PUNCHINELLO

THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD, By ORPHEUS C. KERR,
Continued in this Number.

See 15th page for Extra Premiums.

THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.

AN ADAPTATION.

BY ORPHEUS C. KERR

CHAPTER XVIII

A SUBTLE STRANGER.

The latest transient guest at the Roach House—a hotel kept on
the entomological plan in Bumsteadville—was a gentleman of such lurid
aspect as made every beholder burn to know whom he could possibly be.
His enormous head of curled red hair not only presented a central
parting on top and a very much one-sided parting and puffing-out
behind, but actually covered both his ears; while his ruddy semi-circle
of beard curled inward, instead of out, and greatly surprised, if it
did not positively alarm, the looker-on, by appearing to remain
perfectly motionless, no matter how actively the stranger moved his
jaws. This ball of improbable inflammatory hair and totally independent
face rested in a basin of shirt collar; which, in its turn, was
supported by a rusty black necktie and a very loose suit of gritty
alpaca; so that, taking the gentleman for all in all, such an
incredible human being had rarely been seen outside of literary circles.

“Landlord,” said the stranger to the brown linen host of the
Roach House, who was intently gazing at him with the appreciative
expression of one who beholds a comic ghost,—”landlord, after you have
finished looking at my head and involuntarily opening your mouth at
some occasional peculiarity of my whiskers, I should like to have
something to eat. As you tell me that woodcock is not fit to eat this
year, and that broiled chicken is positively prohibited by the Board of
Health in consequence of the sickly season, you may bring me some pork
and beans, and some crackers. Bring plenty of crackers, landlord, for
I’m uncommon fond of crackers. By absorbing the superfluous moisture in
the head, they clear the brain and make it more subtle.”

Having been served with the wholesome country fare he had
ordered, together with a glass of the heady native wine called
applejack, the gentleman had but just moved a slice of pork from its
bed in the beans, when, with much interest, he closely inspected the
spot of vegetables he had uncovered, and expressed the belief that
there was something alive in it.

“Landlord,” said he, musingly, “there is something amongst
these beans that I should take for a raisin, if it did not move.”

Placing upon his nose a pair of vast silver spectacles, which
gave him an aspect of having two attic windows in his countenance, the
landlord bowed his head over the plate until his nose touched the
beans, and thoughtfully scrutinized the living raisin.

“As I thought, sir, it is only a water-bug,” he observed,
rescuing the insect upon his thumb-nail. “You need not have been
frightened, however, for they never bite.”

Somewhat reassured, the stranger went on eating until his
knife encountered resistance in the secondary layer of beans; when he
once more inspected the dish, with marked agitation.

“Can this be a skewer, down here?” inquired he, prodding at
some hard, springy object with his fork.

The host of the Roach House bore both fork and object to a
window, where the light was less deceptive, and was presently able to
announce confidently that the object was only a hair-pin. Then,
observing that his guest looked curiously at a cracker, which, from the
gravelly marks on one side, seemed to have been dug out of the earth,
like a potato, he hastened to obviate all complaint in that line by
carefully wiping every individual cracker with his pocket handkerchief.

“And now, landlord,” said the stranger, at last, pulling a
couple of long, unidentified hairs from his mouth as he hurriedly
retired from the meal, “I suppose you are wondering who I am?”

“Well, sir,” was the frank answer, “I can’t deny that there
are points about you to make a plain man like myself thoughtful.
There’s that about your hair, sir, with the middle-parting on top and
the side-parting behind, to give a plain person the impression that
your brain must be slightly turned, and that, by rights, your face
ought to be where your neck is. Neither can I deny, sir, that the
curling of your whiskers the wrong way, and their peculiarity in
remaining entirely still while your mouth is going, are circumstances
calculated to excite the liveliest apprehensions of those who wish you
well.”

“The peculiarities you notice,” returned the gentleman, “may
either exist solely in your own imagination, or they may be the result
of my own ill-health. My name is TRACEY CLEWS, and I desire to spend a
few weeks in the country for physical recuperation. Have you any idea
where a dead-beat,^[1]
like myself, could find inexpensive lodgings in Bumsteadville?”

The host hastily remarked, that his own bill for those pork
and beans was fifty cents; and upon being paid, coldly added that a
Mrs. SMYTHE, wife of the sexton of Saint Cow’s Ritualistic Church, took
hash-eaters for the summer. As the gentleman preferred a high-church
private boarding-house to an unsectarian first class hotel, all he had
to do was to go out on the road again, and keep inquiring until he
found the place.

Donning his Panama hat, and carrying a stout cane, Mr. CLEWS
was quickly upon the turnpike; and, his course taking him near the
pauper burial-ground, he presently perceived an extremely disagreeable
child throwing stones at pigeons in a field, and generally hitting the
beholder.

“You young Alderman! what do you mean?” he exclaimed, with
marked feeling, rubbing the place on his knee which had just been
struck.

“Then just give me a five-cent stamp to aim at yer, and yer
won’t ketch it onc’t,” replied the boyish trifler. “I couldn’t hit what
I was to fire at if it was my own daddy.”

“Here are ten cents, then,” said the gentleman, wildly dodging
the last shot at a distant pigeon, “and now show me where Mrs. SMYTHE
lives.

“All right, old brick-top,” assented the merry sprite, with a
vivacious dash of personality. “D’yer see that house as yer skoot past
the Church and round the corner?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s SMYTHE’S, and BUMSTEAD lives there, too—him as
is always tryin’ to put a head on me. I’ll play my points on him yet,
though. I’ll play my points!” And the rather vulgar young
chronic absentee from Sunday-school retired to a proper distance, and
from thence began stoning his benefactor to the latter’s perfect safety.

Reaching the boarding-house of Mrs. SMYTHE, as directed, Mr.
TRACEY CLEWS soon learned from the lady that he could have a room next
to the apartment of Mr. BUMSTEAD, to whom he was referred for further
recommendation of the establishment. Though that broken-hearted
gentleman was mourning the loss of a beloved umbrella, accompanied by a
nephew, and having a bone handle, Mrs. SMYTHE was sure he would speak a
good word for her house. Perhaps Mr. CLEWS had heard of his loss?

Mr. CLEWS could not exactly recall that particular case; but
had a confused recollection of having lost several umbrellas himself,
at various times, and had no doubt that the addition of a nephew must
make such a loss still heavier.

Mr. BUMSTEAD being in his room when the introduction took
place, and having Judge SWEENEY for company over a bowl of lemon tea,
the new boarder lifted his hat politely to both dignitaries, and
involuntarily smacked his lips at the mixture they were taking for
their coughs.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Mr. TRACEY CLEWS, in a manner
almost stealthy; “but, as I am about to take summer board with the lady
of this house, I beg leave to inquire if she and the man she married
are strictly moral except in having cold dinner on Sunday?”

Mr. BUMSTEAD, who sat very limply in his chair, said that she
was a very good woman, a very good woman, and would spare no pains to
secure the comfort of such a head of hair as he then saw before him.

“This is my dear friend, Judge SWEENEY,” continued the
Ritualistic organist, languidly waving a spoon towards that gentleman,
“who has a very good wife in the grave, and knows much more about women
and gravy than I. As for me,” exclaimed Mr. BUMSTEAD, suddenly climbing
upon the arm of his chair and staring at Mr. CLEW’S head rather wildly,
“my only bride was of black alpaca, with a brass ferrule, and I can
never care for the sex again.” Here Mr. BUMSTEAD, whose eyes had been
rolling in an extraordinary manner, tumbled into his chair again, and
then, frowning intensely, helped himself to lemon tea.

“I am referred to your Honor for further particulars,”
observed Mr. TRACEY CLEWS, bowing again to Judge SWEENEY. “Not to wound
our friend further by discussion of the fair sex, may I ask if
Bumsteadville contains many objects of interest for a stranger, like
myself?”

“One, at least, sir,” answered the Judge. “I think I could
show you a tombstone which you would find very good reading. An epitaph
upon my late better-half. If you are a married man you can not help
enjoying it.”

Mr. CLEWS regretted to inform his Honor, that he had never
been a married man, and, therefore, could not presume to fancy what the
literary enjoyment of a widower must be at such a treat.

“A journalist, I presume?” insinuated Judge SWEENEY, more and
more struck by the other’s perfect pageant of incomprehensible hair and
beard.

“His Honor flatters me too much.”

“Something in the lunatic line, then, perhaps?”

“I have told your Honor that I never was married.”

Since last speaking, Mr. BUMSTEAD had been staring at the new
boarder’s head and face, with a countenance expressive of mingled
consternation and wrath, and now made a startling rush at him from his
chair and fairly forced half a glass of lemon tea down his throat.

“There, sir!” said the mourning organist, panting with
suppressed excitement. “That will keep you from taking cold until you
can be walked up and down in the open air long enough to get your hair
and beard sober. They have been indulging, sir, until the top of your
head has fallen over backwards, and your whiskers act as though they
belonged to somebody else. The sight confuses me, sir, and in my
present state of mind I can’t bear it.”

Coughing from the lemon tea, and greatly amazed by his hasty
dismissal, Mr. CLEWS followed Judge SWEENEY from the room and house in
precipitate haste, and, when they were fairly out of doors, remarked,
that the gentleman they had just left had surprised him
unprecedentedly, and that he was very much put out by it.

“Mr. JOHN BUMSTEAD, sir,” explained the Judge, “is almost
beside himself at the double loss he has sustained, and I think that
the sight of your cane, there, maddened him with the memory it revived.”

“Why,” exclaimed the gentleman of the hair, staring in wonder,
“you don’t mean to tell me that my cane looks at all like his nephew?”

“It looks a little like the stick of his umbrella, which he
lost at the same time,” was the grave answer.

After walking on in thoughtful silence for a while, as though
deeply pondering the striking character of a man whose great nature
could thus at once unite the bereaved uncle with the sincere mourner
for the dumb friend of his rainier days, Mr. TRACEY CLEWS asked whether
suspicion yet pointed to any one?

Yes, he was told, suspicion did point very decidedly at a
certain person; but, as no specific reward had yet been offered in
sufficient amount to justify the exertions of police officials having
families to support; and as no lifeless body had yet been found; and as
it was not exactly certain that the abstraction of an umbrella by
unknown parties would justify the criminal prosecution of a person for
having in his possession an Indian Club:—in view of all these
complicated circumstances, the law did not feel itself authorized to
execute any assassin at present.

“And here we are, sir, at last, near our Ritualistic Church,”
continued Judge SWEENEY, “where we stand up for the Rite so much that
strangers sometimes complain of it as fatiguing. Upon that monument
yonder, in the graveyard, you may find the epitaph I have mentioned.
What is more, here comes a rather interesting local character of ours,
who cut the inscription and put up the monument.”

Mr. MCLAUGHLIN came shuffling up the road as he spoke,
followed in the distance by the inevitable SMALLEY and a shower of
promiscuous stones.

“Here, you boy!” roared Judge SWEENEY, beckoning the amiable
child to him with a bit of small money, “aim at all of us—do
you hear?—and see that you don’t hit any windows. And now, MCLAUGHLIN,
how do you do? Here is a gentleman spending the summer with us, who
would like to know you.”

Old MORTARITY stared at the hair and beard, thus introduced to
him, with undisguised amazement, and grimly remarked, that if the
gentleman would come to see him any evening, and bring a social bottle
with him, he would not allow the gentleman’s head to stand in the way
of a further acquaintance.

“I shall certainly call upon you,” assented Mr. CLEWS, “if our
young friend, the stone-thrower, will accept a trifle to show me the
way.”

Before retiring to his bed that night, the same Mr. TRACEY
CLEWS took off his hair and beard, examined them closely, and then
broke into a strange smile. “No wonder they all looked at me so!” he
soliloquized, “for I did have my locks on the topside backmost, and my
whiskers turned the wrong way. However, for a dead-beat, with all his
imperfections on his head, I’ve formed a pretty large acquaintance for
one day.”^[2]

(To be Continued.)

[1]

“Buffer” is the term used in the English story. Its
nearest native equivalent is, probably, our Dead-Beat;” meaning,
variously, according to circumstances, a successful American
politician; a wife’s male relative; a watering-place correspondent of a
newspaper, a New York detective policeman; any person who is uncommonly
pleasant with people, while never asking them to take anything with
him; a pious boarder; a French revolutionist.

[2]

In both conception and execution, the original of
the above Chapter, in Mr. DICKENS’s work, is, perhaps, the least
felicitous page of fiction ever penned by the great novelist; and, as
this Adaptation is in no wise intended as a burlesque, or caricature,
of the style at the original, (but rather as a conscientious
imitation of it, so far as practicable,) the Adapter has not allowed
himself that license of humor which, in the most comically effective
treatment of said Chapter, might bear the appearance of such an
intention.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

Patchouli.—What is the substance which enables flies to
adhere to the ceiling? Answer.—Ceiling wax.

Rosalie.—What is the meaning of the term “suspended
animation?” Answer.—If you remain at any fashionable
watering-place after the close of the season you’ll find out.

Zanesvillian.—Your pronunciation of the French word bois
is incorrect, else you could not have fallen into the blunder of
supposing that the Bois de Boulogne and the Bois de Vincennes are gamins
of Paris.

Blunderbore.—Your suggestion is ingenious, but the
refined sentiment of cruelty revealed in it is deserving of the
severest censure. It is true that the introduction of German cookery
into France by the Prussians, as you propose, would in a short time
decimate the population, but what a fearful precedent it would be! You
can best realize it by imagining Massachusetts cookery introduced into
New York, and the consequent desolation of her purliens.

Mrs. Gamp.—No; neither the French nor the Prussians are
armed with air guns. Your mistake arose from puzzling over those
distracting war reports, in which the word Argonnes figures so
conspicuously.

R.G.W.—What is the origin of the term “Bezonian,” which
occurs in the Shaksperean drama? Answer.—Some trace it to Ben
Zine, an inflammable friend of “ancient Pistol’s.” It is far more
probable, however, that the word was originally written “Bazainian,”
and was merely prophetic of the well-known epithet now bestowed by
Prussian soldiers on the French troops serving under BAZAINE.

Earl Russel—In reply to your question as to whether the
thumb nail of HOGARTH on which he made his traditional sketch of a
drunken man, is now in an American collection, we can only state that,
of course, it once formed a leading object of interest in BARNUM’S
Museum. As that building was destroyed by fire in 1865, however, it is
to be presumed that the HOGARTH nail perished with all the other nails,
or was sold with them, as “junk.”

Invalid.—To regain strength you should take means to
increase the amount of iron in your blood. Bark will do it, which
accounts for the fact that the blood of dogs has a large per centage of
iron. Here in New York, the ordinary way of getting iron in the blood
is to have a knife run into you by the hand of an assassin; but this is
not considered favorable to longevity.

THE ROMANCE OF A RICH YOUNG MAN.

t happened, once
upon a time, that there was a great city, and that city, being devoid
of a sensation, yearned for a great man. Then the wise men of the city
began to look around, when lo! there entered through the gates of the
city a certain peddler from a foreign country, which is called Yankee
Land, and behold! the great man was found. He dealt in shekels and
stocks, and bloomed and flourished, and soon became like unto a golden
calf, and lo! all the wise men fell down and worshipped him. Now it
happened that at first, like all great men, he was misunderstood, and
the people ascribed his success to his partner, so that everybody said,

but the people were soon disabused of this idea, and the name
of JEAMES PHYSKE was in everybody’s mouth.

Now it came to pass that there was a certain devout man called
DEDREW, who was the Grand Mogul and High Priest of a certain railroad
corporation called the Eareye, because, while it was much in
everybody’s ear, no one could see anything of it or its dividends. So
JEAMES PHYSKE went straightway unto DEDREW and said unto him, “Lo! your
servant is as full of wiles as an egg is of meat. Make me then, I pray
you, your chief adviser, and put me in the high places.” And DEDREW
smiled upon him, as he is wont to do, and finding that he was a
stranger, he took him in, and knowing that all were fish which came
unto his net, he straightway put him in the high places in Eareye,
saying unto himself, “I will take this lamb and fleece him.” So PHYSKE
sat high in Eareye. But it came to pass very soon thereafter, that
DEDREW and PHYSKE fell out, some say about the division of the spoils
which they had taken from the enemy, which, being interpreted, is the
people, while others do state that DEDREW attempted to cut the wool
from PHYSKE, but that it stuck so tightly that PHYSKE caught him.
Anyhow, it came to pass, very soon, that DEDREW was sitting on the
outside steps of Eareye, and PHYSKE was sitting on DEDREW’S throne.

Then PHYSKE ruled Eareye, and he took the stock and he did
multiply it manifold, which is called, by some people, watering. Now it
happened that a certain man named PYKE did build him a costly mansion
on the street which is called Twenty-third, and did therein have
foreign singers and dancers, and players upon the violin, which is
called the fiddle, and upon the bass viol, which is called the big
fiddle, and upon sheets of parchment, which are called the drum, and
upon divers other instruments. And PHYSKE looked upon the mansion, and
it seemed good in his eyes, and he said unto PYKE, “Sell me now your
mansion.” And PYKE did sell unto him the mansion, and the foreign
singers and dancers, and the players upon the violin, which is called
the fiddle, and the players upon the big fiddle, and the players upon
the drums, and the players upon divers other instruments. And PHYSKE
forthwith built himself a throne there, and did make the mansion the
palace of Eareye. And he would sit upon his throne and view the foreign
singers and dancers, and the players upon divers instruments, and would
much applaud, when his foreign dancers did dance a certain dance,
wherein the toe is placed upon the forehead, and which is called the cancan.
And all the people came and worshipped him, him and his foreign singers
and dancers, and players upon divers instruments, and his great
diamond. And PHYSKE was called Prince Eareye.

Then it happened that PHYSKE much desired to command upon the
ocean; so he forthwith bought him a line of steamers, which did run to
the foreign land, which is called Yankee Land, and he placed thereon a
goodly number of his players upon divers instruments, and he did buy
him a coat of many colors, and did stand upon the landing place, which
is called the dock, and the players upon divers instruments did play,
“Hail to the Chief,” and all the people did shout, “Hurrah for Admiral
PHYSKE, Prince of Eareye!” for he was of a noble stature, being four
hands wider than his fellows.

Now it came to pass that divers envious persons did institute
certain troublesome actions, which are called suits, against him, and
did endeavor to drive him from the land, but PHYSKE took a field and
went before a barnyard, and did rout these envious persons, and did
smite them on the hip, which, being interpreted, is that he dismissed
their suits, and did smite them on the thigh, which, being interpreted,
is, did make them pay costs. But the field and the barnyard were much
employed.

Then PHYSKE took into his counsel divers persons, dealers in
shekels, and did say unto them, “Let us find us a man who can tell us
whether those in high places will sell gold. And if he say unto us,
nay, let us buy much gold and make many shekels.” And the divers
persons, dealers in shekels, were astonished at his shrewdness, and
were all of one accord. Then PHYSKE found him a man who did say unto
him nay, and PHYSKE and the divers other persons did buy much gold. Now
it happened that those in high places did sell gold, and PHYSKE and the
divers other persons were sore afraid, and did fall upon each other’s
necks and did weep. But PHYSKE straightway recovered and said unto
them, “Lo, if I do murder and the doctor say that I was insane, am I
not forthwith discharged?” and they said unto him, “It is even so.”
Then said he unto them, “Let us send our broker into the board, so that
he shall act like an insane man, and can we be held for an insane man’s
purchases?” And they were filled with great rejoicing. And the broker
did go into the board, and did act like an insane man, and PHYSKE and
divers other persons did retain their shekels. And it was Friday when
they did these things, and when they had done them they laughed until
they were black in their faces, and the day—is it not called Black
Friday?

Then PHYSKE did bring unto himself other boats and other
roads, and waxed powerful, and became great in the land, and he was
much interviewed by the scribes of a certain paper, “It shines for
all,” which, being interpreted, is the Moon, and his sayings—can they
not be found in the pages of “It shines for all,” which, being
interpreted, is the Moon, and are they not preserved there for two
centuries?

And then it came to pass that PHYSKE sat himself down and
sighed because there were no more worlds to conquer. But straightway he
resolved to become a Colonel. So certain persons endeavored to make him
commander of the 99th regiment of foot, but a certain old centurion,
which is Brains, ran against him and overcame him. But the soldiers
said unto each other, “Is it not better that we should have body than
brains, and had we not better take unto ourselves the fleshpots?” So
they deposed Brains and chose the Prince of Eareye as their commander.
And he straightway submitted them to twelve temptations. Now it
happened, that, as he was marching at the head of his soldiers in the
place wherein these twelve temptations are kept, a certain servant of
one Mammon did serve upon him a paper, which is called a summons, and
did command him to pay for his butter. At which PHYSKE was much enraged
and did wax wroth. And thereupon he did march and countermarch his
soldiers many times. And he ordered another coat of many colors, and
lo! in all Chatham Street there was not cloth enough to make it, so
they brought it from a foreign land. And it came to pass that he and
the centurion, which is Brains—for should not body and brains work
together?—did march the soldiers down the street which is called
Broadway, and did take them to the Branch which is called Long, and
there did divers curious things, all which are they not found in the
paper, “It shines for all,” which, being interpreted, is the Moon?

Now it happened that one HO RACE GREL HE, being a Prussian,
did fall upon PHYSKE and did berate him in a paper, which is called the
Try Buin. And PHYSKE became very wroth and did stop the
sale of the paper, which is called the Try Buin, upon his
roads. And HO RACE GREL HE, being a Prussian, was sore afraid, and did
fall straightway upon his knees, and did say, “Lo, your servant has
sinned! I pray thee forgive him.” And PHYSKE did say, “I forgive thee,”
which, being interpreted, is, “All right, old coon, don’t let me catch
you at it again.”

And PHYSKE did divers other strange and curious things, but
are they not written down daily by the scribes of the paper, “It shines
for all,” which, being interpreted, is the Moon, and cannot he who
runs, read them there?

LOT.

From the Spirit of Lindley Murray.

When is a schoolboy like an event that has happened? When he
has come to parse.

THE WATERING PLACES.

Punchinello’s Vacations.

Vain heading! This paper is not intended to communicate
anything about a vacation. “Would that it were! says Mr. PUNCHINELLO,
from the bottom of his heart.

Last week Mr. P. intended going to the White Mountains.

But he didn’t go.

On his way to the Twenty-third Street depot, he met the Count
JOANNES.

“Ah ha! my noble friend!” said the latter. “”Whither away”?”

Mr. P. explained whither he was away; and was amazed to see
the singular expression which instantly spread itself over the
countenance of his noble friend.

“To the “White Mountains!”cried the Count,” why, my good
fellow, what are you thinking of? Do you not know that this is
September?”

“Certainly I do,”said Mr. P.” I know that this is the season
when Nature revels in her richest hues, and Aurora gilds the fairest
landscape; when the rays of glorious old Sol are tempered by the soft
caresses of the balmiest zephyrs, and—”

“Oh, certainly! certainly!” cried the Count, “I have no doubt
of it; not the least bit in the world. In fact, I have been in those
places myself when a boy, and I know all about it. But let me tell you,
sir, as amicus curiae, (and I assure you that I have often been
amicus curiae before,) that society will not tolerate
anything of this kind on your part, sir. The skies in the country may
be bluest at this season, sir; the air most delicious, the scenery most
gorgeous, and accommodations of all kinds most plenty and excellent,
but it will not do. The conductor of a first class journal belongs in a
manner to society, and society will never forgive him for going into
the country after the season is over. As amicus curiae—”

“Amicus your grandmother, sir!” said Mr. P. “What does
society know about the beauties of nature, or the proper time for
enjoying them?”

“Society knows enough about it, sir!” cried the Count, drawing
his sword a little way from its scabbard and letting it fall again
with: clanging sound. “And representing society, as I do in my proper
person here, sir, I say that any man who would go into the country in
the latter part of September is a—“

“A what, sir?” said Mr. P., nervously fingering his umbrella.

“Yes, sir, he is, sir!”

“Do you say that, sir?”

“In your teeth, sir!”

“‘Tis false, sir!”

“What, sir?”

“Just so, sir!”

“To me, sir?”

“To you, sir!”

The Count JOANNES drew his sword.

Mr. P. stood en garde.

Just at this moment the Greenwich Street Cordwainers’ Target
Association, preceded by one half the whole body of Metropolitan
Police, approached the spot. The Target Society were out on a street
parade, and the policemen marched before them to clear Broadway of all
vehicles and foot-passengers, and to stop short, for the time, the
business of a great city, in order that these twenty spindle-legged and
melancholy little cobblers might have a proper opportunity of showing
their utter ignorance of all rules of marching, and the management of
firearms.

Perceiving this vast body of police, with Superintendent
JOURDAN at its head, advancing with measured tread upon them, the Count
sheathed his sword and Mr. P. shut up his deadly weapon.

Slowly and in opposite directions they withdrew from the
ground.

It was too late for Mr. P.’s train, and he returned to his
home. There, in the solitude of his private apartments, he came to the
conclusion that it would be useless to oppose the decrees of Society.
The idea that the Count, that worthy leader of the metropolitan ton,
had put into his head, was not to be treated contemptuously. He must
give up all the fruity richness of September, the royal glories of
October, and the delicious hazes of the Indian Summer, pack away his
fish-hooks and his pocket-flask, and stay in the city like the rest of
the fools.

This conclusion, however, did not prevent Mr. P. from
dreaming. He had a delightful dream that night, in which he found
himself sailing on Lake George; ascending Mount Washington; and
participating in the revelry of a clam-bake on the seagirt shore of
Kings and Queens and Suffolk Counties. As nearly as circumstances will
permit, he has endeavored to give an idea of his dream by means of the
following sketch.

Taken as a whole, Mr. P. is not desirous that this dream
should come true, but taken in parts he would have no objections to see
it fulfilled as soon as Society will permit.

Which will be, he supposes, about next July.

In the meantime, he advises such of his patrons as have
depended entirely upon his letters for their summer recreation, and who
will now be deprived of this delightful enjoyment, to make every effort
to go to some of our summer resorts and spend a few weeks after the
fashionable season is over,—that is, if they think they can brave the
opinion of society. It may not be so pleasant to go to these places as
to read Mr. P.’s accounts of them, but it is the best that can be done.

The following little tail-piece will give a forcible idea of
how completely Mr. P. has given up, for the season, his field sports
and country pleasures. Copies may be obtained by placing a piece of
tracing-paper over the picture and following the lines with a
lead-pencil.

THE POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO VI.

It is not often that a poet descends to the discussion of
mundane affairs. His sphere of usefulness, oftentimes usefulness to
himself, only, lies among the roseate clouds of the morn, or the
spiritual essences of the cerulean regions, but, like other human
beings, he cannot live on the zephyr breeze, or on the moonbeams
flitting o’er the rippling stream. Such ethereal food is highly
unproductive of adipose tissue, and the poet needs adipose like any
other man. And our poet is no exception to the rule, for he well knew
that good digestible poetry can’t be written on an empty stomach.

It is seldom that a writer is met with, who does not seize
every opportunity to attract attention to his own deeds. He is never so
happy as when, in contemplation, he hears the remarks of his readers
tending to his praise for the noble and heroic deeds he makes himself
perform.

But with our poet—and we have been exceptional in our
choice—he has always been backward in coming forward, and it was not
until he was touched upon a tender point that he concluded to make
himself heard, when he might depict, in glowing terms, some of the few
ills which flesh is heir to.

The opportune moment arrived.

He had been out since early dawn, gathering the dew from the
sweet-scented flower, or painting in liquid vowels the pleasant
calmness of the cow-pasture, or mayhap echoing with hie pencil’s point
the well-noted strains of the Shanghai rooster, when the far-off
distant bell announced to him that he must finish his poetic pabulum,
and hurry home to something more in accordance with the science of
modern cookery.

He arrived and found his household in tumult. “Who’s been here
since I’ve been gone?” sang he, in pathetic tones. And he heard in
mournful accents the answer, “TAFFY.”

Could anything more melancholy have befallen our poet? He
could remember in childhood’s merry days the old candy-woman, with her
plentiful store of brown sweetness long drawn out; and how himself and
companions spent many a pleasant hour teasing their little teeth with
the delicate morsels. Now his childhood’s dreams vanished. He
remembered that

And then, after a careful scrutiny of the larder, assisted by
the gratuitous services of his ever faithful feline friend, THOMAS, he
found the extent of his loss.

he now gave vent to passion, while anguish rent his soul.
TAFFY had been here, and made good his coming, although the good was
entirely on TAFFY’S side, for he walked off again with a piece of beef,
and was, even at this very moment, smacking his chops over its tender
fibres.

All his respect for TAFFY now vanished like the misty cloud
before the rays of the morning sun. He buckled on the armor of his
strength, departed for TAFFY’S house, determined to wreak his vengeance
thereon, and scatter TAFFY, limb for limb, throughout his own
corn-field. “Woe, woe to TAFFY,” he muttered between his clenched
teeth. “I will make mincemeat of him; I will enclose him in sausage
skins, and will send him to that good man, KI YI SAMPSON.”

Judge of our poet’s chagrin, however, when, on arriving at
TAFFY’S house, he was informed, with mocking smiles.

Here was a fall to his well-formed plans of vengeance.—All
dashed to the ground by one foul scathing blow.

But whither went TAFFY? The poet himself could tell you if you
waited, but we will tell you now. TAFFY liked beef; liked it as no
other human liked it, for he could eat it raw. And when, foraging
around the village, he found a nice piece at the poet’s house, his
carnivorous proclivities induced him to steal it, and, with it under
his arm, hurried off to the nearest barn, and there rapidly devoured
it. This only seemed to give him an appetite. He went foraging again,
but this time only picked up a mutton-bone. “The nearer the bone, the
sweeter the meat,” cried TAFFY, and with a flourish he hastened to his
hiding place, while the poor poet, disconsolate in his first loss,
returned home only to find a second; and the culprit was still free.

Ah! my kind reader, here was a deep cut to our poet. “Who
would care for mother now?” he sang, for all the meat was gone. Home
was no longer the dearest spot on earth to him, since it was rudely
desecrated by the hands of TAFFY—of DAVID, the Welshman.

Poor poet! Cruel TAFFY!

Let me draw the curtain of popular sympathy over the unhappy
household. The poet has told his story in words which will never die;
and he has proclaimed the infamy of TAFFY to the uttermost corners of
the earth.

Sweeping Reform.

The world moves. There is a chiropodist now travelling in the
East who removes excrescences of the feet simply by sweeping them away
with a corn broom. When last heard of he was at Alexandria, and there
is no corn in Egypt, now.

OUR EXPLOSIVES.

What between nitroglycerine, kerosene, and ordinary gas, New
York city has, for years.past, been admirably provided with explosives.
Now we have to add gasoline to the interesting catalogue of
inflammables. What gasoline is, we have not the slightest notion, but,
as it knocked several houses in Maiden Lane into ashes a few days
since, it must be something. Crinoline, dangerous as it is, would have
been safer for Maiden Lane than gasoline, and more appropriate. In the
present dearth of public amusements, these jolly explosives—gasoline,
dualine, nitroglycerine, and the rest of ’em,—come in very well to
create a sensation. They keep the firemen in wind, and, as the firemen
keep them in water, the obligation is reciprocal. Let Gasoline, as well
as Crinoline, have the suffrage, by all means.

Aggravating.

The war news is becoming dizzier every day. It is now
announced that the Prussian headquarters are at St. Dizier.

Anna-Tom-ical.

“A young man who lost an arm, some two weeks since, insists
upon it that he still feels pain in the arm and fingers.”—(Daily Paper.)

This is strange, certainly, but not more so than the statement
of our young man, TOM, who affirms that, having had his arm around
ANNA’S waist some three weeks ago, he still feels the most bewitching
sensations in that arm. Who can explain these things?

Prussicos odi, puer, apparatus,—as old NAP said to young NAP,
when the Teutonic bullets flew about them at Saarbruck.

WE DON’T KNOW WHETHER IT IS
CORRECT, BUT THIS IS PUNCHINELLO’S IDEA OF THE CHASSE POT.

A FACT FROM LAKE SUPERIOR.

Shipwrecked Cockney.—”I SAY, CAPTAIN, ARE THERE ANY
BEARS ABOUT HERE? I’VE COME PREPARED FOR A LITTLE SPORT, YOU KNOW.”

THE CHARGE OF THE NINTH BRIGADE.

“Col. FISK, Jr., marched his men up to the Continental
Bar-room this evening and gave them a carte blanche order for
drinks.”—Special to morning paper.

A Sun-burst.

The Sun regretfully announces that PUNCHINELLO is
about to “give up the ghost.” PUNCHINELLO begs to assure the Sun that
he doesn’t keep a ghost; though, at the same time, the mistake was a
natural one enough to emanate from Mr. C. A. (D. B.) DANA, who keeps a
REAL ghost in his closet.

A. Natural Mistake.

An advertisement from the establishment of Messrs. A. T.
STEWART & Co., announces, among other things, that they have opened
a “MADDER PRINT.”

At first sight we supposed that the firm in question had begun
publishing a paper in opposition to the Sun, and that it was to be, if
possible, a madder print than that luminary, for the purpose of cutting
it out. Further reflection convinced us, however, that the “print” in
question was connected with the subject of dry goods, only.

Very Small Beer.

Newspaper items state that the editor of the Winterset (Iowa,)
Sun, is, probably, the smallest editor in the the world.”
Surely the editor of the New York Sun must be the one meant.

“Well I’m Blowed!”

As the omelette soufflée said to the cook.

AT THE SARATOGA CONVENTION.

Horace Greeley, (to Roscoe Conkling.) “DON’T BE RASH,
NOW REMEMBER THAT A SOFT ANSWER TURNETH AWAY WRATH.”

Roscoe Conkling. “LET US HAVE PEACE, BY ALL MEANS: BUT
IF THAT FELLOW REUBE FENTON INTERFERES WITH ME, HE HAD BETTER LOOK OUT
THAT I DON’T SMASH HIS SLATE.”

HIRAM GREEN TO NAPOLEON.

Napoleon I and Napoleon III—Lager-Beer a Formidable Enemy to
Overcome.

SKEENSBORO, NYE ONTO VARMONT,

Orgust—, 18-Seventy.

FRIEND LEWIS: As I haint got no anser to my last letter which
I rote to your royal magesty a few weeks ago, it has occurred to me,
that maybe you don’t feel well about these days, or, just as like as
not our “Cousin German,” FRITZ, mite have been mean enuff as to gobble
up your male bag, and steel my letter to put into his outograf album. I
now take my pen in hand to inform you, that Ime as sound as a Saddle
Rock oyster, and hope these few lines may find you enjoyin’ the same
blessin. Numerous changes have taken place since your grand invasion
of German sile.

It has certinly been very kind in your Dutch friends to save
you a long jerney to fite them.

Insted of puttin’ you to the trouble of goin’ away from home
for a little excitement, you can set rite in the heart of your own
country, and enjoy the fun.

A man by the name of NERO, was once said to do some tall
fiddlin’ when Rome was burnin’.

While the patriotic fires of your people is clusterin’ around
you (?) my advice is, to cote the words of Unkle EDWARD:

The foregoin’ is rather more sarcastikle than troothful.

It laserates my venerable heart-strings, most noble
Pea-cracker, to see how you’ve been lickt.

You have probly found out by this time, that the mantle of
your grate unkle has passed into the hands of some other family.

The grate BONYPART was called the Gray Eyed man of Destiny,
altho’ I don’t know what country that is in, as the village of Destiny
haint on any of the war maps.

I should judge, however, onless there is a change in the
program, that when this “cruel war is over,” you will wear the belt as
the champion Black-eyed man of Urope.

Your so-called ascendant Star, is probly the identikle
loominary which; Perfesser DAN BRYANT refers so beautifully to, in his
pome of “Shoo-fly.”

It shone rather scrumpshus, in the dark, but the rays of the
Sun has nockt its twinkle hire’n GILDEROY’S kite.

Yes, Squire BONYPART, your star is the only planet whose
eclips has been visible to the naked eye, all over the world, and can
be seen without usin’ smoked glass.

I think, in the beginnin’ of the war, when you left UGEENY for
Nancy, that, like your Unkle, you made a bad go.

When the old man stuck to JOESFEEN he was a success.

Empires—Kingdoms—Pottentates and Hottentots, took the first
train and skedaddled, when the General sot his affeckshuns on their
territory.

The BOURBONS fled and come over here and settled in Kentucky,
and commenced makin’ whiskey, payin’ a tax of $2.00 per gallon, and
sellin’ the seductive flooid for $1.50 per gallon, gettin’ rich at
that, which may surprise you, altho’ it doesen’t our Eternal Revenoo
Offisers, who, as Mr. ANTONY remarked of H. BEECHER STOW when she
stabbed Lord Byron, “are all honorable men.”

Finally BONYPART went back on JOSEFEEN, which made Mrs. B.
scatter a few buckets of tear drops.

Said your Unkle:

“What’s the use of blubberin’ about it? Cheer up and be a man.
I belong, body, sole and butes, to France, who says my name must be
perpetuated. You, JOSEFEEN, must pick up your duds and look for another
bordin’-house, for you can’t run the Tooleries any longer.”

He then sent to Chicago and got a ten dollar devorce, and
married MARIAR LOUISER, arter which he become a played-out
institootion, employin’ his time walkin’ in solo with his hands
behind him, gazin’ intently on the toes of his butes, and wonderin’ if
they was the same ones which had histed so many roolers off of their
thrones.

In view of the past, you should have stuck to UGEENY, who, I
understand, is good lookin’ and sports a pretty nobby harness.

The charms of Nancy may make your Imperial mouth water, but
let an old statesman, who has served his country for 4 years as Gustise
of the Peece, say to you, “Don’t be a fool if you know anything.”

Another reason of your unsuccess is that Lager is a hard chap
to fite agin. I tried it once.

A Dutch millingtery company visited Skeensboro a few years
since, for a target shoot, bringin’ a car lode of lager-beer and a box
of sardeens for refreshments.

I, bein’ at that time Gustise, was on hand to help perserve
the peece.

Lager, they told me, wasen’t intoxicatin. I histed in a few
mugs. I woulden’t just say that I got soggy, but I felt like a hul
regiment of Dutch soljers on general trainin’ day.

It suddenly occurred to me that Mrs. GREEN had been puttin’ on
rather too many airs lately, and I would go in and quietly remind her
that I was boss of the ranch.

Pickin’ up a hoss-whip, I “shouldered arms,” and entered the
kitchen as bold as the brave FISK of the bully 9th.

“MARIAR,” said I, addressin’ Mrs. GREEN, and tippin’ over her
pan of dish-water so she coulden’t wet my close, “yer ‘aven’t (hic!)
tode the mark as ‘er troo (hic!) wife orter. I can’t (hic!) ‘ave any
more of yer (hic!) darn foolin’. Will yer (hic!) ‘bey yer ‘usband like
a (hic!) man, in the futer?”

I raised the hoss-whip to give her a good blow. She caught it
on a fly with both hands, as I lade down on the floor to convince my
wife I was in earnest in what I said.

Well, LEWIS, I remember feelin’ as if I was put into a large
bag with a lot of saw logs, and was bein’ viteally shoot up. I could
also distinguish my wife, flyin’ about as if she had taken a contract
for thrashin’ a lot of otes, and haden’t but a few minnits to do it in,
and somehow I got it into my head that I was the otes.

I went to sleep in a cloud of hosswhips—hair and panterloon
buttons rapt up in a dilapidated soot of close.

When I awoke, I looked as if that Dutch millingtery Company
had been usin’ me for a target, substitootin’ my nose for the bull’s
eye.

I imejutly come to the conclusion, that to successfully buck
agin Lager-beer, was full as onhealthy as tryin’ to get a seat in H.
WARD BEECHER’S church on Sunday mornin’s, afore all the Pew-holders had
got in.

When you want an asilum to flee to, come to Skeensboro.

Altho’ you have got the ship of State stuck in the mud, I
think I can get you a canal bote to run, where you can earn your
$115.00 a month, provided your wife will do the cookin’ for the crew.

This is better than bein’ throde onto the cold, cold charities
of the world, especially where a man has got the gout, for anything
cold in apt to bring on the pain and make him pe-uuk.

Hopin’ that in the futer, as you grow older, you may lern
wisdom by cultivatin’ my acquaintance—and with kind regards to UGEEN
and bub BONYPART, in your native tung I will say:

Barn-sure, noblesse Pea-cracker.

Ewer’n, one and onseperable,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

Lait Gustise of the Peece.

Bunsby’s War Paint.

Remark by a Bandsman.

Once upon a time the French Horn was a famous instrument, but
now, considering the retreating strategy of the French leaders, it
appears to be superseded by the Off I Glide.

The Music of the Future.

Considering the enormous difficulties which stand in the way
of the performance of Herr WAGNER’S music, it is the music of the Few
Sure enough.

A Relic of the Past.

The following item is taken from a daily paper:

“The septuagenarian Dejazet sang the ‘Marseillaise’ at the
Passy theatre lately.”

There seems to be a mistake, here. Surely the word Passy is
meant for passée.

PRECOCIOUS.

LITTLE FEMALE AMERICA, TOO, ASSERTS HER RIGHTS AND ESPECIALLY
THE RIGHT TO THE EXCLUSIVE USE OF THE SIDE-WALK FOR A ROPE-WALK.”

OUR PORTFOLIO.

“Well, you know, Dear Mr. PUNCHINELLOW, this is how CHARLEY
DANY and me cum to hev our fallin’ out. We was boys together, was
CHARLEY and me, and went to the same school. CHARLEY were a likely lad
there; never given to spilin’ the faces of t’other boys nor splashin’
mud on their clothes. Oh! but hasn’t he gone back on them good old
times. I wouldn’t hev’ believed it, CHARLEY, no I wouldn’t.

But, as I was sayin’, he were a likely lad; studyin’ hard, and
often tellin’ me how he would one day come out at the head of the heap,
gradooatin’ before the Squire’s son, JACK BALDERBACK. Just about this
time I was tuk with the measles, and father died, and SALLIE got
married, and the old woman said to me:

“EPHRAIM, I think your school days is ended.” And so they was.
I never went back again, and never saw CHARLEY these thirty-five years
gone now, ’till t’other day. I went West in search of a livin’, and he
tuk onto business here East. Wons’t in a long time I heerd on him; how
things went well with him, and how he got up, up, up, till the ladder
wasn’t big enough and he couldn’t climb no higher. Folks said he was
into the war; but I didn’t believe ’em. CHARLEY was a peace man, I
knowed that. Arterwards, howsumever, it cum out that it was the War
Office he was into, and not the war; and says I to myself, “EPHRAIM,”
says I, “didn’t I tell you so; and tell them so, and war’nt I right? I
calkilate they won’t go back no more on what I says about CHARLEY DANY.”

Well, dear Mr. PUNCHINELLOW, I was one day readin’ of your
paper, and I comes onto sumthin’ about sumbody, which it was as I spell
it, “CHARLES A. DANA,” how he was a cuttin’ up shines, and how you was
a pokin’ fun and hard things at him.

I larfed right out.

“That’s smart,” says I, “Yes, that’s smart; but it ain’t onto my
CHARLEY. He ain’t stuck up nor nothing of that sort. He is as innocent
as gooseberries, is the CHARLEY DANY I know;” and arterwards I thought
no more about it, till I cum on to New York for to look into the cattle
business, and see how things was shapin for trade this winter.

I put up to the St. Nikkleas. Well, I allers larf when I think
of it. Here was an Irishman tuk my bag, slung it behind him, and says
he to me—”Foller me, if you please, sir.” I follered accordin’.

I’ve clumb some pretty tall hills in my day, Mr. PUNCHINELLOW,
but that ‘ere gettin’ up them stairs jest switches the rag off of all
on ’em. I broke down. Then he tuk me to a heister, and landed us next
to the roof. I was too pegged out to wash or fix, so I flung off my
cowhides, jumped onto the bed and slept clean through till next day. In
the mornin’ I rigged up, went down stairs, and asked the clerk if he
would be kind enough to pint out to me where I might see CHARLEY DANY.
He sort o’ smiled like, and said I would find him at the Sun
office. I paid two dollars for a kab to take me down, which it did till
we stopped afore a big yaller house, with a big board stuck up agin it
havin’ these words:

“Wonder if CHARLEY writ all that ‘ere,” says I, inwardly,
inquirin’ of a boy where Mr. DANY’S particular holdin’ out place might
be, and givin’ him three cents to show me the way. Drawin’ a quick
breath, I knocked at the door. “Come in,” says a peskish voice. I cum
in, and there, sure enough, with nose close down to the desk, a writin’
away for dear life, sat CHARLEY. I knowed him to onc’t, for all he was
a little oldish, and a little grayish, and had a bare spot like a
turtle’s back on the top of his head. My heart cum’ a bustin’ up into
my throat, and an inward voice seemed to say:

“Do it now EPHRAIM, do it now, while the feeling is onto you.”
Jest then he looked up, and I bust forth: “Oh, CHARLEY! CHARLEY! its a
long time sin’ we met, CHARLEY. Don’t you know me? Don’t you remember
little EPH ECKELS? Oh! CHARLEY, CHARLEY, give us a grip of your knob,
old hunk”—and I slewed over towards him for to shake hands when he
suddenly drawed back, kinder gloomy like, putting down his pen and
chewing his gums sort of swagewise. as he said:

“My name, sir, is the Hon. CHARLES AUGUSTUS DANA, Ex-Assistant
Secretary of War, Ex-Proprietor of the ablest paper in the West, and at
present Chief Editor of the New York Sun, price two cents.
There is no individual here, sir, answering to the appellation of “Old
Hunk,” and, as I perceive, sir, that there is a most infernal smell of
cow yards about your raiment, and the effluvia arising thence is
becoming insupportable, I would thank you to get out of this apartment
double quick, and I suggest for the sake of others who may be
unfortunately brought into contact with you, that my friend the Hon.
WILLIAM MANHATTAN TWEED has recently established public baths where
such creatures as you may undergo purification before venturing into
the presence of gentlemen.”

It was CHARLEY who spoke it; Mr. PUNCHINELLOW, there is no
doubt about that; but the CHARLEY that I knew has been dead sin’ that
day. Yours in memory-moram,

EPHRAIM ECKELS.

Horrors of War.

Much has been said about the Prussian “demonstrations” at
Strasbourg. If half what we hear of Prussian vandalism as displayed at
the siege of Strasbourg is true, “Demonstration” is a very appropriate
term for the thing.

OLIVE LOGAN.

e have no
authentic record of the date of this fair syren’s birth. It is
popularly supposed, however, that she was contemporaneous with
POCAHONTAS. POKY (as she was playfully called by her playmates at
boarding-school) is now dead. LOGY (another playful appellation of the
gushing miss alluded to) is still Olive.

We do not, however, credit the legend above cited. Also, we do
not credit the equally absurd and unreasonable story that our girlish
gusher is a daughter of a negro preacher named LOGUEN. We look upon
this as a colorless aspersion of our subject’s fair fame, and we
therefore feel called upon to politely but furiously hurl it back in
the teeth of its degraded and offensive inventor. Things are come
indeed to a pretty pass when a lady of Miss LOGAN’S position may have
her good name blackened (not to say sooted) by associating it with that
of a preacher. Besides, LOGUEN was himself born in 1800, and is
therefore only seventy years old. These things are not to be borne.

Miss LOGAN is seventeen years of age. This, at least, is
reliable. We have our information from the lips of an aunt of the
Honorable HORATIUS GREELEY, who met Miss LOGAN in Chicago in 1812, and
wrung the confession from the gifted lady herself. Mr. GREELEY’S aunt,
we need not say, is incapable of telling a lie.

At the early age of six weeks our illustrious victim made her
first appearance as a public speaker. This was at Faneuil Hall, Boston.
She was supported on that memorable occasion by a young and fascinating
lady by the name of ANTHONY (SUSAN.) SUSIE prophesied then, it will be
remembered, that the fair oratress would yet live to be President of
the United States and Canadas. Miss LOGAN, with her customary modesty,
declined to view the mysterious future in that puerile light,
gracefully suggesting, amid a brilliant outburst of puns, metaphors and
amusing anecdotes, that SUSIE distorted the facts. Miss ANTHONY, under
a mistaken impression that this referred to her peculiar mode of
keeping accounts, offered, with a wild shriek of despair and disgust,
to exhibit her books to an unprejudiced committee of her own sex, with
WENDELL PHILLIPS as chairwoman. (There is manifest inaccuracy in this
account, though, inasmuch as Mr. PHILLIPS was not yet born, at that
time; but we of course give the story as it is related to us by
eye-witnesses.) Mr. JOHN RUSSELL YOUNG, who was in the audience, rose
and said that Miss ANTHONY’S explanation was entirely sufficient, and
that she might now take her seat. The lecturer then proceeded to
discuss her subject, “Girls.” She said—

However, this is not a newspaper report, is it?

Soon after this, Louis PHILLIPPE invited Miss LOGAN to visit
Paris. He represented that he should consider it an honor at any time
to welcome the beautiful demoiselle to the palace of the Tuileries. He
remarked in a postscript that his dinner hour was twelve o’clock, noon,
sharp, and that his hired man had instructions to pass Miss LOGAN at
any time. Accordingly, our syren departed hungrily for the capital of
the French. Her career in Paris is well known to every mere ordinary
schoolboy: therefore, wherefore dwell? Madame DE STAEL’S dressmaker
called on her. A committee of strong-minded milliners solicited the
honor of her acquaintance. GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN proposed an alliance
with her for the purpose of hurling imperial jackassery from its
tottering throne. Other honors were conferred on her.

Returning to her native motherland in 1812, she once more
resumed her career as a public speakeristess. How wonderful that career
has been, does not the world know? If not, why not? She has lectured in
14,364,812,719 towns between San Francisco on the one hand and
California on the other. Upwards of fourteen million Young Men’s
Christian Associations have crowded to hear her thrilling eloquence,
and lecture committees all over the land have grown fat and saucy on
the enormous profits yielded by her engagements. Country editors, who,
before speculating in tickets of admission, were without shoes to their
feet, have been suddenly converted into haughty despots and bloated
aristocrats by their prodigious gains. And Miss LOGAN herself is said
to be worth $250.

COMIC ZOOLOGY.

Genna, Corvus.—The Common Crow.

This Ravenous bird abounds in all temperate regions, and is a
fowl of sober aspect, although a Rogue in Grain. Crows, like
time-serving politicians, are often on the Fence, and their proficiency
in the art of Caw-cussing entitles them to rank with the Radical
Spoilsmen denounced by the sardonic DAWES. In time of war they haunt
the battle-field with the pertinacity of newspaper specials, and have a
much more certain method of making themselves acquainted with the
Organization of military Bodies than the gentlemen of the press who
Pick the Brains of fugitives from the field for their information. In
time of peace the Crow leads a comparatively quiet life, and it is no
novel thing to see him walking in the fields devouring with great
apparent interest the Yellow-Covered Cereals. Agriculturists have
strong prejudices against the species, and allege, not without reason,
that large Crow Crops indicate diminished harvests. The most persistent
enemy of the Crow, however, is the martin, which attacks it on the wing
with unfaltering Pluck, and compels it to show the White Feather.

This variety of the genus corvus was well known to the
ancients. Those solemn Bores, the Latin augurs, were in the habit of
foretelling the triumph or downfall of the Roman Eagles by the flight
of Crows, and St. PETER was once convicted of three breaches of
veracity by a Crow. The bird has also been the theme of song—the
carnivorous exploits of three of the species having been repeatedly
chanted by popular Minstrels.

A Greek author has described the Crow as a cheese-eater—but
that’s a fable. Though fond of a Rare Bit of meat, it does not care a
Mite for Cheese. Nothing in the shape of flesh comes amiss to this
rapacious creature; yet, much as it enjoys the flavor of the human
subject, it relishes the cheval mort. During the late war, our
government, with exemplary liberality, purchased thousands of horses to
feed the Southern Crows. The consequence was that our Cavalry Charges
were tremendous.

The appearance of the Crow is grave and clerical, but it is
nevertheless an Offal bird when engaged on a Tear. It generally goes in
flocks, and the prints of its feet may be seen not only on the face of
the Country, but in many instances on the faces of the inhabitants.
Naturalists do not class it with the edible fowls. There may be men who
can eat crow, but nobody hankers after it. The story of
the man who “swallowed three black crows” lacks confirmation. Looking
at the whole tribe from a Ration-al point of view, however, we have no
hesitation in pronouncing them excellent food—for powder. In this
category may be included the copper-colored Crows on our Western
frontier.

THE CHURCH MILITANT.

That Brooklyn is a City of Churches has long been known to
people of average intelligence. The following item, however, taken from
a daily paper, is very suggestive of the old saying, “The nearer the
church,” etc.

“JOHN BEATY bit off WM. HARPER’S face in April last, at a
church fight in Brooklyn, and then went to sea. Last night he came
back, and was arrested by officer Fox, who will take him before Justice
WALSH to-day. HARPER is disfigured for life.”

The matter-of-fact way in which the expression, “a church
fight” is used by the writer of the above item, seems to indicate that
tabernacular conflicts are rather the rule than the exception in
“deeply religious” Brooklyn. We were not prepared to expect, though,
that theological controversy ever ran further in Brooklyn than to the
extent of “putting a head on” one’s antagonist, though now it appears
that biting his face off is more the thing. The statement that “HARPER
is disfigured for life,” goes for nothing with us, as that depends
altogether on what sort of looking man he was previous to the removal
of his features by means of a dental apparatus.

THE “STERN PARENT.

Daughter “WELL, TO TELL THE TRUTH, I DID NOT THINK MUCH
OF THE CLOSE OF THE SERMON.”

Father. “PROBABLY YOU WERE THINKING MORE OF THE CLOTHES
OF THE CONGREGATION.”

THE WAR.

It is with feeling of intense satisfaction and self
complacency, that Mr. PUNCHINELLO submits to his readers the following
despatches relative to the Great Railroad War, which have been
collected at a fabulous cost, by a large corps of reporters and
correspondents specially detailed for the purpose.

WAR DECLARED!

ERIE PALACE.—It is rumored that the “unpleasantness” which has
for some time past existed between the rival powers of the Erie and the
Central, will shortly culminate in open hostilities. Col. FISK,
assisted by twelve secretaries, is said to be actively engaged in
drawing up a formal Declaration. Great enthusiasm prevails here. The
Erie Galop and FISK Guard March (price 50 cents, including full length
portrait of Capt. SPENCER,) are played nightly in the Opera House, and
are vociferously re-demanded. Every member of the Ninth has been
notified to hold himself in readiness to turn out at fifteen minutes’
notice.

LATER.

“Erie accepts the war which VANDERBILT proffers her.” The
“Blonde Usher,” accompanied by an extensive retinue of brother ushers,
will bear the gauge of battle to the Tyrant of the Central. He will
cast It boldly at VANDERBILT’S feet. It is announced that he will
proceed to his destination by way of the Eighth Avenue Car Line. The
reply of the Hudson River potentate is looked forward to with great
interest.

“CENTRAL” REPORTS.

VANDERBILT received the Declaration of War with seeming calm.
On the departure of the Erie Emissary, however, his fortitude forsook
him; he threw himself on the neck of a baggage porter and wept aloud.
At a late hour this evening a trusted agent left here for the Tribune
office. He is said to have held a long conference with Mr. GREELEY, the
particulars of which have not transpired. It is supposed by many to
portend an alliance, offensive and defensive, between the King of
Central and the Philosopher of Printing-House Square.

FROM ERIE.

Activity is the order of the day here. Col. FISK’S $20,000
team went to the front this morning. They are to be broken into the
turmoil of war by being led gently to and fro, before a Supreme Court
injunction. A Central spy, who was captured during the day, was
immediately tried by court-martial, and sentenced to be suspended from
the flag-staff on top of the building. He was executed at noon, a copy
of the Tribune being tied to his feet, to add force to his fall
and curtail his sufferings. From legal documents found in his
possession, the wretched being is supposed to have been a minion of the
law. The Narragansett and Long Branch boats are being rapidly got ready
for active service. Their armament will consist of Parrott guns of
large calibre. FISK says that VANDERBILT will hear those Parrotts talk.

DESPATCHES FROM THE CENTRAL.

VANDERBILT is preparing for a grand flank movement upon the
Erie forces. He will transport passengers at one cent per head, insure
their lives for the trip, feed them on the way, and present them, on
parting, with a copy of H.G.’s paper. He has been reinforced by the Tribune,
which will continue to harass the enemy by attacks in the rear.

ADVICES FROM ERIE.

VICTORY!—By a well executed movement the Narragansett fleet
under command of Admiral Fisk, have succeeded in cutting off the Tribune’s
connection with Long Branch. A panic prevails in the Tribune
office. HORACE GREELEY threatens, in retaliation, to lecture on farming
along the route of the Erie Railway, to the ruin of the agricultural
interest of the district. A meeting of prominent farmers has been
convened to protest against this outrage, and a strong body of Erie
troops have been sent to prevent H.G.’s advance. It is proposed, in
case of attack, to illuminate the Erie Palace by means of Colonel
FISK’S big diamond, which, it is estimated, would prove more powerful
than a dozen calcium lights. If this should not be dazzling enough, it
is suggested that a glimpse of the Colonel’s $5,000 uniform might have
the desired effect. Amongst the novel instruments of warfare which the
contest has given birth to, is a new ball projected by the Prince of
Erie. It will be given at Long Branch, and will, no doubt, be very
effective.

LATEST FROM LONG BRANCH.

As the Plymouth Rock was nearing the pier here this morning,
an elderly man, whose profane language had attracted the attention of
the officers of the vessel, was arrested by order of COL FISK. It
proved to be the sage of Chappaqua. He was attired in a clean shirt
collar, by means of which he no doubt hoped to avoid recognition. In
his travelling bag was found a tooth-brush and several copies of the Tribune.
Upon being tried and convicted of carrying contraband of war, he was
sentenced to give forthwith his reasons why J. C. BANCROFT DAVIS should
not be dismissed from his present office of Assistant Secretary of
State.

FROM SARATOGA.

The news of Mr. GREELEY’S capture has affected the Commodore
to such an extent as to stretch him on a bed of sickness. JAY GOULD is
reported marching on Saratoga with a strong force.

LATEST—PEACE!

Central has capitulated! Erie is victorious! To-day a treaty
is drawn up by which everybody is made happy except Mr. GREELEY, who,
it is stipulated, must feign total ignorance of farming whenever he
journeys by the Erie Railway.

The place to look for them.

The Sun, a few days ago, had an editorial article about
a reported theft of a box containing four large boa-constrictors. Might
not a search in the editorial boots disclose the whereabouts of the
missing reptiles?

GEO.F.NESBITT &
CO.,

General JOB PRINTERS,

BLANK BOOK Manufacturers,
STATIONERS, Wholesale and Retail,
LITHOGRAPHIC Engravers and Printers.
COPPER-PLATE Engravers and Printers,
CARD Manufacturers,
ENVELOPE Manufacturers.
FINE CUT and COLOR Printers.

163, 165, 167, and 169 PEARL ST.,

73, 75, 77, and 79 PINE ST., New
York.

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supervision of the proprietors.

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