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 XVI. AVUNCULAR DEVOTIO Having literally fallen asleep from his chair to the
rug, J. BUMSTEAD, Esquire, was found to have reached such an
extraordinary depth in slumber, that Mr. and Mrs. SMYTHE, his landlord
and landlady, who were promptly called in by Mr. DIBBLE, had at first
some fear that they should never be able to drag him out again. In
pursuance, however, of a mode of treatment commended to their judgment,
by frequent previous practice with the same patient, the good couple
poured a pitcher of water over his fallen head; hauled him smartly up
and down the room, first by a hand and then by a foot; singed his
whiskers with a hot poker, held him head-downward for a time, and tried
various other approved allopathic remedies. Seeing that he still slept
profoundly, though appearing, by occasional movements of his arms, to
entertain certain passing dreams of single combats, the quick womanly
wit of Mrs. SMYTHE finally hit upon the homoeopathic expedient of
softly shaking his familiar antique flask at his right ear. Scarcely
had the soft, liquid sound therefrom resulting been addressed for a
minute to the auricular orifice, when a singularly pleasing smile
wreathed the countenance of the Ritualistic organist, his eyelids flew
up like the spring-covers of two valuable hunting-case watches, and he
suddenly arose to a sitting position upon the rug and began feeling
around for the bed-clothes. “There!” cried Mrs. SMYTHE, greatly affected by his pathetic
expression of countenance, “you’re all right now, sir. How worn-out you
must have been, to sleep so!” “Do you always go to sleep with such alarming suddenness?”
asked Mr. DIBBLE. “When I have to go anywhere, I make it a rule to go at
once:—similarly, when going to sleep,” was the answer. “Excuse me,
however, for keeping you waiting, Mr. DIBBLE. We’ve had quite a rain,
sir.” His hair, collar, and shoulders being very wet from the water
which had been poured upon him during his slumber, Mr. BUMSTEAD, in his
present newly-awake frame of mind, believed that a hard shower had
taken place, and thereupon turned moody. “We’ve had quite a rain, sir, since I saw you last,” he
repeated, gloomily, “and I am freshly reminded of my irreparable loss.” “Such an open, spring-like character!” apostrophized the
lawyer, staring reflectively into the grate. “Always open when it rained, and closing with a spring,” said
Mr. BUMSTEAD, in soft abstraction lost. “Who closed with a spring?” queried the elder man,
irascibly. “The umbrella,” sobbed JOHN BUMSTEAD. “I was speaking of your nephew, sir!” was Mr. DIBBLE’S
impatient explanation. Mr. BUMSTEAD stared at him sorrowfully for a moment, and then
requested Mrs. SMYTHE to step to a cupboard in the next room and
immediately pour him out a bottle of soda-water which she should find
there. “Won’t you try some?” he asked the lawyer, rising limply to
his feet when the beverage was brought, and drinking it with
considerable noise. “No, thank you,” returned Mr. DIBBLE. “As you please, then,” said the organist, resignedly. “Only,
if you have a headache don’t blame me. (Mr. and Mrs. SMYTHE, you may
place a few cloves where I can get them, and retire.) What you have
told me, Mr. DIBBLE, concerning the breaking of the engagement between
your ward and my nephew, relieves my mind of a load. As a
right-thinking man, I can no longer suspect you of having killed EDWIN
DROOD.” “Suspect ME?” screamed the aged lawyer, almost leaping into
the air. “Calm yourself,” observed Mr. BUMSTEAD, quietly, the while he
ate a sedative clove. “I say that I can not longer suspect you.
I can not think that a person of your age would wantonly destroy a
human life merely to obtain an umbrella.” Absolutely purple in the face, Mr. DIBBLE snatched his hat
from a chair just as the Ritualistic organist was about to sit upon it,
and was on the point of hurrying wrathfully from the room, when the
entrance of Gospeler SIMPSON arrested him. Noting his agitation, Mr. BUMSTEAD instantly resolved to clear
him from suspicion in the new-comer’s mind also. “Reverend Sir,” he said to the Gospeler, quickly, “in this sad
affair we must be just, as well as vigilant I believe Mr. DIBBLE to be
as innocent as ourselves. Whatever may be his failings so far as liquor
is concerned, I wholly acquit him of all guilty knowledge of my nephew
and umbrella.” Too apoplectic with suffocating emotions to speak, Mr. DIBBLE
foamed slightly at the month and tore out a lock or two of his hair. “And I believe that my unhappy pupil, Mr. PENDRAGON, is as
guiltless,” responded the puzzled Gospeler. “I do not deny that he had
a quarrel with Mr. DROOD, in the earlier part of their acquaintance;
but, as you, Mr. BUMSTEAD, yourself, admit, their meeting at the
Christmas-Eve dinner was amicable; as I firmly believe their last
mysterious parting to have been.” The organist raised his fine head from the shadow of his right
hand, in which it had rested for a moment, and said, gravely: “I cannot
deny, gentlemen, that I have had my terrible distrusts of you all. Even
now, while, in my deepest heart, I release Mr. DIBBLE and Mr. PENDRAGON
from all suspicion, I cannot entirely rid my mind of the impression
that you, Mr. SIMPSON, in an hour when, from undue indulgence in
stimulants, you were not wholly yourself, may have been tempted, by the
superior fineness of the alpaca, to slay a young man inexpressibly dear
to us all.” “Great heavens, Mr. BUMSTEAD!” panted the Gospeler, livid with
horror, “I never—” —”Not a word, sir!” interrupted the Ritualistic organist,—”not
a word, Reverend sir, or it may be used against you at your trial.” Pausing not to see whether the equally overwhelmed old lawyer
followed him, the horribly astounded Gospeler burst precipitately from
the house in wild dismay, and was presently hurrying past the pauper
burial-ground. Whether he had been drawn to that place by some one of
the many mystic influences moulding the fates of men, or because it
happened to be on his usual way home, let students of psychology and
topography decide. Thereby he was hurrying, at any rate, when a shining
object lying upon the ground beside the broken fence, caused him to
stop suddenly and pick up the glittering thing. It was an oroide watch,
marked E.D.; and, a few steps further on, a coppery-looking seal-ring
also attracted the finder’s grasp. With these baubles in his hand the
genial clergyman was walking more slowly onward, when it abruptly
occurred to him, that his possession of such property might possibly
subject him to awkward consequences if he did not immediately have
somebody arrested in advance. Perspiring freely at the thought, he
hurried to his house, and, there securing the company of MONTGOMERY
PENDRAGON, conveyed his beloved pupil at once before Judge SWEENEY, and
made affidavit of finding the jewelry. The jeweler, who had wound EDWIN
DROOD’S watch for him on the day of the dinner, promptly identified the
timepiece by the innumerable scratches around the keyhole; Mr.
BUMSTEAD, though at first ecstatic with the idea that the seal-ring was
a ferule from an umbrella, at length allowed himself to be persuaded
into a gloomy recognition of it as a part of his nephew, and MONTGOMERY
was detained in custody for further revelations. News of the event circulating, the public mind of
Bumsteadville lost no time in deploring the incorrigible depravity of
Southern character, and recollecting several horrors of human Slavery.
It was now clearly remembered that there had once been rumors of
terrible cruelties by a PENDRAGON family to an aged colored man of
great piety; who, because he incessantly sang hymns in the
cotton-field, was sent to a field farther from the PENDRAGON mansion,
and ultimately died. Citizens reminded each other, that when, during
the rebellion, a certain PENDRAGON of the celebrated Southern
Confederacy met a former religious chattel of his confronting him with
a bayonet in the loyal ranks, and immediately afterwards felt a cold,
tickling sensation under one of his ribs, he drew a pistol upon the
member of the injured race, who subsequently died in Ohio of fever and
ague. What wonder was it, then, that this young PENDRAGON with an
Indian club and a swelled head should secretly slaughter the nephew and
appropriate the umbrella of one of the most loyal and devoted
Ritualists that ever sent a substitute to battle? In the mighty
metropolis, too, the Great Dailies—those ponderous engines of varied
and inaccurate intelligence—published detailed and mistaken reports of
the whole affair, and had subtle editorial theories as to the nature of
the crime. The Sun, after giving a cut of an old-fashioned
parlor-grate as a diagram of Mr. BUMSTEAD’S house, and a portrait of
Mr. JOHN RUSSELL YOUNG as a correct photograph of the alleged murderer
by ROCKWOOD, said:—”The retention of Mr. FISH as Secretary of State by
the present venal Administration, and the official countenance
otherwise corruptly given to friends of Spanish tyranny who do not take
the Sun, are plainly among the current encouragements to such
crime as that in the full reporting of which to-day the Sun’s
advertisements are crowded down to a single page, as usual. Judge
CONNOLLY, after walking all the way from Yorkville, agrees with the Sun
in believing, that something more than an umbrella tempted this young
MONTMORENCY PADREGON to waylay EDWIN WOOD. To-morrow we shall give the
public still further exclusive revelations, such as the immense
circulation of the New York Sun enables us especially to
obtain. On this, as upon every occasion of the publication of the Sun,
we shall leave out columns upon columns of profitable advertising, in
order that no reader of the Sun shall be stinted in his
criminal news. The Sun (price two cents) has never yet been
bought by advertisers, and never will be.” The Tribune said:
“What time the reader can spare from perusing our special dispatches
concerning the progress of Smalleyism in Europe, shall, undoubtedly, be
given to our female-reporter’s account of the alleged tragedy at
Bumperville. There are reasons of manifest propriety to restrain us, as
superior journalists, from the sensational theorizing indulged by
editors choosing to expend more care and money upon local news than
upon European rumors; but we may not injudiciously hazard the
assumption, that, were the police under any other than Democratic
domination, such a murder as that alleged to have been committed by
MANTON PENJOHNSON on BALDWIN GOOD had not been possible. PENJOHNSON, it
shall be noticed, is a Southerner, while young GOOD was strongly
Northern in sentiment; and it requires no straining of a point to trace
in these known facts a sectional antagonism to which even a long war
has not yielded full sanguinary satiation.” The World said: “Acerrima
proximorum odia; and, under the present infamous Radical abuse of
empire, the hatred between brothers, first fostered by the
eleutheromaniacs of Abolitionism, is bearing its bitter fruit of
private assassination at last. Somewhere amongst our loci communes
of to-day may be found a report of the supposed death, at
Hampsteadville (not Bumperville, as a radical contemporary has
it,) of a young Northerner named GOODWIN BLOOD, at the hands of a
Southern gentleman belonging to the stately old Southern family of
PENTORRENS. The PENTORRENS’ are related, by old cavalier stock, to the
Dukes of Mandeville, whose present ducal descendant combines the
elegance of an Esterhazy with the intellect of an Argyle. That a scion
of such blood as this has reduced a fellow-being to a condition of
inanimate protoplasm, is to be regretted for his sake; but more for
that of a country in which the philosophy of COMTE finds in a corrupt
radical pantarchy all-sufficient first-cause of whatsoever is rotten in
the State of Denmark.” The Times said: “We give no details of the
Burnstableville tragedy to-day, not being willing to pander to a
vitiated public taste; but shall do so to-morrow.” After reading these articles in the Great Dailies with
considerable distraction, and inferring therefrom, that at least three
different young Southerners had killed three different young
Northerners in three different places on Christmas-Eve, Judge SWEENEY
had a rush of blood to the brain, and discharged MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON
as a person of undistinguishable identity. But, when set at large, the
helpless youth could not turn a corner without meeting some bald-headed
reporter who raised the cry of “Stop thief!” if he sought to fly, and,
if he paused, interviewed him in a magisterial manner, and almost
tearfully implored him to Confess his crime in time for the Next
Edition. Father DEAN, Ritual Rector of St. Cow’s, meeting Gospeler
SIMPSON upon one of their daily strolls through the snow, said to him: “This young man, your pupil, has sinned, it appears, and a
Ritualistic church, Mr. Gospeler, is no sanctuary for sinners.” “I cannot believe that the sin is his, Holy Father,” answered
the Reverend OCTAVIUS, respectfully: “but, even if it is, and he is
remorseful for it, should not our Church cover him with her wings?” “There are no wings to St. Cow’s yet,” returned the Father,
coldly,—”only the main building; and that is too small to harbor any
sinner who has not sufficient means to build a wing or two for himself.” “Then,” said the Gospeler, bowing his head and speaking
slowly, “I suppose he must go to the Other Church.” “What Other church?” The Gospeler raised his hat and spoke reverently:— That which is all of God’s world outside this little church of
ours. That in which the Altar is any humble spot pressed by the knees
of the Unfortunate. That in which the priest is whoso doeth a good,
unselfish deed, even if in the shadow of the scaffold. That in which
the anthem of visible charity for an erring brother sinks into the
listening soul an echo of an unseen Father’s pity and forgiveness, and
the choral service is the music of kind words to all who ever found but
unkind words before.” “You must mean the Church of the Pooritans,” said the Ritual
Rector. So, MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON went forth from Gospeler’s Gulch to
seek harbor where he might; and, a day or two afterwards, Mr. BUMSTEAD
exhibited to Mr. SIMPSON the following entry in his famous Diary. “No signs of that umbrella yet. Since the discovery of the
watch and seal-ring, I am satisfied that my umbrella, only, was the
temptation of the murderer. I now swear that I will no more discuss
either my nephew or my umbrella with any living soul, until I have
found once more the familiar boyish form and alpaca canopy, or brought
vengeance upon him through whom I am nephewless and without protection
in the rain.” (To be Continued.)
CHINCAPIN AMONG THE FREE LOVERS. MR. PUNCHINELLO: When Oratory, rising to its loftiest flights
upon the wings of Buncombe, denounces with withering scorn the effete
and tyrannical monarchies of Europe, and proclaims the glorious fact
that this is a Free Country, Fellow Citizens! it hardly does us
justice. We are not only free, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, we are Free and Easy,
sir. Breathes there a man so tortuously afflicted with Strabismus that
he doesn’t see it? If such there be let him go and visit the Oneida
Community. Last week I took a run down to Oneida myself. I found the
Communists a very Social crowd, I can assure you. PROUDHON himself
might be proud of such disciples, and DESIDERANT find nothing there to
be Desiderated. The Communists divide everything equally, particularly
the Affections, so there are no Better Halves among them. In Utah, you
are aware, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, the women are Sealed to the men, but among
these people they are not even Wafered. Your Own IDA may be anybody
else’s in the Oneida Community. The only individuals that object to
Dividing are the children, who are generally opposed to Division, both
long and Short, as well as to Fractions. Infants don’t go for much among the Free Lovers, and are Put
Out—to Nurse. After the age of Fifteen months they are surrendered by
their Ma’s to the Charge of the Two Hundred (the number of men and
women in the Community,) who become their common parents, and the
infants become common property. The domestic arrangements are entrusted
to two females, who are called the “Mothers of the Community.” But
whether these dual Mothers Do All the Nursing I am unable to say. I had a little conversation with the Eminent and Aged Free
Lover who acted as my guide, and I give it in the manner of the
“interviewing reporter.” CHINC. Venerable Seer, tip us your views on the subject of
Love. AGED FREE-LOVER Do you then take an Interest in our Principles? CHINC. (Dubiously.) Then you have— A. F. L. Yes, of our own. They are not those of a prejudiced
Wor-r-r-ld. Our principles are Embraced in the Communism of Love and
Passional Attraction. CHINC. (Confidently.) Ah, yes; of course—you are Free Lovers. A. F. L. Sir-r-r? CHINC. (Much abashed.) Excuse me. I am young, inexperienced,
and but slightly acquainted with the Dictionary. A. P. L. So I see. Know, young man, that we scorn and
repudiate the name of Free Lovers as applied to us by the newspapers.
It is true we believe that Love should be untrammelled by the Hateful
Bonds of Marriage. With us a Lady may have an affinity for any number
of gentlemen, and vice-versa. But we are not Free Lovers. CHINC. Oh, no! Not by no means. Not any. A. F. L. (Growing eloquent.) We have only advanced from the
simple to the more complex form of matrimony. Why should not the
faithfulness which constitutes the wretchedly exclusive dual Marriage
of the Wor-r-r-ld exist as well between Two Hundred as between two? Why? CHINC. Why, O why? But there may be reasons— A.F.L. Young Man, reared in the hateful prejudices of an
Unprogressive Wor-r-ld, there air none. CHINC. This system, as you, Ancient Person, observe, is much
complexed. Do I, then, understand you that a woman may have fifty
affinities and yet be faithful to each? A.F.L. Yes, my son, any number. This plurality of affinities
you of course cannot appreciate. A prejudiced Wor-r-r-ld cannot
understand the Bond of Union which connects all the Brothers and
Sisters in a Spiritual Marriage. The results of the complex system are— CHINC. (Interrupting.) I—I—fear the complexity of your system
is one too many for me. I feel that my Brow cannot stand the pressure.
I must away. Farewell, old man—Adieu! Such, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, is briefly the Free and Easy Doctrine
of Natural Affinity and Passional Attraction. I have no doubt there are
some illiberal Persons who would give it a much harsher name. For
myself, I believe in the Biggest kind of Liberty, but not for the
Biggest kind of Libertines. Reverentially yours, CHINCAPIN.
 LACONIC, BUT EXPRESSIVE. SCENE: NEIGHBORHOOD OF THE FIVE POINTS First Ruffian. “WHERE TO NOW, SNOOTY?” Second Ditto. “PICNIC.” First Ditto. “WOTTERYER GOT IN YER LUNCH WALLET?” Second Ditto. “SLUNG SHOT.”
REJUVENATED FRANCE. PUNCHINELLO has perused a draft of the next Constitution of
the French people, or of France, if that is better. Unwilling to give
it to his readers in full, at present, he considers himself authorized,
however, to cite a few paragraphs of it, which will be found both
original and interesting. FIFTY-SEVENTH CONSTITUTION OF FRANCE. (One a year, more or
less.) Paragraph 1. The French Nation is sovereign; the French
people are sovereign; sovereigns are sovereign; every Frenchman is
sovereign. Paragraph 2. All men are equal, but Frenchmen are
highly superior to all other men. Paragraph 3. In order to secure peace, it is decreed
and plebiscited that all governments shall have a chance. For the next
ten years, or less, the Orleans Dynasty shall rule; after that a
BONAPARTE for a few years; then a Republic, “democratic and social,” as
long as it can keep on its legs. After that a second Republic, for a
twelvemonth at least. Then an old BOURBON, if one can be found. After
this, a military dictatorship; the army to decide its duration. At each
change the people will decide by plebiscit whether they want the
respective governments to be: personal, legal, or
neither. Paragraph 4.—But here we must stop.
Titans. The Liberté says: “A lot of crazy fellows tried
to proclaim the republic at Toulouse.” Now there are manifestly two
errors in this statement. The fellows alluded to were not Toulouse, but
too tight fellows. Moreover, if they really had been crazies, as the Liberté
supposes, they would have been instantly arrested and sent to Paris,
under guard, by the way of the Madder line, to await the action of the
Prefect of the Sane.
Astronomical. A NEW Milky Way has been discovered. It is the way the milk
producers (farmers, not cows,) of Westchester County have of insisting
upon raising their charges for milk from four cents to five cents a
quart, wholesale. We fail to discern the milk of human kindness, here;
but it is clear that the milk in the cocoa-nuts of these farmers is
mighty sour.
WHAT SIGERSON SAYS. SIGERSON (Dr.) of the Royal Irish Academy, has gone and said
some mighty unpleasant things about the Atmosphere. How he found them
out, we can’t say, (and we hope he can’t:) but nevertheless, he
declares, with the most dreadful calmness, that if you go to visit the
Iron Works, you will inevitably breathe a great many hollow Balls of
Iron, say about one two thousandth of an inch in diameter! What these
rather diminutive ferruginous globules will do for you, we do not know;
but you can see for yourself, that with your lungs full of little iron
balls you must certainly be in a “parlous” state. We should say that we
had quite as lief have the air full of those iron spheres, termed
Cannon Balls, as it is now in France. It is true, one couldn’t get many
of these inside one with impunity; and equally true, that
foundry men do manage to live, with all that iron in their lungs; but
we can’t say we desire to “build up an Iron Constitution,” as the P-r-n
S-r-p folks say, by the inhaling process. But SIGERSON is not content to render the neighborhood of Iron
Works questionable to the delicate and apprehensive; in “shirt-factory
air” he declares, upon honor, “there are little filaments of linen and
cotton, with minute eggs” (goodness gracious!) “Threshing machines,” he
more than insinuates, “fill the air with fibres, starch-grains and
spores,” (spores! think of that;) and (what is truly ha(i)rrowing,) in
“stables and barber’s shops” you cannot but breathe “scales and hairs.”
Good Heavens! What he says of printers and smokers is simply horrible; in
short, this dreadful SIGERSON has gone and made life a wretched and
lingering (to quote the sensitive Mrs. GAMP,) “progiss through this
mortial wale.”
THE WATERING PLACES. Punchinello’s Vacation. When we visit ordinary places of summer resort, we require no
particular outfit, (it being remembered that the “we” alluded to
comprehends only males,) excepting a suitable supply of summer clothes.
But when we go to the Adirondacks,—certainly a most extraordinary place
of summer resort,—we require an outfit which is as remarkable as the
region itself. Thoroughly understanding this necessity, Mr. PUNCHINELLO
made himself entirely ready for a life in the woods before he set out
for the Adirondack Mountains. Witness the completeness of his
preparations.  The railroad to the heart of this delightful resort is not yet
finished, and when Mr. P. had completed his long journey, in which the
excellence and abominabitity,—so to speak,—of every American form of
conveyance was exhibited, he was glad enough to see before him those
charming wilds which are gradually being tamed down by the well-to-do
citizens of New York and Boston. He found that it was necessary, in
order to enter the district, to pass through a gate in a high
pale-fence, and, to his surprise, he was informed that he must buy a
ticket before being allowed to proceed. On inquiry, he discovered that
the Reverend Mr. MURRAY, of Boston, claiming the whole Adirondack
region by right of discovery, had fenced it entirely in, and demanded
entrance money of all visitors. This was bad, to be sure, but there was no help for it, and
Mr. P. bought his ticket and passed in.  The Adirondack scenery is peculiar. In the first place, there
are no pavements or gravel walks. This is a grievous evil, and should be remedied by Mr. MURRAY
as soon as possible. The majority of the paths are laid out in the
following manner. The scenery, however, would be very fine if the bugs were
transparent. The multitudes of insectivorous carnivora, which arose to
greet Mr. P., effectually prevented him from seeing anything more than
a yard distant. But if this had been all, Mr. P. would not have uttered a word
of complaint. It was not all, by any means. These hungry creatures, these black-flies; midges; mosquitoes;
yellow bloodsuckers; poison-bills; corkscrew-stingers; hook-tailed
hornets; and all the rest of them settled down upon him until they
covered him like a suit of clothes. A warmer welcome was never extended
to a traveller in a strange land.  In case his readers should not be familiar with the animal,
the accompanying drawing will give an admirable idea of the celebrated
black-fly of the Adirondacks, which, with the grizzly bear and the
rattlesnake, occupies the front rank among American ferocious animals. After travelling on foot for a day and a night; drenched by
rain; scorched by the sun; crippled by rocks and roots; frightened by
rattle-snakes and panthers; blistered and swollen by poisonous insects;
nearly starved; tired to death; and presenting the most pitiable
appearance in the world, Mr. P. reached the encampment of Mr. MURRAY,
proprietor and exhibitor of the Adirondacks. Knowing that there was quite a large company in the camp, Mr.
P. was almost ashamed to show himself in such a doleful plight, but he
soon found that there was no need for any scruples on that account, as
they were all as wretched looking as himself. Mr. MURRAY welcomed him cordially, and after building a
“smudge” around him to keep off the flies, he gave Mr. P. some Boston
brown-bread and a glass of pure water from a rill. This, with a sip from Mr. P.’s little flask, revived him
considerably, and after a night’s rest on the lee side of a tree, where
the rain did not wet him nearly so much as if he had been on the other
side, Mr. P. felt himself equal to the task of enjoying the Adirondacks. That morning, Mr. MURRAY conducted a melancholy party of
disconsolate pleasure-seekers to a neighboring stream, where he
instructed them to fish for trout.. He told them they must revel in the
delights of the scene, and should tremble with the wild rapture of
drawing from the rushing waters the bounding trout. Mr. P. tried very hard to do this. He put his prettiest fly
and his sharpest hook on his longest line, and, for hours, gently
whipped the ripples. At last a speckled representative of the American
National Game-fish took compassion on the patient fisherman and entered
into a contest of skill with him. (A friendly match, and no bets on
either side.) The game lasted some time. The fish made some splendid
“fly-catches;” and Mr. P., slipping on a wet stone at the edge of the
brook, got in once on his base. On this occasion, the line and a
black-berry bush arranged a decided “foul” between them. At last, just
at the most interesting point of the game, the sudden sting of a
steel-bee caused Mr. P. to give a quick bawl, when the fish took a
home-run and came back no more. Time of game, 3h., 50m. That afternoon Mr. MURRAY took the party to Crystal Brook,
Shanty Brook, Mainspring Brook, Tenement Brook, and more little
mountain gutters of the kind than you could count on your fingers and
toes. As an aristocratic residence, this region is certainly superior
to New York, for the Murray Hills are as plenty as blackberries. The
next day they all went up Mount Marcy. When the ascent was completed,
everybody lay down and went to sleep. They were too tired to bother
themselves about the view. At length, after a good nap, Mr. MURRAY got
up and wakened the party, and they all came down.  They came by the way of the “grand slide,” but Mr. P. didn’t
like it. His tailor, however, will no doubt think very highly of it. When all was quiet, that evening, on Dangle-worm Creek, near
which they were encamped, Mr. P. found the Reverend MURRAY sitting in
the smoke of his private smudge, enjoying his fragrant pipe. Seating
himself by the veteran pioneer, Mr. P. addressed him thus: “Tell me, Mr. MURRAY, in confidence, your opinion of the
Adirondacks.” “Sir,” said Mr. MURRAY, “I have no objection to give a person
of your respectability and knowledge of the world my opinion of this
region, but I do not wish it made public.” “Of course, sir!” said Mr. P. “A man of your station and
antecedents would not wish his private opinions to be made too public.
You may rely upon my discretion.” “Well, then,” said the reverend mountaineer, “I think the
Adirondacks an unmitigated humbug, and I wish I had never let the world
know that there was such a place.” “Why then do you come here every season, sir?” “After all I have written and said about it,” said Mr. MURRAY,
“I have to come to keep up appearances. Don’t you see? But I hate these
mountains from the bottom of my heart. For every word I have written in
praise of the region I have a black-fly-bite on my legs. For every word
I have said in favor of it I have a scratch or a bruise in some other
part of my corpus. I wish that there was no such a season as
summer-time, or else no such a place as the Adirondacks.” (Readers of this paper are requested to skip the above, as
those are Mr. MURRAY’S private opinions, and not the statements he
makes in public, and his desire to keep them dark should be respected.) It may be of interest to his patrons to know that Mr. P.
arrived home safely and with whole bones.
RAMBLINGS. BY MOSE SKINNER. MR. PUNCHINELLO: The editor of the Slunkville Lyre
says in his last issue:— “Notwithstanding the calumnies of Mr. SKINNER, our reputation
is still good, and we continue to pay our debts promptly.” This is the fifth hoax he has perpetrated within two weeks.
His line of business at present seems to be the canard line. I’ll trust him out of sight if I can keep one eye on him. Not
otherwise. For a light recreation, combining a little business, I
recommend his funeral. It is pleasant to reflect that men of his stamp are never born
again. They are born once too much as it is. He went to the Agricultural Fair last Fall. There was a big
potato there. After gazing spell-bound upon it for one hour, he rushed
home and set the following in type: “What is the difference between the Rev. ADAM CLARK, and the
big potato at the fair? One is a Commentator, and the other is an Uncommon
‘tater.” This conundrum was so exquisitely horrible, that his friends
hoped he’d have judgment enough to hang himself, but such things die
hard. Colonel W—–‘s Goat. Colonel W—–, is a great man in these
parts Like most village nabobs, he’s a corpulent gentleman with a great
show of dignity, and in a white vest and gold-headed cane, looks
eminently respectable. He owns a hot-house, keeps a big dog that is
very savage, and his wife wears a silk dress at least three times a
week,—either of which will establish a man’s reputation in a country
town. Everything belonging to the Colonel is held in the utmost awe
by the villagers. The paper speaks of him as “our esteemed and talented
townsman, Col. W.,” and alludes to his “beautiful and accomplished
wife,” who, by the way, was formerly waiter in an oyster saloon, and
won the Colonel’s affection by the artless manner in which she would
shout: “Two stews, plenty o’ butter.” Like others of his stamp, the Colonel amounts to something
just where he is, but take him anywhere else, he’d be a first-class,
eighteen carat fraud. Awhile ago, the Colonel bought a goat for his little boy to
drive in harness, and the animal often grazed at the foot of a cliff,
near the house. One day, a man wandering over this cliff fell and was
instantly killed, evidently having come in contact with the goat, for
the animal’s neck was broken. But what amused me was the way the aforesaid editor spoke of
the affair. He wrote half a column on the “sad death of Col. W’s.
goat,” but not a word of the unfortunate dead man, till he wound up as
follows: “We omitted to state that a dead man was picked up near the
unfortunate goat. It is supposed that this person, in wandering over
the cliff, lost his foothold and fell, striking the doomed animal in
his progress. Thus, through the carelessness of this obscure
individual, was Col. W’s. poor little goat hurled into eternity.” The Superintendent asked me last Sunday to take charge of a
class. “You’ll find ’em rather a bad lot” said he. “They all went
fishing last Sunday but little JOHNNY RAND. He is really a good
boy, and I hope his example may yet redeem the others. I wish you’d
talk to ’em a little.” I told him I would. They were rather a hard looking set. I don’t think I ever
witnessed a more elegant assortment of black eyes in my life. Little
JOHNNY RAND, the good boy, was in his place, and I smiled on him
approvingly. As soon as the lessons were over, I said: “Boys, your Superintendent tells me you went fishing last
Sunday. All but little JOHNNY, here.” “You didn’t go, did you, JOHNNY?” I said. “No, sir.” “That was right. Though this boy is the youngest among you,” I
continued, “you will now learn from his lips words of good counsel,
which I hope you will profit by.” I lifted him up on the seat beside me, and smoothed his auburn
ringlets. “Now, JOHNNY, I want you to tell your teacher, and these
wicked boys, why you didn’t go fishing with them last Sunday. Speak up
loud, now. It was because it was very wicked, and you had rather come
to the Sunday School. Wasn’t it?” “No, sir, it was ‘cos I couldn’t find no worms for bait.” Somehow or other these good boys always turn out humbugs.
It is hardly good taste to introduce anything of a pathetic
nature in an article intended to be humorous, but the following
displays such infinite depth of tenderness, fortified by strength of
mind, that I cannot forbear. Although it occurred when I was quite
young, it is firmly impressed on my memory: The autumn winds sighed drearily through the leafless trees,
as the solemn procession passed slowly into the quiet church-yard, and
paused before the open grave, where all that was mortal of LUCY C—–
was to be laid away forever, and when the white-haired old pastor, with
trembling voice, recounted her last moments, sobs broke out afresh, for
she was beloved by all. The bereaved husband stood a little apart, and, though no tear
escaped him, yet we all instinctively felt that his heart was wrung
with agony, and his burden greater than he could bear. With folded
arms, and eyes bent upon the coffin, he seemed buried in a deep and
painful reverie. None dared intrude upon a grief so sacred. At last,
turning to his brother, and pointing to the coffin, he said: “JOHN, don’t you call that rather a neat looking box for four
dollars?”
Financial. Our French editor thinks that the Imperial revenues ought to
be doubled at once, on the ground of the too evident Income-pittance of
the Emperor.
 AN EXCURSION. Fanny. “ISN’T IT TOO BAD, FRANK; WE SHALL GET BACK TO
TOWN LONG BEFORE DARK.” (Fact is, Fanny has a thick shawl, and it would be so nice
to share it with Frank.)
OUR PORTFOLIO. DEAR PUNCHINELLO: I see you have been at the White Sulphur
Springs; but you forgot to tell us what we were all dying to hear about
the waters. Several friends had suggested that I should go to some
watering place where I could get nothing else but water to drink, or to
some spring where I couldn’t get “sprung.” I tried the White Sulphur,
and while there learned some facts that may be useful to others who
seek them for a similar purpose. These springs differ from the European springs in that they
were not discovered by the Romans. The Latin conquerors never roamed so
far, and it was perhaps a good thing for them that they didn’t, Sulphur
water could not have agreed with Romans any more than it agrees with
Yankees who take whiskey with it. I was asked if I would like to
analyse the water, (as everything here is done by analysis under the
eye of the resident physician.) My analysis was done entirely
under the nose. I raised a glass of the enchanted fluid to my lips: but my
nose said very positively, “Don’t do it,” and I didn’t. I told my
conductor I had analyzed it, and he seemed not a little astonished at
the rapidity and simplicity of the method. He asked me if I would be
kind enough to write out a statement of the result after the manner of
Dr. HAYES, Prof. ROGERS, and others who have examined these waters and
testified that they would cure everything but hydrophobia. I told him I
would, and retiring to my room, wrote as follows: “Sulphur water contains mineral properties of a sulphuric
character, owing to the fact that the water runs over beds of sulphur.
Nobody has ever seen these beds, but they are supposed to constitute
the cooler portions of those dominions corresponding to the Christian
location of Purgatory. Sinners, preliminary to being plunged into the
fiery furnace, are laid out on these beds and wrapped in damp sheets by
chambermaids regularly attached to the establishment. This is meant to
increase the torture of their subsequent sufferings, and there can be
no doubt that it succeeds. Herein we have also an explanation of the
reason of these waters coming to the surface of the earth—it is to give
patients and other miserables who drink them a foretaste of
future horrors. Passing from this branch of the subject to the analysis
proper, I find that fifty thousand grains of sulphur water divided,
into one hundred parts, contains, | Bilge water, | 95.75 | | Sulphate of Bilgerius, | 1.855 | | Chloride of Bilgeria, | .285 | | Carbonate de Bilgique, | .750 | | Silica Bilgica, | 1.955 | | Hydro-sulp-Bil, | .28 |
Twenty thousand grains of the water would contain less of the
above element than fifty thousand grains, which ought to be mentioned
as another one of the remarkable peculiarities of this most remarkable
fluid.” I sent the foregoing scientific deductions to the “Resident
Physician,” and the bearer told me afterwards that the venerable
Esculapian only observed,—”Well, the writer of that must have been a
most egregious ass. There is no such thing as ‘Sulphate of Bilgerius,’
or ‘Silica Bilgica,’ or anything like them”, and then the old fellow
chuckled to himself over my supposed ignorance. I was willing he
should. I’m accustomed to being called an ass, and always like to be
recognized by my kindred. Chemically thine, SULPHURO.
COOL, IF NOT COMFORTABLE. Apropos of complications arising out of the late Navy
Appropriation Law, a daily paper states as follows: “The decision of the Attorney General now forces him to turn
the balance into the Treasury, and the sailors have to go unclothed.” How this decision will affect recruiting for our navy yet
remains to be seen, though it is probable that but few civilized men
can be found to join a service in which nudity is obligatory. In such
torrid weather as we are having, JACK ashore with nothing on, except,
perhaps, a Panama hat, will be a novel and refreshing object—but how
about the police?
 LAW VERSUS LAWLESSNESS. THE VIRTUOUS ALLIES OF THE NEW YORK
“SUN” ENGAGED IN THEIR CONGENIAL OCCUPATION OF THROWING DIRT.
HIRAM GREEN ON BASE BALL. A Match Game between Centenarians.—”Roomatix” vs.
“Bloostockin’s.” The veterans of the war of 1812 of this place, organized a
base ball club. It was called the “Roomatix base ball club.” A challinge was sent to the “Bloo stockin’ base ball club,” an
old man’s club in an adjoinin’ town. They met last week to play a match
game. It required rather more macheenery than is usually allowed in
this grate nashunal game of chance. For instance: The pitchers haden’t very good eye-site, and
were just as liable to pitch a ball to “2nd base,” as to “Home base.” To make a sure thing of it, a big long tin tube was made, on
the principle of the Noomatic tunnel under Broadway, New York. A large
thing, like a molasses funnel, was made, onto the end facin’ the
pitcher. The old man ceased the ball and pitched it into the brod
openin’. The raceway was slantin’ downwards, towords the “Homebase.”
The batter stood at his post, with an ear trumpet at his ear, and a
wash-bord in his two hands holdin’ onto the handles. When he heard the ball come rollin’ down the tin, he would
“muff” it with his wash-bord. Then the excitement would begin. The
“striker” would start off and go feelin’ about the “field” for the
base, while the “outs” got down onto their bands and knees and went
huntin’ for the ball. Sometimes a “fielder,” whose sense of feelin’ wasen’t very
acute, got hold of a cobble stun, then he would waddle, and grope his
way about, to find the base. But I tell you it was soothin’ fun for the
old men. After lookin’ 20 minuts for a ball, then findin’ the base
before the batter did, who just as like as not had strayed out into
another lot, it made the old fellers laff. Sometimes two players would run into each other and go
tumblin’ over together. Then the “Umpire” would go and get them onto
their pins agin, and give ’em a fresh start. On each side of this interestin’ match game, was two old men
who went on crutches. It was agreed, as these men coulden’t run the bases, that a
man be blindfolded and wheel these aged cripples about the bases in a
wheel-barrer. The minnit these old chaps would “strike,” they dropped their
crutches, and the umpire would dump them into the vehicle, and
away went mister striker. A player was bein’ wheeled this way once, and the “outs” was
down onto their marrow-bones tryin’ to find the ball, when a splash!
was heard. The wheel-barrer man had run his cart into a goose pond, and
made a scatterin’ among the geese. “Fowl!” cride the Umpire. The wheel-barrer man drew his lode ashore. “Out!” hollers the Umpire. And another victim went to the wash-bord. Bets were offered 2 to one, that “The Roomatixs” would pass
more balls—on their hands and knees—than the “Bloostockin’s.” These
bets were freely taken—by obligin’ stake-holders. A friend of the “Bloostockin’s” jumped upon a pile of stuns
and said: “15 to 10 ‘the Roomatix’ have got more blinds than the
‘Bloostockin’s.'” No takers—I guess he would have won his bet, for just at this
juncture a “Roomatix” was at the bat. The Umpire moved his head. The old man thought it was the ball, and he “muffed” the
“Umpire’s” head with his wash-bord. The Umpire turned suddenly and wanted to know: “Who was firin’
spit balls at his back hair?” One “innins,” the ball was rolled through, it struck the
batter in the rite eye. “Out on rite eye,” cride the Umpire, and the batter was minus
an eye. Next man to the bat. His eyes were gummy. He coulden’t see the ball. He heard the ball rollin’. He raised his wash-board. His strength gave way. Down came the bat, and the handle of the wash-bord entered his
eye. “Out! on the left eye,” screams the Umpire. Old man No. 3 went to the wash-bord. The ball came tearin’ along. It was a little too swift for the old man.—Rather too much
“English” into it. It “Kissed” and made a “scratch,” strikin’ the
“Cushion” between the old man’s eyes. This gave him the “cue.” Tryin’ to make a “draw” with the wash
bord, so as to “Uker” the ball, and “checkmate” the other club, he was
“distansed,” and his spectacles went flyin’, smashin’ the glass and
shuttin’ off his eyesite. “Out! agin,” bellers the Umpire. This was the first Blind innin’s for the “Roomatix.” The “Bloostockin’s” bein’ told how this innin’s stood, by
addressin’ them through their ear-trumpets, made a faint effort to
holler “Whooray!” And, I am grieved to say it, one by-stander, who diden’t
understand the grate nashunal game, wanted to know: “What in thunder them old dry bones was cryin’ about” It was a crooel remark, altho’ the old men, not bein’ used to
hollerin’ much, and not havin’ any teeth, did make rather queer work
tryin’ to holler. Ime sorry to say, the game wasen’t finished. Refreshments were served at the end of this innin’s,
consistin’ of Slippery Elm tea and water gruel. The old men eat harty. This made them sleepy, and the consequence was, that the
minnit they was led out on the grass, “Sleep, barmy sleep,” got the
best of ’em, and they laid down and slept like infants. Both nines were then loaded onto stone botes and drawn off of
the field. The friends of both sides drew their stake money, and
the Umpire, drawin’ a long breath, declared the match a draw
game. Basely Ewers, HIRAM GREEN, Esq., Lait Gustise of the Peece.
Bad Eggs. The following suggestive item appears in an evening paper: “Illinois boasts of chickens hatched by the sun.” Well, New York can beat Illinois at that game. The chickens
hatched by the Sun, here, are far too numerous for counting,
and they are curses of the kind that will assuredly “come home to
roost.”
Disagreeable, but True. The restoration of the Bourbon dynasty is reckoned possible in
France. In this country the Bourbon die-nasty has never been played
out. It is a malignant disease, sometimes known as delirium tremens.
Musical. Mlle. Silly, the daily papers inform us, has been engaged for
the Grand Opera House in opera bouffe, and will make her début
about the middle of September. The lady should not be confounded with
any of our New York “girls of the period” who bear, (or ought to bear,)
her name.
Caution to Readers. Seven steady business men of this city, four solid capitalists
of Boston, eighteen Frenchmen residents of the United States, but doing
business nowhere, and a German butcher in the Bowery, have just been
added to sundry lunatic asylums, their intellects having become
hopelessly deranged from reading the conflicting telegrams about the
war in Europe.
A Parallel. In one of the reports of the Coroner’s investigation of the
Twenty-third street murder, it was mentioned that “Several ladies and
some young children occupied chairs within the railing.” When REAL was hanged, it was noticeable that a great number of
women appeared in the morbid crowd that surrounded the Tombs, many of
them with small children in their arms. Fifth Avenue and Five Points! Six of one and half-a-dozen of
the other! Blood will tell!
THE HAZARD OF THE HORSE-CARS.  |  | THIS IS STUBBS, (an incorrigible old bachelor,)
WHO TAKES AN OPEN CAB, FOR GREENWOOD, AND IS COMPELLED TO DO THE WHOLE
DISTANCE SO. | AND THIS IS THE WAY IN WHICH DOBBS, WHO WOULD HAVE BEEN
DELIGHTED WITH STUBB’S LUCK, IS MADE TO SUFFER MARTYRDOM ON his
LITTLE EXCURSION. |
THE POEMS OF THE CRADLE. CANTO V. “Let’s go to bed,” says Sleepy
Head,
“Tarry awhile,” says Slow;
“Put on the pot,” says Greedy Gut,
“We’ll sup before we go.” These lines the observant student of nursery literature will
perceive are satirical. Was there ever a poet who was not satirical?
How could he be a genius and not be able to point out the folly he sees
around him and comment upon it. In this case, the poor poet,—who lived
in a roseate cloud-land of his own, not desiring such mundane things as
sleep and food, was undoubtedly troubled and plagued to death by having
brothers and sisters who were of the earth, earthy; and who never
neglected on opportunity to laugh at his poems; to squirt water on him
when in the heavenly mood, his eyes in frenzy rolling; to put spiders
down his back; to stick pins in his elbows when writing; or upset his
inkstand. Fine natures always have a deal to bear, in this world, from
the coarse, unfeeling natures that cannot appreciate their delicacy;
and this one had more than his share. Many a time has he been goaded to frenzy by the cruel sneers
and jokes of those who should have been proud of his talents; and
rushed with wild-eyed eagerness down to the gentle frog pond, intending
there to bury his sorrows beneath its glassy surface. He saw in
imagination the grief-stricken faces of those cruel ones as they gazed
upon his cold corpus, with his damp locks clinging to his noble brow,
the green slimy weeds clasped in his pale hands, and the mud oozing
from his pockets and the legs of his pants; and he gloried in the
remorse and anguish they would feel when they knew that the Poet of the
family was gone forever. All this he pictured as he stood on the bank, and, while
thinking, the desire to plunge in grew smaller by degrees and
beautifully less, till at last it vanished entirely, and he concluded
he had better go home, finish his book first and drown himself
afterwards, if necessary. It would make much more stir in the world,
and his name and works might live forever. A happy thought strikes him as he slowly meanders homeward. He
would have revenge. He would punish these wretches by handing down—to
posterity their peculiarities. He would put it in verse and have it
printed in his book, and then they’d see that even the gentle worm
could turn and sting. Ah! blessed thought. He flies to his garret bedroom, seizes
his goose-quill and paper, and sits down. What shall he write about? He
nibbles the feather end of his pen, plunges the point into the ink,
looks at it intently to see if he has hooked up an idea, sees none, and
falls to nibbling again. Ah! now he has it. There is TOM, the
dunderhead, who is always sleepy and he will put that down about him.
Squaring his shoulders, he writes: “Let’s go to bed,” says Sleepy
Head. Gleefully he rubs his hands. Won’t that cut TOM. Ah! Ha! I
guess TOM won’t say much more about staring at the moon. Now for DICK,
the old stupid. What shall he say about him? The end of the pen
diminishes slowly but surely, and then he writes: “Tarry awhile,” says Slow. That will answer for DICK. Now let him give HARRY something
scorching, withering, and cutting—so that he’ll never open his mouth
again unless it is to put something in it. Oh, that is it, he is always
hungry—rub him on that. He thinks intently. Determination shows in
every line of his face; the pen is almost gone only an inch remains,
and then the Poet masters his subject. He has got the last two lines. “Put on the pot,” says Greedy Gut,
“We’ll sup before we go.” He throws down the stump of the pen and bounces up. His object
in life is accomplished; he is master of the situation, now, and holds
the trump card. See the quiet smile’ and knowing look as he folds the
paper up, and thrusts it into his pocket. He is going down-stairs to
read it to the family. Now is the time for sweet revenge and for the
overthrow of those Philistines, his brothers. He descends slowly, like
an avenging angel, enters the room, and—gentle reader, imagine the rest.
A Ridiculous Rub-a-dub. A quiet gentleman who occupies lodgings immediately opposite
one of the city armories, writes to us asking whether the drum corps
that practice there two or three evenings in the week should not be
supplied with noiseless drums, as PUNCHINELLO has suggested regarding
the street organs. PUNCHINELLO thinks the suggestion a good one. He
would like to see the beating of drums after night-fall abolished
altogether In fact, it is the only kind of Dead Beat to which he would
lend his countenance.
A Clear Case. Some wiseacre has been trying to demonstrate, through the
public press, that POE did not write “The Raven.” The man must be a Raven lunatic.
THE BALLARD OF THE GOOD LITTLE BOY, AGED TEN, AND HIS BAD
BROTHER. An obituary notice of a boy, 10 years old, in The
Wilmington Commercial, contains the following statement: “In his
dying moments he charged his brother WILLIAM not to dance, or sing any
more songs. Funeral services preached by the Rev WM. R. TUBB.” This pious Boy lay on his bed,
A dying very fast;
‘Most every word this good Boy
said,
They thought ‘twould be his last. The Reverend Mr. TUBB was there,
A praying very slow;
It was a solemn, sad affair;
Twas plain the Boy must go. His brother WILLIAM:, he come
o’er,
To which this good Boy cried,
“Oh, BILL, don’t sing nor dance
no more!”
And following which he died. Now WILLIAM, he had learnt a song
That pleased him very much:
He didn’t know that it was wrong
To carol any such. He said he couldn’t leave it go,
Not if he was to die;
And that same song, as all should
know,
Was called by him, “Shoo Fly.” He was informed by Mr. TUBBS
That he would fall down dead,
Or else get killed by stones or
clubs,
With that thing in his head. But, such is life! Poor WILLIAM
went
And sung his Shoo Fly o’er:
Not knowing that he would be sent
Where Shoo Flies are no more, He was a singing, one wet day,
And likewise dancing too,
When lightning took his sole away—
Let this warn me and you!
HINTS FOR THE CENSUS. DEAR PUNCHINELLO: I have always been in favor of the Census,
the system is questionable, perhaps, though that depends on how you
like it. I have found that it answers very well where the parties are
highly intelligent-like myself, for example. I drew up the following proclamation to read to the U.S.
official in my district: Q. What is your name? A SARSFIELD YOUNG. What
is yours? Q. What is your age? A. A., being asked how old
he was, replied: If I live as long again, and half as long again, and
two years and a half,—how old shall I be? Q. Where is your residence? A. I live at home
with the family, have often thought that, amid pleasures and palaces,
there is no place like home, unless it be a boarding house with hot and
cold water. Q. What is your occupation? A. Taxpayer. This
takes my whole time Q. Where were you born? A. Having made no
minute of it at the time, it has passed out of my memory. Q. What kind of a house do you live in? A. A
mortgaged house, painted flesh color, a front exposure, brick windows
and a brass lightning rod. A good deal of back yard, (and back rent,)
to it. Q. At what age did your grandfather die? A. If
he died last night, (I saw him yesterday at a horse race,) he was
turning ninety-eight, perhaps he got tipped over in the turn. Q. Do you hold any official position: if so, what? A.
Inspector of fish,—every Friday. Q. Are you insured? A. I am agent for half a dozen
companies. So are all my neighbors. My life is insured against fire for
several thousands. Q. Are you troubled with chilblains? A.
Quitely. I soak my feet in oil of vitriol. Q. Were you in the war? A. I have the scar on
my arm which I got in the service. I was vaccinated severely, while
clerk to a substitute broker at Troy, N. Y. Q. Are you a graduate of any College. A. Yes,
of one. I forget which one. I only remember that I was one of the most
remarkable men they ever turned out. Q. Have you suffered from the potato rot? A,
Not myself. My uncle had it bad. He found that whiskey and warm water
was a very good thing. I’ve made an independent discovery of the same
fact, also. Q. Are you in favor of Free Trade or Protection? A.
I can only say that, if elected, gentlemen, I shall endeavor to do my
whole duty. I am. Q. What do you think of deep plowing? A. In a
scanty population, I should say it has a bad effect. I can recommend
it, however, in a sandy soil, where school privileges are first-class. Q. Does anything else occur to you which it is
important for the Government to know? A. Yes: a hay fever
occurs to me regularly once a year. I have no policy to enforce against
the will of the people: Still I would call the attention of the
medicine-loving public to my friend Dr. EZRA CUTLER’S “Noon-day
Bitters.” For ringing in the ears, loss of memory, bankruptcy,
teething, and general debility, they are without a rival. No family
should live more than five minutes walk from a bottle. They gild the
morning of youth, cherish manhood, and comfort old age, with the name
blown on the bottle in plain letters. Beware of impositions-at all
respectable druggists. * * I believe in taking things easy, and I shall cheerfully
assist the Administration, when it calls at my door on Census business. SARSFIELD YOUNG.
Facilis Descensus The daily papers frequently have articles respecting the “Hell
Gate Obstructions.” We do not, however, remember having seen that
subject handled in the Sun. Perhaps it is that DANA and DYER,
conscious of their deserts, do not anticipate any obstructions in that
quarter.
 ARISTOCRACY IN THE KITCHEN. Lady, (responsively.) “THAT FASHIONABLY DRESSED WOMAN
WHO HAS JUST PASSED, DEAR? OH, THAT’S MY COOK, TAKING HER SUNDAY WITH
THE GROCER’S YOUNG MAN. SHE NEVER ACKNOWLEDGES ME ON SUCH OCCASIONS.”
WHAT SHALL WE CALL IT? Having made up my mind to become a novelist, I naturally
studied the productions of my predecessors, and found out, I assure
you, in a very brief period of time, the little tricks of the trade. As
I do not wish to have the business flooded with neophytes, I refrain
from informing your readers how every man can become his own novel
writer. One very curious thing, however, which I discovered, I will
here relate. I was very much puzzled by the curious titles which novelists
selected for their books, and very much annoyed by my inability to
discover where they picked them up. I persevered, however, and
discovered that they found them in the daily papers. In fact, I
shrewdly suspect that I have discovered, in these veracious sheets, the
very incidents which suggested the names of a number of volumes. Let me
place before you the extracts, which I have culled from the papers. “Put Yourself in his Place.”–READE. “Yesterday morning an unknown man was found hanging from the
limbs of a tree in JONES’ Wood. He was quite dead when discovered.” “Red as a Rose is She.” “Bridget Flynn was arrested for vagrancy. When brought before
the Court she was quite drunk. She had evidently been a hard drinker
for years, as her face was of a brilliant carmine color.” “Man and Wife.” COLLINS. “Married.—At Salt Lake City, on the 1st day of August, 1870,
BRIGHAM YOUNG, Esq., to Miss LETITIA BLACK, Mrs. SUSAN BROWN and Miss
JENNIE SMITH.” “What will he do with it?” BULWER. “It is stated by the police authorities, that the description
of Mr. NATHAN’S watch has been spread so widely, that the robber will
be unable to dispose of it to any jeweler or pawnbroker.” “Our Mutual Friend”—DICKENS. “England is supplying both France and Prussia with horses.” “John.”—Mrs. OLIPHANT. “Mr. SAMPSON has sent to California for another cargo of
Chinese shoemakers.” “Friends in Council.”—HELPS. “Mr. Drew and Mr. Fisk were closeted together for more than an
hour yesterday.” “A Tale of Two Cities.”—DICKENS. “The census will show that our city has a population of at
least 500,000.”—Chicago paper. “St Louis has undoubtedly a population of 400,000.”—St.
Louis paper. “Chicago, 300,000; St. Louis, 190,000.”—Census returns. “Stern Necessity.”–F.W. ROBINSON. “It is stated that a well-known yacht failed to win the prize
in the late race, because her rudder slipped out of her fastenings and
was lost.”
ITEMS FROM OUR RURAL REPORTERS. A German farmer, living not one hundred miles from Cincinnati,
is raising trichinated pork for the supply of the French army. The artist who drew the Newfoundland dog (out of the water,)
at Newport, R.I., has received a medal from the Royal Humane Society of
England, on condition that he will not Meddle with dogs any more. Near Ashland, in Virginia, a spring has been discovered that
runs chicken soup. So great was the commotion in culinary arrangements,
when the discovery was made public, that “the dish ran after the spoon.” The curious crustacean known as the “fiddler crab” is
unusually numerous in the marshes of Long Island, this summer. It
differs from impecunious persons inasmuch as it is a burrowing, not a
borrowing, creature. It differs from ordinary fiddlers by two letters,
in that it bores the earth, but not the ear. It is an established fact that persona who sleep on mattresses
stuffed with pigeon’s feathers never die. Near Salem, Mass., there is
now a woman nearly two hundred years old, who has been bed-ridden and
confined to a pigeon-feather bed for one hundred and fifty years. One
of her descendants a shrewd man-has discovered that the pigeon feathers
are growing musty, and proposes to replace them with the plumage of
geese. There is a wild man at large in the woods of Sullivan County,
N.Y. He was once a fast man of New York City, and is so fast, still,
that nobody can catch him. A gentleman residing in the vicinity of Glen Cove had a
Newfoundland dog that was very expert at catching lobsters. The
faithful animal has been missing for some time, but a clue to its fate
was yesterday obtained by its owner, who found the brass collar of the
dog inside a large lobster with which he was about to construct a salad. An English nobleman has taken up his residence in the centre
of the Dismal Swamp, Va. Blighted affections are supposed to be the
cause of his trouble, as he always wears at the top buttonhole of his
coat a chignon made of red hair.
“That’s what’s the Matter.” Among the lectures announced for the coming season is Mrs.
CECILIA BURLEIGH’S “Woman’s right to be a Woman.” We quite agree with
Mrs. BURLEIGH’S remark. Woman is right to be a woman, but the
matter just now is that woman wants to be a man.
Couplet from a Shaker Song. O! Mr. President, you’ll have to
keep on pegging
At this English Mission, which
seems to go a-begging.
Hi! yi! yi! etc.
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