slight; yet, admitting even this to be a positive
fault, it is amply counterbalanced by negative merits.
Your correspondent who writes about “The Real Estate of
Woman,” will be relieved to find that the threatened
dearth in husbands can be so readily obviated. Very truly, ANN O. BLUE.
For Singers, Only. What is the best wine for the voice? Canary.
A Chop-House Aphorism. Customers who fee waiters may always be sure of their
Feed.
Washy. The daily papers tell us that “Sixty-Eight Thousand
persons visited the public baths during last week.” They went in—a week lot—and came
out sixty-eight thousand strong.
Constructive Genius. “A poor woman in Utica, who owns three houses and is
building another, sends her children into the streets
daily to beg.” Quite right. While the youngsters beg in the streets,
let the enterprising old lady go on and begin another
house.
A Result of the Mongol. Owing to the influx of Chinamen into this country, the
edict against allowing dogs to run at large during the
Summer has been relaxed.
 BOMBASTES BONAPARTE: NOW PERFORMING AT THE THEATRE FRANCAIS. “He who
would these Boots displace
Must meet BOMBASTES face to face.”
 THE NEW PANDORA’S BOX. REPRESENTATIVE MANUFACTURER, (springing open
Chinese surprise
box.)—”THERE!—WHAT DO YOU THINK
OF THAT LITTLE JOKER?” KNIGHT OF ST. CRISPIN.—”PSHAW! THAT’S A
MEAN TRICK: WAIT TILL I OPEN MY BOX!”
HIRAM GREEN ON THE CHINESE. He write a letter to the North Adams Shoe
Manufacturer.—New Occupation for the “Coming
Man.” NSBORO, NYE ONTO VARMONT, July the
11th, 18-Seventy. MISTER SAMPSON: Selestial sir:—I take my goose quil in hand
to rite you a letter. I like your stile—you
soot me. I myself have been an old Statesman, having
served my country for 4 years as Gustise of the Peece,
raisin’ sed offis to a higher standard than usual, as
well as raisin’ an interestin’ family of eleven healthy
children. Upon the linements of their countenance the
features and stamp of GREEN stands out in bold relief.
They are all genuine Green-bax. A little cloud no bigger than a man’s hand made its
appearance over the golden streets of San Francisco. It is growin’ bigger, and afore we know it, will be
bigger than a white elefant. You have ceased the dilemer by the horn which hangs
suspended from the dilemer’s head, like the tail of a
kite. While you have set the Chinees peggin’ away puttin’
bottoms on shoes, a great many are peggin’ away “putin’ a
head onto you.” In the present statis of things you want to blow up
your nerve, and stand as firm as the rox of Jiberalter,
and like BYRON exclaim: “To be or not to be, there’s the
question;—
Whether a man feels
better to pay big wages for shoemakers,
Or to suffer the slings
and arrows of everybody,
By hirin’ Pig-tails for
1/2 price?” Poleticians of the different churches don’t endorse
our Selestial brother. But, sir, I’ll venter a few
dollars, that if the children of the son—and
dorter—leaned towards either party, he would be
gobled up quicker’n scat, even if he come red hot from
old LUCIFER, with a pocket full of free passes, for the
whole nashun, to the Infernal regions. That’s so. A vote’s a vote, if it comes from
Greenland’s coral strand or Afric’s icy mountains. I feel
a good deal towards you as a nabor of mine, named JOE
BELCHER, once did. JOE likes his tod, and can punish as much gin and
tansy as a New York alderman can, when drinkin’ at the
sity’s expense. JOE went to camp meetin’ last week, and, I am pained
to say it, JOSEF got drunker than a biled owl. While one of the brethern was preachin’, JOE sot on a
pine log tryin’ to make out wether the preacher was a
double-headed man, or whether 2 men were holdin’
forth. “Who’ll stand up for the carpenter’s Son?” sed the
preacher. This made JOE look around. The question was again repeated. Again JOE looked around for an answer. Again the preacher said: “Who’ll stand up for
Him?” JOE by this time had got onto his feet, and was
steadyin’ himself by holdin’ onto a tree, while he sung
out: “I say (hic!) ole feller, Ile stand up (hic!) for him,
or any ‘orrer man who hain’t got any (hic!) more fren’s
than he has (hic!) in this ‘ere crowd.” I feel a good deal as JOE did. Anybody who hain’t got
any more frends than you have, Mr. SAMPSON, has my
sympathy. For bringin’ these hily morril and
refined Monongohelians to Massachusetts is a big
feather in your cap, and you will receive your reward
bime-bye. “The wages of sin is death.” But the wages of a Chinyman is money in a man’s
pocket. They work cheap. I am trying to get the Chinese substituted for canal
hosses. A man here by the name of SNYDER, who runs a canal
Hoss to our Co., talks of sendin’ for a lot. Won’t they be bang up with their cues hitcht to a
canal bote snakin’ it along at the rate of a mile inside
of 2 hours. “G’lang! Tea leaf.” Then when they was restin’ from their labors, by tyin’
2 of ’em together by their cues, stand one opposite the
other and hang close between ’em to dry, on washin’
day. What an aristocratic thing Chiny close-line posts
would be. The only drawback that I know of is, that the
confounded posts mite some day walk off with all the
close. But, sir, if they served me in that manner, I would
cover the ground with broken crockery by smashin’ their
old Chiny mugs for ’em. Since you’ve awoken to notorosity, I have been
studdyin’ out your family pedigree. I find your Antsisters are connected with long hair
more or less, same as you be with Chiny pig-tails. Old SAMPSON the first’s strength, like your’n of
to-day, lade in his long hair. He could cut off more heads, and slay more Fillistians
with the jaw bone of a member of Congress than the
President of these U.S. can by makin’ a new deal in the
Custom house department. And, sir, I reckon about these days, we are getting
rather more of that same kind of jaw bone than is
healthy. I am afrade not. Mrs. SAMPSON worked like a kag of apple sass in hot
weather, to find out where her old man’s strength was.
When she found out, what did she do? Why, she got a pair
of sheep shears and cropped him closer’n a state prison
bird, and tryin’ to lift a house full of fokes, it fell
onto him and smashed him. Like LOT’S wife, she’d orter been turned into a pillow
of salt, and then the pillow had orter been sewed up and
cast into the sea. Another of the SAMPSONS wouldn’t even chop off MARIAR
ANTERNETTE’S head until her hair had been cut off, so he
could peel her top-knot off slick and cleen. Lookin’ back at these cheerful antsisters of your’n,
it’s no wonder you go in for long haired labor. It runs
in the SAMPSON blood. The public is cussin’ you from DANIEL to BEEBSHEBER,
because you’ve brought a lot of modern Philistines to
Massachusetts. Let ’em cus. That’s their lay. Your’n is, to bild up a fortin, if Poor-houses for
white laborers to live in is thicker in North Adams than
goose pimples on a fever and ager sufferer’s form. As old Grandma SAMPSON cut off her old man’s long
hair, so she could handle him in one of them little
fireside scrimmages which we married fokes enjoy, so
fokes would crop you, my hi toned old Joss stick. But I’ve writ more’n I intended to. I would like to
have you come and make us a visit. Bring along your wife, DELIAL. Tell her to bring her
croshay work. Mrs. GREEN is interestin’ company among wimmen. What MARIAR don’t know about her nabors, don’t
happen. Then her veel pot-pies and ingin puddins are just
rats. She can nock the spots off from any woman who wears a
waterfall, gettin’ up a good square meal. Anser soon, and don’t forget to pay your own
postige. Hopin’ you are sound on the goose and able to enjoy
your Swi lager und Sweitzer, I am thine, old hoss, HIRAM GREEN, Esq., Lait Gustise of the Peece.
TREATMENT FOR POTATO BUGS. Mr. CLARK JOHNSON, of Pendleton, Indiana, not at all
discouraged by the signal failures of many previous
campaigns against the Bug, has entered the (potato) field
with a new weapon, viz.: a mixture of Paris Green and
Ashes. Applied frequently, as a Top Dressing, this gentle
stimulant imparts a new energy to the vine, and also to
the Bug, who thus becomes so vigorous, and at the same
time restless, that an uncontrollable impulse seizes him
to visit the home of his ancestors, (Colorado.) Here, as
is supposed by Mr. JOHNSON, the fictitious energy that
had been supplied by the Mixture deserts the immigrant,
who now settles down contentedly, nor ever roams
again. As (owing to the present facilities of freighting,
etc.,) the Potatoes of Pendleton may eventually find the
New York market, which always invites the superior
esculent, we would like to suggest to Mr. JOHNSON that
this Mixture be administered to the Bug with a spoon, and
not sprinkled promiscuously on the ground. We have drank
Tea with a “green flavor,” and found it comparatively
innocuous; but Potatoes with a green flavor, (especially
if flavored by the JOHNSONIAN method,) we should consider
as doubtful, to say the least. It is the general
impression that there is nothing Green in Paris; but your
house painter knows there is such a thing as Paris Green,
and that it is the oxyde of copper. Therefore, should one
eat many of the potatoes nourished as above, we should
expect to see him gradually turning into a Bronze
Statue—a fate which, unless he were
particularly Greeky and nice-looking, we should wish to
anticipate, if possible, in the interests of art.
 MR. SWACHENBACKER, OF THE AIRY ‘UN SOCIETY, CREATES
A SENSATION AMONG THE LADY BATHERS AT “THE BRANCH,” BY
APPEARING AMONG THEM AS A MERMAN, WITH A REAL
LOOKING-GLASS AND A FALSE TAIL.
Fashionable Intelligence. Two colors that once were fashionable in the Parisian
toilette, viz.: BISMARCK brown and Prussian blue,
are now excluded from court circles, by command of the
Empress.
Weather or No. Most remarkable in the history of mathematics are the
calculations published by the weather-prophet of the
Express. Arithmetic turns pale when she glances at
them, and, striking her multiplication table with her
algebraic knuckles, demands to know why the
Express does not add a Cube-it to its
THATCHER.
Comparative Industry. It is reported that “the journeymen lathers demand
four dollars per day.” As a question of comparative soap,
the latherers will in due time strike too. The ultimatum
will be-“Raise our pay or we drop the Razor.”
“Omnibus Hoc,” etc. What is the difference between theft in an omnibus and
the second deal at cards? One is a Game of the Stage, and the other is a Stage
of the Game.
OUR AGRICULTURAL COLUMN. Memorabilia of “What I Know About Farming.” Profound subjects should be well meditated upon. A man
may write about “New America,” or “Spiritual Wives,” or
any such light and airy subject, without possessing much
knowledge, or indulging in much thought, but he can’t
play such tricks upon Agriculture. She is very much like
a donkey: unless you are thoroughly acquainted with her
playful ways, she will upset you in a quagmire. Perhaps
it is due to my readers that I should say here that I
have read a great many valuable treatises upon this
subject, among which may be named, “Cometh up as a
Flour,” “Anatomy of Melon-cholly,” “Sowing and Reaping,”
one thousand or two volumes of Patent Office Reports, and
three or four bushels of “Proverbial Philosophy.” I would
also add, that I invariably remain awake on clear nights,
and think out the ideas set down in this column. Probably
you may not be able to find traces of all that labor
here, but I assure you that those books are more familiar
to me than is my catechism. However, anybody who thinks
he knows more about vegetables than I do, can send me a
letter containing his information, and, if I don’t
cabbage it, I will plant it carefully in the bottom of
the waste paper basket. We now proceed to consider. PAR’S NIPS. This vegetable always flourishes in a moist soil,
though it generally has a holy horror of aqua
pura. Some of them are of an immense size; I have
seen them fill a tumbler. Producers, however, generally
charge more for the large ones than for the small. The
size of the nip usually depends upon the par. It may be
that your par’s nip is extremely small, while JOHN
SMITH’S par’s nip is very large. Four fingers is, I
believe, considered to be the regulation size. This vegetable is served up in a variety of forms.
Some pars like it with milk; in that case it is generally
“hung up.” In the winter it is often called a sling or a
punch; in the summer it is denominated a cobbler or a
jew-lip. Perhaps it would be well for those who love it,
to indulge in par’s nip now, for some people say, that in
the days of the “coming man” there will be no par’s nips.
It must be admitted that the father of a family, who
indulges too freely in par’s nip, is very likely to run
to seed, and to plant himself in such unfruitful places
as the gutter. If he be a young par, he may become a
rake, and fork over his money, and then ho! for the
alms-house. Numerous efforts have been made to suppress this
vegetable, among which may be reckoned, “Father, dear
Father, come home with me now,” Brother GOUGH’S circus,
and the parades of the F.M.T.A.B. Societies. Maine and
Vermont Neal together in the front rank of its opponents.
In Boston they tried to suppress this vegetable, but, if
you followed your par to a store and heard him order a
cracker, you could smell par’s nip. Among the mild varieties of this article may be
mentioned benzine, camphene and kerosene; the next
strongest kind is called Jersey lightning; but, if you
desire par’s nips in their most luxuriant form, go to
Water street and try the species known as
“rot-gut.”
OUR PORTFOLIO. Poetry is the exclusive birthright of no age of
people. The dirtiest Hindoo sings to his fetish
the songs of the Brahmin muse, with as keen a relish as
the most devout Christian does the hymns of Dr. WATTS.
Melody comes of Heaven, and is a gift vouchsafed to all
generations, and all kinds of men. In proof of this, let
us adduce a single extract from the great epic of the
Hawaiian poet, POPPOOFI, entitled “Ka Nani
E!” Ka nani e! ka
nani e!
Alohi puni no
Mai luna, a mai lalo
nei,
A ma na mea a
pau. We would call the attention of our readers
particularly to the sublime sentiment of the second line.
“Alohi puni no,” sings the peerless POPPOOFI, and where,
in the pages of that other Oriental HOMER, the Persian
HAFI, can be found anything half so magnificent? There
may be critics bigoted enough to think that the last line
destroys the effect of the other three; but we
don’t. PUNCHINELLO would much rather discover the good in
a thing at any time, than go a-fishing on Sundays. It is not in the nature of a properly constituted
human being to lay his hand upon his heart and
chant: “Ka nani e!
Ka nani e!” in the presence of his mother-in-law, without feeling
that life is not so miserable as some people would make
it out. In the words of ALEXANDER SELKIRK’S man FRIDAY:
“Palmam qui meruit ferat.”
THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.  mmet is
a name which has heretofore been associated in the public
mind with the Negro Minstrel business. Certain weird
barbaric melodies, which defy all laws of musical
composition, but which haunt one like a dream of a lonely
night on some wild African river, are said to have been
written by “OLD EMMET.” Is there any such person? Has any
one actually seen “OLD EMMET” in the flesh, and
with—say a high hat and a cotton umbrella? For
my part I disbelieve in the popular theory of the origin
of these EMMETIC melodies which stir one so strangely.
They are not the work of any earthly song writer, but are
born of some untuned Eolian harp played upon by uncertain
breezes, that murmur the memory of tropical groves and
sigh with the sadness of exile. There is no “OLD EMMET.”
If there is, let him be brought forward—not to
be chucked out of the window, as Mrs. F.’s AUNT might
suggest,—but to be thanked and wondered at as
an inchoate OFFENBACH, who might, under other
circumstances, have written an American opera-bouffe, or,
better still, as a possible CHOPIN, who might have
written a second “March Funébre” as hopeless and
desolate and fascinating as that of the despairing and
poetic Pole. (I am coming to “FRITZ” in a moment, but I
won’t be hurried by any one.)
As for JOSEPH K. EMMET, he is an undoubted reality. If
you don’t believe it, go to WALLACK’S and see him.
Somebody discovered this EMMET in the Pastoral privacy of
the Bowery. Mr. GAYLER was made to write a play for him,
and EMMET, the Bowery Minstrel, straightway became Mr.
JOSEPH K. EMMET, the renowned impersonator of “FRITZ.” He
plays “FRITZ” at WALLACK’S every evening, and the
entertainment is something of this nature. ACT I.—Scene, the outside of Castle
Garden. Enter baggage-smashers, emigrant-runners,
aldermen, and other criminals. RUNNER. “There’s a ship a’ comin’ up. I’ll lay for the
Dutchmen.” BOBBIT. (A concert-saloon manager.) “There’s a
ship coming up. I’ll lay for the Dutch girls.” DISSOLUTE COLONEL. “There’s a ship coming up. I want
you two fellows to look out for a Dutchman named “FRITZ,”
who is onboard. He takes care of a girl, KATRINA, whom I
adore. Carry off FRITZ and I’ll carry off the girl.” (Various emigrants enter and are hustled off by the
runners. FRITZ and KATRINA finally
appear.) FRITZ. “Ja. Das ist gut. Ach himmel; zwei bier und
Limburger.” (The runners seize his trunk and carry it off.
The DISSOLUTE COLONEL hurries KATRINA into
a coach and carries her off. FRITZ is carried away
by his emotions. Curtain.) ACT II.—Scene, a boarding-house parlor.
Enter DISSOLUTE COLONEL and KATRINA. DISSOLUTE COLONEL. “You are in my power. Be mine, and
you shall have as many bonnets and things as you can
wish. Refuse, and I’ll send every reporter in the city to
interview you.” KATRINA. “Base villain! I despise you. Let the
torturers do their worst.” (Enter FRITZ, disguised as a member of the
Sorosis.) KATRINA. “You here! Be cautious. The hash is drugged.
Save me, my beloved.” FRITZ. “Ja. Das ist nicht gut. Herr Colonel, Ich bin
KATRINA’S aunt. Ich habe gekommen to take her away wid
me, ye owdacious spalpeen.” DISSOLUTE COLONEL. “Glad to see you. Take some hash,
madam?” FRITZ. “Ja. Das ist gut. Take some yourself, you
murtherin’ thafe of the worruld.” (The DISSOLUTE COLONEL forgets that the hash
is drugged. He takes it and falls insensible. FRITZ
and KATRINA escape. Scene changes to Judge
DOWLING’S court-room.) FRITZ. (Having left off his Sorosis disguise.)
“Ja. Das is nicht gut. Behold, O wise young judge, the
misguided person who put my trunk in his pocket and ran
away with it.” JUDGE. “Prove your case.” FRITZ. “Ja. Das ist gut. Begar! I proves him toute
de suite—what you call to wunst. You see
those Limburger cheese in the villain’s mouth. He got
them out of my trunk. So you see I have him ein thief
geproven.” JUDGE. “Your case is proved. Let the prisoner be
removed.” FRITZ. “Ja. Das ist sehr gut. Now I’m a gwine to de
saloon, where dis niggah has a ningagement for to
sing.” (Scene changes to a concert saloon. FRITZ
enters and goes through an entire programme of negro
minstrelsy, to the wild delight of the gallery. At last
the lazy curtain slowly consents to fall.) ACT III.—The DISSOLUTE COLONEL come to
grief, and FRITZ marries KATRINA. If you want
to know all about it, go to the theatre. I don’t intend
to ruin the establishment by giving the public the whole
play for the ridiculous sum which is charged for this
copy of PUNCHINELLO. The third act is the last of the
play, and when the curtain fells, the audience
immediately proceeds to pick EMMET to pieces. BOY IN THE GALLERY. “Ain’t he just tip, though? I’ve
seen him lots o’ times at TONY PASTOR’S, and I allers
knowed he’d be a big thing if the Bowery or thishyer
theatre got a hold on him.” YOUNG LADY. “Isn’t it frightfully low? The idea of Mr.
WALLACK permitting this negro minstrelsy in his theatre.
To be sure Mr. EMMET is funny; but I hate to see people
funny in this place.” OLD GENTLEMAN. “My dear! don’t be absurd. Suppose Mr.
EMMET has been a minstrel, is that any proof that he
can’t be an actor? The young fellow has his faults, but
they will wear off in time, and he is brimful of real
talent. The play isn’t a model of excellence, but it was
made to show EMMET’S strong points, and it answers its
purpose. Shall we cry down a talented and promising young
actor simply because he has been a minstrel, and now has
the audacity to play at WALLACK’S? And besides, haven’t
we seen pantomime, and legs, and LOTTA, and DAN BRYANT at
WALLACK’S? You never objected to any of the
illegitimacies that have preceded FRITZ;—why
then should you begin now? Give EMMET and GAYLER a
chance. At any rate they can make you laugh, which is
something that BOUCICAULT with his ‘Lost at Sea‘
did not do.” MATADOR.
A PARABLE ABOUT THE TWELFTH OF JULY. In a far distant land, beyond the sea, there dwelt an
Orange Lily. Separated from it by a very absurd and
useless ditch, a Green Shamrock spread its trefoil
leafage to the sun, and grew greener every day. Now, in
course of time, a very ill feeling sprang up between the
Lily and the Shamrock, on account of color, the former
despising the latter because it was green, and the latter
hating the former because it was orange—as if
both colors hadn’t lived together in the rainbow ever
since the aquatic excursion of old Mr. NOAH, without ever
falling out of it or with each other. In time they both
crossed the sea, and took root in a far-away land, where
they became acquainted with a very remarkable animal
called the American Beaver. The industry of this creature urged the Lily to toil
and spin, contrary to its usual habits, while the
Shamrock converted its trifoliated leaves into shovels,
and took a contract for excavating the hemisphere. And so
they might have jogged on very well together, but for
their stupid way of showing their colors when there was
no occasion for it. This greatly disgusted their friend,
the American Beaver, who didn’t care a pinch of snuff
about color, (black is not a color, you know,) but who
went in for faithful and persistent work. One beautiful
Twelfth of July, the Lily arose very early in the
morning, and, shaking out her orange leaves, defied the
Shamrock to “come on.” The Shamrock came on. There was a
vegetable howl, and clash, and clangor in the air, and
the Lily, having knocked off several of the Shamrocks’
greenest leaves, went to its friend, the American Beaver,
for comfort and support. But the American Beaver, instead
of countenancing the Lily, said: “Look here, Lily, I
guess you are about the greatest fool I ever did
see, except, perhaps, the Shamrock. As long as you two
stick to your work, instead of sticking out your colors
and sticking your knives into each other, I am very glad
to have you for neighbors, but now that you have shown
yourselves to be jack-asses instead of vegetables, I
would not give an American Beaver dam for the two of
you.”
CONDENSED CONGRESS. SENATE. 
pleasant philosopher tells us that blessings brighten as
they take their flight. The flight of Congress may be
regarded as a blessing. But Congressmen do not brighten.
PUNCHINELLO listens in vain for the swan song of SUMNER,
and looks longingly, without being gratified by the
spectacle of the oratorical funeral pyre of NYE. Almost
the only gleam of humor he discerns in his weekly wading
through the watery and windy wastes of the Congressional
Globe is a comic coruscation by Mr. CAMERON.
Mr. McCREERY had had the abominable impudence to
introduce a bill relieving the disabilities of a few
friends of his in Kentucky. Mr. CAMERON objected upon the
ground that one of these persons was named SMITH, and
used to be a New York Street Commissioner. Any man who
had been a New York Street Commissioner ought to be
hanged as soon as any decent pretext could be found for
hanging him. (Murmurs of approbation from the New York
reporters.) Still this was not his main objection to
SMITH. The SMITH family had furnished more aid and
comfort to the rebel army than any other family in the
South. No SMITH should, with his consent, be permitted to
participate in the conduct of a Government which so many
SMITHS had conspired to overthrow. Moreover, this was an
incorrigible SMITH. It was an undisputed fact that SMITH
had given up a lucrative office to follow his political
convictions. Such a man could not be viewed by Senators
with any other feelings than those of horror and disgust.
Let them reflect what would be the effect of polluting
this body, as by this bill it was proposed to make it
possible to do, with a man so dead to all the common
feelings of our nature that he would set up his own
conceits against the practice of his fellow-Senators, and
the rewards of a grateful country. This settled the fate
of SMITH, but the rest of Mr. McCREERY’s friends, being
obscure persons, were let in, in spite of the “barbaric
yaup” of DRAKE, who said that the next thing would be a
proposition to enact a similar outrage in Missouri, and
thereby abet the efforts of the bold bad men who were
trying to get him out of his seat. HOUSE. SCHENCK insisted upon the Tariff. He had been visited
by delegations from the great heart of the nation, who
assured him that the great heart of the nation yearned
for an immediate increase of the duty on various articles
which competed with the articles manufactured by the
members of the delegation. No longer ago than yesterday a
manufacturer of double-back-action jack-planes had
assured him that the single-forward-action jack-planes
poured upon our shores by the pauper labor of Europe,
were, so to speak, shaving off the edge of the national
life. A gentleman whose name was known to the uttermost
parts of the civilized world, who had shed new lustre
upon the American name by the great boon he had bestowed
upon mankind in the American self-filling rotary Bird of
Freedom inkstand with revolving lid, had said, with the
tears of patriotic shame and sorrow in his eyes, that
there were recreant writers who preferred to purchase the
Birmingham inkstand, which required to be filled, did not
rotate, and had no revolution to its lid, at fifty cents,
than to secure his own triumph of American ingenuity at
ten dollars. Such misguided men must be taught their duty
to their native land. Mr. SCHENCK moved an increase to
4,000 per cent, ad valorem on the foreign
jack-plane, which he characterized as a Tool of Tyranny,
and the Birmingham inkstand. The thing was done. Mr. DAWES said he was disgusted. Everybody’s jobs were
put through except his. He threatened to go home and tell
his constituents. Mr. PETERS suggested that Mr. DAWES had better go out
and take “suthin’ soothin’.” (Mr. PETERS is from Maine,
and his remark will probably be understood there.) If he
might be pardoned the liberty he would recommend a little
ice in it. Mr. DAWES said he could do his own drinking. As for
PETERS, he scorned him. Moreover, PETERS was
one-eyed. Mr. PETERS appealed to his record to show that he had
two eyes. He did not understand the anger of Mr. DAWES.
Of course when he suggested a drink, he assumed the
responsibility of paying for it. Mr. DAWES said that altered the case entirely. He took
pleasure in withdrawing his hasty remarks, and in
assuring the House that he profoundly venerated PETERS,
and that PETERS had two perfect eyes of unusual
expressiveness. Mr. BINGHAM called attention to the case of Mr.
PORTER, who had been smitten on the nose by a vile
creature whom he declined to drink with. This was a blow
at the national life, and he thought the punishment of
treason was imperatively demanded. Mr. BUTLER said he had been kicked once. He assured
the House that the sensation was repugnant to his
feelings as a man—much more as a Congressman.
He moved to amend by substituting slow torture. It was finally resolved to put the wretch in irons and
feed him on bread and water.
A Drowsy Con. When a man is sleepy, what sort of transformation does
he desire? He wishes he were a-bed.
An Anecdote of the good old Square Kind. MRS. PRINGLEWOOD, having been afflicted with a chimney
that smoked, sent for a chimney-doctor to cure it. When the cure had been thoroughly effected, says Mrs.
PRINGLEWOOD to the chimney-doctor: “My son, a boy of but
fourteen, smokes awful; couldn’t you cure him as you did
the chimney?” “No I couldn’t, marm,” returned the chimney-doctor,
who was a wag: “but I see what you’re arter,
marm—you want me to teach him to draw!”
O Deer, Deer! Trichinoe are said to have been discovered in
the flesh of Oregon deer. If this should prove true,
Oregon venison must be anything but a benison; but it is
more than likely that the report originated in the fact
that there is in the East Indies a species of the cervine
family known as the Hog deer.
Scientific Intelligence. We learn from exchanges that in Missouri, where the
wages of working-people average five dollars per
diem, that the Legislature have decreed a Mining
Bureau, and a Geological Survey of the
State—the remuneration of the assistant
geologists to be at the rate of $1.50 per diem.
Why should these learned geologists waste their time for
a compensation so mean? Let them rather convert their
surveying-staffs into ox-goads, and turn their attention
to Gee-haw-logy,—’twill pay better than t’other
thing.
Men and Manners/ The following paragraph, cut from a newspaper,
suggests a good deal: “A Hindoo cabby, before mounting the box and taking
the reins, always first prays that his driving may be to
the glory of his God.” Now this is precisely what the New York hackman
invariably does before he gathers up the reins and urges
on his “galled jades.” He curses his horses, his
passengers, and his own eyes, and thus commends his
driving to the glory of his God, whose other name
is LUCIFER. | 
THE COMING MILLENNIUM,