PUNCHINELLO

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

See 15th page for Extra Premiums.

“HALF a year, half a year, half a year onward,” has
PUNCHINELLO advanced since he wafted his first number to the four
quarters of the globe.

His road has not been a very easy one to travel.

Bad characters lurked behind the fences, from which they would
sometimes take a sneak shot at the Showman as he passed. These fellows
were awfully bad shots, though, never so much as hitting the van in
which the show travels. PUNCHINELLO’S return fire always set the scamps
a-scampering, and all they had for their pains was the loss of their
ammunition, and the discovery that the row kicked up by them had
attracted crowds of people to the spot, so that PUNCHINELLO’S show was
capitally advertised by their noise.

PUNCHINELLO’S First Volume, then, is a substantial fact. It is
an entirely new, original, and complete article, which no family should
be without.

Read what the New York Moon that Shines for All says
about it:

“Put a head on yourself by reading PUNCHINELLO, Vol. 1. It is
by far the best tonic bitters in the market. It cured the editor of
this paper of a very malignant attack, (made by himself on
PUNCHINELLO,) after three applications.”

Several gentle critics predicted an early death for
PUNCHINELLO on account of the buff color selected by him for his full
dress costume. Ha! ha! gentlemen, many a blow falls harmless on the
wearer of a buff-jerkin. As the old poet, whose name we have forgotten,
might have said, had he been in the humor—”He who will cuff it, Eke
should buff it,”—a maxim to which PUNCHINELLO gives his cordial
adhesion.

And now comes PUNCHINELLO to the beginning of his Second
Volume, encouraged by the success of his First.

If Vol. I of PUNCHINELLO was a Chassepot, (and it did
make some havoc in the ranks of the enemy,) Vol. II is intended to be a
mitrailleuse. It will be so arranged as to combine total
annihilation with bewitching music. For instance, by turning one of the
cranks by which it is worked, PUNCHINELLO will be able to project a
shower of such mortiferous missiles against all abettors of crime and
vice, all quacks, political and social, all corrupt officials, all
Congress, (except the Right Party,) all torpid fogies and peddlers of
red tape, all humbugs of every size and shape, in fact, as will
speedily reduce them to ashes. Then, by skilfully manipulating the
other crank, he can produce from it strains of such mellifluous harmony
that the very telegraph-poles will throng around him, as erstwhile did
the trees of the forest around ORPHEUS, and tender their services for
the transmission of his melting music to all the beautiful places on
Earth. It is hardly necessary to say that “Hail Columbia” is the very
first tune on the cylinder of PUNCHINELLO’S musical mitrailleuse.

With his mind’s eye, (an apparatus expressly constructed for
and fitted to his mental organization by a renowned necromancer,)
PUNCHINELLO sees his Public surging towards him, and grasping with
outstretched hands at the showers of bon bons with which he
plentifully supplies them from an inexhaustible casket.

Among them are thousands of familiar forms, and these are
mostly in the front. After these come several thousands of new forms,
all pressing forward upon the heels of the others with an eagerness
that augurs for PUNCHINELLO Vol II a tremendous and unparalleled
success. Each of these good people carries four dollars ($4) in his
right hand, which he waves at PUNCHINELLO, who affably accepts the
greenbacks from him when within proper distance, and then, dipping his
pen in ink without a drop of gall in it, books the donor for a year’s
subscription in advance.

As for party, PUNCHINELLO knows but one party—and that is the
Right Party. Stirring times are before us. The Right Party is not going
to lie down and sleep while the times are stirring. Nor is PUNCHINELLO.
When anything that interests the Right Party has got to be stirred,
PUNCHINELLO will be on hand. He has been so long used to starring it,
that he makes light of stirring it. He can stir with a red-hot poker
and he can stir with a feather,—”You pays your money and you takes your
choice.”

And now, having stirred the spirit within him to a
demonstrative pitch, PUNCHINELLO shies his cocked hat into space, and
calls upon his Public to give three rousing cheers for the

RIGHT PARTY.

THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.

AN ADAPTATION.

BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.

CHAPTER XX.

AN ESCAPE.

The bewildered Flowerpot had no sooner gained her own room,
enjoyed her agitated expression of face in the mirror, and tried four
differently colored ribbon-bows upon her collar in succession, than the
thought of becoming Mr. BUMSTEAD’S bride lost the charm of its first
wild novelty, and became utterly ridiculous. He was a man of commanding
stature, which his linen “duster” made appear still more long; the dark
circles around his eyes would disappear in time, and he had an abusive
way of referring to women which made him inexpressibly grand to women
as a true poet-soul; but would it be safe, would it be religiously
right, for a young girl, not yet conscious of her own full power of
annual monetary expenditure, to blindly risk her necessary expenses for
life upon one whom the cost of a single imported bonnet, in the
contingency of a General European War, might plunge into inextricable
pecuniary embarrassment? Possibly, the General European War might not
occur in an ordinary married-lifetime, as France was no longer in a
condition to menace England, Russia would be wary about provoking the
new Prussian giant, and Austria and Italy were not likely soon to
forget their last military misadventures; yet, while all the great
American journals had, for the last twenty years, published daily
editorials, by young writers from the country, to show that such a War
could not possibly be averted longer than about the day after tomorrow,
would it be judicious for a young girl to marry as though that War were
absolutely impossible? No! Her woman’s heart sternly reiterated the
pitilessly negative; and, as the Ritualistic organist had plainly
evinced an earnest intention to let no foreign military complications
prevent her marriage with him, she felt that her only safety from his
matrimonial violence must be sought in flight.

With whom, though, could she take refuge? If she went to
MAGNOLIA PENDRAGON, all her dearest schoolmates would say, that they
had always loved her, despite her great faults, yet could not disguise
from themselves that she seemed at last to be fairly running after Miss
PENDRAGON’S brother. Besides, Mr. BUMSTEAD, offended by the seeming
want of confidence in him evinced by her flight, would, probably, take
measures publicly to identify MAGNOLIA’S alpaca garment with the
covering of his lost umbrella, and thus direct new suspicion against a
sister and brother already bothered almost into hysterics.

During the last few weeks, an attack of dyspepsia had laid the
foundation of a mind in the Flowerpot, as it generally does in other
young female American boarding-school thinkers, and she was now capable
of that subtle line of reasoning which is the great commendation of her
sex to a recognized perfect intellectual equality with man. Once
decided, by her apprehension of a General European War, against
marriage with J. BUMSTEAD, she took a rather irritable view of that too
attractive devotional musician, and inferred, from his not being
wealthy enough to stand the test of possible transatlantic hostilities,
that he must, himself, have killed EDWIN DROOD. His umbrella, it was
well known, had been present at that fatal Christmas dinner; and a
thoughtless insult offered to it, even by his nephew, might have made a
demon of him. Suppose that EDWIN, upon returning to the dining-room
that night, after his temporary exercise in the open air with
MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON, had found his uncle, flushed with cloves,
endeavoring to force a social glass of lemon tea upon the umbrella,
under the impression that it was a person, and had unthinkingly accused
him thereat of being momentarily unsettled in his faculties? Probably,
then, hot words would have passed between them; each telling the other
that he would have a nice headache in the morning and find it
impossible not to look very sleepy even if he fixed his hair ever so
elaborately. Blows might have followed: the uncle, in his anger, hewing
the nephew limb from limb with the carving knife from the table, and
subsequently carrying away the remains to the Pond and there casting
them in. Suppose, in his natural excitement, the uncle had hurriedly
used the umbrella, opened and held downward, to carry the remains in;
and, after coming home again, and snatching a nap under the table, had
forgotten all about it, and thus been ever since inconsolable for his
alpaca loss? As the young orphan argued thus exhaustively to herself,
the extreme probability of her suppositions made her more and more
frenzied to fly instantly beyond the reach of one who, in the event of
a General European War, would not be a husband whom her head could
approve.

After penning a hasty farewell note to Miss CAROWTHERS, to the
effect that urgent military reasons obliged her to see her guardian at
once, FLORA lost no time in packing a small leather satchel for travel.
Two bottles of hair oil, a jar of glycerine, one of cold cream, two
boxes of powder, a package of extra back-hair, a phial of belladonna, a
camel’s-hair brush for the eyebrows, a rouge-saucer for pinking the
nails, four flasks of perfumery, a depilatory in a small flagon, and
some tooth paste, were the only articles she could pause to collect for
her precipitate escape; and, with them in the satchel on her arm, and a
bonnet and shawl hurriedly thrown on, she stole away down-stairs, and
thus from the house.

Hastening to the Roach House, from whence started an omnibus
for the ferry, she was quickly rattling out of Bumsteadville in a
vehicle remarkable for the great number and variety of noises it could
make when maddened into motion by a span of equine rivals in an
immemorial walking-match.

“Now, BONNER,” she said to the driver, taking leave of him at
the ferry-boat, “be sure and let Miss CAROWTHERS know that you saw me
safely off, and that I was not a bit more tired than if I had walked
all the way.”

Blushing with pleasure at the implied compliment to his
equipage from such lips, the skilled horseman had not the heart to
object to the wildly mutilated fragment of currency with which his fare
had been paid, and went back to where his steeds were taking turns in
holding each other up, as happy a man as ever lost money by the change
in woman.

Reaching the city, Miss POTTS was promptly worshiped by a
hackman of marked conversational powers, who, whip in hand, assured her
that his carriage was widely celebrated under the titles of the
“Rocking Chair,” the “Old Shoe,” and the “Glider,” on account of its
incredible ease of motion; and that, owing to its exquisite
abbreviation of travel to the emotions, those who rode in it had
actually been known to dispute that they had ridden even half the
distance for which they were charged. Did he know where Mr. DIBBLE, the
lawyer, lived, in Nassau Street, near Fulton? If she meant lawyer
DIBBLE, near Fulton Street, in Nassau, next door but one to the second
house below, and directly opposite the building across the way, there
was just one span of buckskin horses in the city that could take a
carriage built expressly for ladies to that place, as naturally as
though it were a stable. It was a place that he—the hackman—always
associated with his own mother, because he was so familiar with it in
childhood, and had often thought of driving to it blindfolded for a
wager.

Proud to learn that her guardian was so well known in the
great city, and delighted that she had met a charioteer so minutely
familiar with his house of business, FLORA stepped readily into the
providential hack, which thereupon instantly began Rocking-Chair-ing,
Old-Shoe-ing, and Gliding. Any one of these celebrated processes, by
itself, might have been desirable; but their indiscriminate and
impetuous combination in the present case gave the Flowerpot a confused
impression that her whole ride was a startling series of incessant
sharp turns around obdurate street corners, and kept her plunging about
like an early young Protestant tossed in a Romish blanket.
Instinctively holding her satchel aloft, to save its fragile contents
from fracture, she rocked, shoed and glided all over the interior of
the vehicle, without hope of gaining breath enough for even one scream,
until, nearly unconscious, and, with her bonnet driven half-way into
her chignon, she was helped out by the hackman at her guardian’s door.

“I am dying!” she groaned.

“Then please remember me in your will, to the extent of two
dollars,” returned the hackman with much humor. “You’re only a little
sea-sick, miss; as often happens to people in humble circumstances when
they ride in a kerridge for the first time.”

Still panting, Miss POTTS paid and discharged this friendly
man, and, weariedly entering the building, followed the signs up-stairs
to her guardian’s office.

After knocking several times at the right door without reply,
she turned the knob, and entered so softly that the venerable lawyer
was not aroused from the slumber into which he had fallen in his chair
by the window. With a copy of Putnam’s Magazine still grasped
in his honest right hand, good Mr. DIBBLE slept like a drugged person;
nor could the young girl awaken him until, by a happy inspiration, she
had snatched away the monthly and cast it through the casement.

“Am I dreaming?” exclaimed the aged man, when thus suddenly
rescued from his deadly lethargy at last “Is that you, my dear; or are
you your late mother?”

“I am your ridiculously unhappy ward,” answered the Flowerpot,
tremulously. “Oh, poor, dear, absurd EDDY!”

“And you have come here all alone?”

“Yes; and to escape being married to EDDY’S perfectly hateful
uncle, who has the same as ordered me to become his utterly disgusted
bride. Oh, why is it, why is it, that I must be thus persecuted by
young men without property! Why is it that perfectly horrid madmen on
salaries are allowed to claim me as their own!”

“My dear,” cried the old lawyer, leading her to a chair, and
striving to speak soothingly, “if Mr. BUMSTEAD desires to marry you he
must indeed be insane. Such a man ought really to be confined,” he
continued, pacing thoughtfully up and down the room. “This must have
been the idea that was already turning his brain when—bless my soul!—he
actually intimated, first, that I, and then, that Mr. SIMPSON, had
killed his nephew!”

“He thinks, now, that I, or MAGNOLIA PENDRAGON, may have done
it,—the hateful creature!” said FLORA, passionately.

“I see, I see,” assented Mr. DIBBLE, nodding. “When he has you
in his head, my dear, he himself must clearly be out of it. You shall
stay here and take tea with me, and then I will take you to FRENCH’S
Hotel for your accommodation during the night.”

It was a sight to see him tenderly help her off with her
bonnet; and suggestive to hear him say, that if a man could only take
off his brains as easily as a woman hers, what a relief it would be to
him occasionally. It was curious to see him peep into her bottle-filled
satchel, with an old man’s freedom; and to hear him audibly wonder
thereat, whether, after all, men were any more addicted than women to
the social glass when they wanted to put a better face on affairs. And,
after the waiter bringing him toast and tea from a neighboring
restaurant had brought an additional slice and cup for the guest, it
was pleasant to behold him smiling across the office-table at that
guest, and encouraging her to eat as much as she would if a member of
his sex were not looking.

“It must be absurdly ridiculous to stay here all alone, as you
do, sir,” observed FLORA.

“But I am not always alone,” answered Mr. DIBBLE. “My clerk,
Mr. BLADAMS, now taking a vacation in the country, is generally here
though, to be sure, I may lose him before long. He’s turned literary.”

“How perfectly frightful!” said Miss POTTS.

“He has set up for a genius, my child, and is now engaged upon
a great American novel. Discontented with the law, he is giving great
attention to this; but Free Trade will not, I am afraid, allow any
American publisher to bring it out.”

“Free Trade?” repeated FLORA.

“Yes, my dear, Free Trade; that is, while American publishers
can steal foreign novels for nothing, they are not going to pay
anything for native fiction.”

Yawning behind her hand, the Flowerpot murmured something
about Free Trade being positively absurd, and her guardian went on:

“Nevertheless, Mr. BLADAMS is going on-with his work, which he
calls ‘The Amateur Detective;’ and if it ever does come out you shall
have a copy.—But, by the by,” added the lawyer, suddenly, “you have not
yet fully described to me the interview in which poor Mr. EDWIN’S uncle
offered to become your husband.”

She gave him a full history of the Ritualistic organist’s
handsome offer to her of his H. and H.; adding her own final decision
in the matter as precipitated by the possibility of a General European
war; and Mr. DIBBLE heard the whole with an air of studious attention.

“Although I have certainly no particular reason for
befriending Mr. BUMSTEAD,” said he, reflectively, “I shall take
measures to keep him from you. Now come with me to FRENCH’S Hotel.
To-morrow I will call there for you, you know, and then, perhaps, you
may be taken to see your friend, Miss PENDRAGON.”

Having obtained for his ward a room in the hotel named, and
seen her safely to its shelter, the good old lawyer visited the
bar-room of the establishment, for the purpose of ascertaining whether
any evil-disposed person could get in through that way for the
disturbance of his fair charge. After which he departed for his home in
Gowanus.

(To be Continued.)

MOTTO FOR ALL GOOD CUBANS.—”The labor we delight in
physics (S)pain.”

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.

unctually as
announced, the FIFTH AVENUE THEATRE has re-opened. It has been improved
by the addition of several private boxes that remind one of the square
pews in old-fashioned churches, (by the way, why do Puseyites object to
pews?) and by the erection of a hydrant near the conductor’s seat, so
that when the audience can endure STOEPEL’S music no longer, they can
turn on the water and drown him and his long-winded orchestra. This
latter improvement meets with our hearty approval, and we earnestly
hope to see it put to the excellent use for which it is designed
without further delay. Manager DALY is now offering to his patrons the
new comedy of Man and Wife. The old-fashioned play of that
name, which is daily acted everywhere about us, is usually more of a
tragedy than a comedy, but Mr. DALY’S Man and Wife is comedy,
farce, muscular christianity, and paralysis pleasantly mingled
together. As thus:

ACT I.—GEOFFREY DELAMAYN and his brother are seen
conversing in an arbor. (Don’t let the printer imagine that I mean Ann
Arbor. It was bad enough in WILKIE COLLINS to banish his
dramatis personae to Scotland; but he was nevertheless too humane to
send them to Michigan.)

JULIUS DELAMAYN. “GEOFFREY, you really must do something. The
unmannerly people who are just coming into the theatre make such a
noise that I couldn’t be heard if I took the trouble to preach to you
for an hour, so I won’t attempt to make my meaning any clearer.”

GEOFFREY. “I will or I won’t, I forget which. However, the
audience can’t hear. We’ve got a pretty good house here to-night I
wonder if my muscles really show to any extent. Here comes LADY LUNDIE
and her friends.”

LADY LUNDIE. “I choose everybody to play croquet on my side.
The rest may play on BLANCHE’S side. Miss SYLVESTER, you look as if you
could not stand alone. Therefore I order you to play.”

ANNIE SYLVESTER. “Madame, I will. GEOFFREY, meet me here in
ten minutes, or you’ll be sorry for it.” (Exit everybody. ANNIE and
GEOFFREY returning on tip-toe.)

ANNIE. “You must marry me this afternoon. Meet me at the inn
on the moor.”

GEOFFREY. “I won’t cross the moor with you. DESDEMONA
foolishly crossed the Moor, and came to grief in consequence. I take
warning by her. I hate you, but I suppose I must marry you, or you’ll
sell all my letters to the Sun.”—(They go out to be married.)

ARNOLD enters and makes love to BLANCHE. SIR PATRICK does
the comic business with LEWIS’S usual humor. (What a
nice man LEWIS must be for girls to quarrel with; he “makes up”
so nicely—this is a joke.) LADY LUNDIE enters and announces that
ANNIE is no longer her governess, that misguided person having
thrown up her situation, for the irrational reason that it was an
interesting one, and having fled in the silence of the after-dinner
hour. Shrieks of horror from the young ladies, who desist from knocking
their croquet-balls into the orchestra and the proscenium boxes; and
triumphant falling of a new act-drop. STOEPEL, having thought
of a sweet passage for the fife, in a Chinese opera, plays it
uninterruptedly for forty-five minutes. A deaf old gentleman
approvingly remarks that this is really classical music.

ACT II.—A storm at the inn on the Moor. Miss SYLVESTER waits
for her GEOFFREY and her tea. Enter ARNOLD.

ARNOLD. ” GEOFFREY can’t come, so he has sent me. I know your
situation, and shall have to feel for you if it gets much darker and
they don’t bring candles. That is, if I’m to shake hands with you. I
have told everybody here that you are my wife. Let’s have a little game
of seven-up, and pass the time profitably.”

ANNIE. “Oh, villain (I mean GEOFFREY,) you have
de-ser-er-erted me. Oh, rash young person, (I mean you, ARNOLD,) I’m
inclined to think that you’ve married me by Scotch law, without having
meant it. If so, you’ll have to go to America and see BEECHER about a
divorce.” (Curtain subsequently falls, and STOEPEL orders
the big drum to beat for an hour, while the musicians take advantage of
the noise to tune their instruments.) Deaf old gentleman remarks again
that he does like WAGNER’S music. Half the audience hold their
ears, while the other half flee madly away until the entr’ acte is over.

ACT III.—GEOFFREY boxes with his trainer, and slings
Indian clubs and wooden dumb-bells.

GEOFFREY. “There! Thank heaven I didn’t break anything. The
scenery, the footlights, or a bloodvessel will get broken before the
week is out, however, if this prize-ring business isn’t cut out. Here
comes ARNOLD.”

ARNOLD. “How’s Miss SYLVESTER?”

GEOFFREY. “If you say anything more about her, I’ll put a head
on you. She’s your wife. You’re a married man.”

ARNOLD. “Married! You infamous editor of a two cent
daily paper; I deny it. (Curtain again falls, and STOEPEL plays
the entire opera of ERNANI for two hours. Deaf old gentleman
remarks that music is the STOEPEL entertainment at this
theatre, and that he really likes it. The rest of the audience look at
him with horror, as though he were a sort of aggravated and superfluous
cannibal.)

ACT IV.—Sir PATRICK proves that GEOFFREY is
married to ANNIE, and that ARNOLD isn’t. GEOFFREY takes
his weeping wife home with him. Everybody finds out that GEOFFREY is
an enormous liar and an unmitigated blackguard. Through the open
windows are seen the editors of the Sun and the Free Press, each
determined to be the first to offer GEOFFREY a place on the
staff of his respective journal. The curtain falls and STOEPEL directs
each member of the orchestra to play the tune that he may like best.
After three hours of this sort of thing a humane person in the audience
brings in a saw and begins to file it. The rest of the audience are
thereupon gently lulled to sleep by the music of the file—so soft and
soothing does it sound by contrast with STOEPEL’S demoniac
orchestra.

ACT V.—ANNIE, in the midst of misery and a gorgeous silk
dress with lace trimmings, is seen going to bed in her best clothes,
and without taking her hair down—this being the well-known custom among
fashionably dressed girls. GEOFFREY enters and attempts to
strangle her, but she is awakened by the considerate forethought of a
dumb woman, who loudly calls her, and GEOFFREY conveniently
lies down and dies of paralysis. All the rest of the dramatis personae
enter, and indulge in exclamations of joy. The curtain falls for the
last time, and STOEPEL is removed under the protection of a
strong platoon of policemen, to the secret abode where DALY keeps
him hidden during the day from the wrath of an outraged public.

And the undersigned goes home to breakfast—it being now nearly
6 A.M.—reflecting upon the beauty of the theatre, the neatness of the
scenery, the general ability of the actors, the capabilities of the
play, (after Mr. DALY shall have cut it down to a reasonable length,)
the pluck of the young manager, and the unredeemed badness of the
orchestra, as it is conducted by Mr. STOEPEL. Tell me, gentle DALY,
tell; why in the name of all that is intelligent, do you let STOEPEL
transform each entr’ acte at your theatre into a prolonged
purgatory, by the villainous way in which he plays the most execrable
music, for the most intolerable periods of time?

MATADOR.

L. N. IN PRUSSIA.

THE PLYMOUTH ROCK.

The fact of his having relinquished (at the imperative demand
of society) his weekly visits to the watering places, need lead no one
to believe that Mr. PUNCHINELLO does not like a little fresh air. And
surely a half a day or so by the seaside need jeopardize no one’s
social standing if the thing is not repeated too often. At least so
thought Mr. P., and he determined, one fine morning last week, that he
would hurry up his business as fast as possible, and take a trip on
Col. FISK’S steamboat to Sandy Hook. A man calling with a bundle of
puns detained him so long that he found that he would not be able to
reach the 11 A.M. boat without he made unusual haste.

Rushing into the street, therefore, he hailed a passing hack,
and ordered the driver to take him, as quickly as possible, to the
Plymouth Rock.

When the carriage stopped, and the man opened the door, Mr. P.
rubbed his eyes, for he had fallen into a doze, on the way, and sprang
hastily out.

But what a sight met his gaze!

Before him was the hack, covered with mud and dust, and the
horses in a position indicating utter exhaustion: to his right lay a
huge unsymmetrical stone, while behind him rolled the heaving waters of
Cape Cod bay! The man had mistaken his directions, and had driven him
to JOHN CARVER’S old Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts, instead of JAMES
FISK Jr.’s steamboat at Pier 28, North River.

“There’s the rock, yer honor,” said the man, pointing to the
mis-shapen stone, “and an awful time I’ve had a drivin’ yer honor to
it.”

“How long have you been, coming here?” asked the astounded Mr.
P.

“Nigh on to three days, yer honor, and I drove as fast as I
could, hopin’ to get back by the Sunday in time for the Centhral Park,
but I had to stop sometimes for feed and wather, and it’s no use me
whippin’ up afther all, for sorra the good them horses will be for the
Centhral Park on the Sunday.”

“And how much do I owe you for all this?” asked Mr. P.

“Well, sir,” said the man, “I won’t charge your honor nothin’
for the feed and my victuals, for I’d had to have found them if yer
hadn’t a hired me; and I’ll only charge ye three dollars a hour, for
sure yer honor never give me the least thruble, slapeing there as swate
as an infant all the time, and that’ll be jist two hundred and four
dollars, and if yet honor could give me a thrifle besides to drink yer
health, I’d be obliged to yer honor.”

Mr. P. gazed alternately at the man, the carriage, the horses,
and the rock, and then he paid the driver two hundred and four dollars
and twenty-five cents. The worthy Milesian pocketed the money and
declared his intention of proceeding to Boston, which was only about
forty miles away, and taking the railroad for New York

“If I don’t, ye see, yer honor, I’ll never get back in time
for the Sunday; and the horses will be restin’ in the cars.”

As the man made his preparations and departed, Mr. P. stood
and watched him until he slowly faded out of sight.

When he had entirely disappeared, Mr. P. sat down upon the
rock and reflected.

Now that he was here, what had he best do? He had never seen the rock before, and as it
struck him that possibly some of his patrons might be in the same
unfortunate condition, he concluded that he would take a few sketches
of it for their benefit. But he did not succeed very well. The first
drawing he made had a strange appearance. It looked more like an old
woman tied to a post, and surrounded by what seemed to be flames, than
anything else. This surely was not a correct view of this famous rock,
and so Mr. P. commenced another sketch. This, however, looked so much
like a man with a broad-brimmed hat, hanging by his neck to a rope,
that he concluded to try again.

His next sketch bore a striking resemblance to something that
certainly did not seem like a rock, but which, after some deliberation,
he found to look very much like a shrinking Southern negro, forced into
the ranks to supply the place of a citizen of Massachusetts. Everybody
might not be able to see this, but Mr. P. thought he perceived it
plainly.

The last sketch made by Mr. P. somewhat resembled one whose
connection with “The Plymouth Rock” has certainly been of more
practical benefit to the public than that of any of the ” old
founders,” or anybody else—at least so far as Mr. P. can see. If any
one doubts this, let him ask General GRANT.

Now should his readers see anything at all suggestive of sober
and beneficial reflection in these sketches, Mr. P.’s visit to Plymouth
Rock was not made in vain.

A LETTER FROM L. N.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: The Empire is Peace, as usual. If, some time
hence, it should be discovered to have been otherwise, at the time of
writing this letter, you will please understand that I wasn’t there, at
that moment, having had a little business to transact with my good
friend WILLIAMS, of PRUSSIA. I am at present engaged upon a tour of the
German States in the company of a pleasant little excursion party, who
met me at Sedan, and received me warmly.

Everybody seems glad to greet me, particularly at this time,
and all express regrets that I couldn’t have come earlier in the
season. They are aware of the interest I have ever felt in the great
German people, and I am assured they welcome with enthusiasm my pet
theory of the solidarity of nations.

I intend remaining here awhile, feeling sure that there is
nothing to call me homeward for the present. The truth is, my friend, I
am getting weaned of the French people. So soon as my obligations to my
very good friends in Prussia will permit, you may look for me in New
York. Yes, dear PUNCHINELLO, greatest and beet of Philosophers! expect
to see me walking into your Sanctum one of these fine
mornings,—probably with my son LOUIS,—delighted to see you, and glad to
turn my back on those scenes so long familiar, which, in their new and
popular dress, could hardly be expected to afford me much exhilaration.

From an inferior man, I should expect officious and quite
gratuitous commiseration over the fate of the late Empire. You,
however, will readily perceive it to be possible that I should rather
be congratulated. You would not exchange your dignified leisure, your
careless toils, for the best of sovereignties. Why, then, should I, who
have made you my exemplar, feel a pang at parting with a sceptre which
for years has only tired my hand?

I picture myself seated with my family on the heights at
Weehawken, smoking a good cigarette, and musing on the affairs of
nations as I watch the flow of that superb river (as much finer than
the Rhine, my friend, as wine is finer than lagerbier!) which I have
often, in days gone by, admired and extolled by the hour.

I expect they will pleasantly call me Duke Hudson, and my son
the Prince of Staten Island. No matter. I can always face the
Inevitable.

And that reminds me of the late war, in which the Inevitable
that I was always being called upon to face, was the Inevitable
Prussian. But I have faced much more terrible things. In your very city
of Hoboken, I have stood face to face with a German creditor! Will any
one henceforth doubt my fortitude?

I have one rather comforting reflection, apropos to that rencontre.
I have taken care to arm myself against future assaults of that nature.
I am Gold-Plated.

If your highly-gifted corps of artists should wish to depict
me in a connection which would satisfy my sense of honor, let them make
a sketch entitled: “The Two Exiles,”—one of whom may be,my Uncle at St.
Helena; the other, me, at Weehawken, with my family near, a glass of
wine at my side, a cigarette in one hand, and a copy of PUNCHINELLO in
the other!

But let me not anticipate. Sufficient unto the day is the
(d)evil thereof.

Royally yours,

L. N.

Maxim for the next new President.

“A place for everybody, and everybody in his place.”

ON COLOR.

Cousin Bella, (admiring picture.) “HOW IS IT, FRED,
THAT YOU PRODUCE SUCH LOVELY COLOR, AND WITH SO MUCH FACILITY?”

Fred, (thinking of his meerschaum.) “I DON’T TELL
EVERYBODY THAT, YOU INQUISITIVE TEASE, BUT FACT IS, I PUT THE STUMP OF
AN OLD PAINT-BRUSH IN THE BOWL, AND SMOKE THE OILIEST TOBACCO I CAN
FIND.”

THE BATTLE AT SEDAN.

Special Correspondence of Punchinello.

(This paper is the only paper on the planet which has a
correspondent at the seat of war, wherever that seat may be. The
following dispatch was sent to us by cable at a total expense of
$21,000.)

It was a still, calm night, the glorious moon was sailing
through the sky; the river was running water; the clouds were cloudy;
the soldiers were soldiering. I stepped out of my tent and tumbled over
VON MOLTKE. He took my arm and invited me to the tent of the Crown
Prince.

“MOLTY,” said I, “what’s your little game?”

“Penny ante,” replied he.

“Trés bien,” added I.

“You are a French spy. Ha! ha!” said he, grasping my collar.
“Ho! Ho!”

“Das ish goot,” added I.

“Then you’re Dutch,” sighed he, dropping me like a hot pair of
tongs.

In the tent we found the King, the Crown Prince, Gen.
STEINMETZ, Gen. SHERIDAN, and Gen. FORSYTH.

“MOLTY,” said I, “introduce me to the King.”

“BILL,” said he, “this is JENKINS.”

BILL held out his foot and I took a suck at his great toe.

Then we went at the game. BILL is pretty good at it, but then
he doesn’t stand any chance beside MOLTY. The Crown Prince lost at
least fourteen cents, and, just as he had a splendid opportunity to
retrieve his losses, in came an aide, who announced that the French had
squatted.

“Where?” cried VON MOLTKE.

“In Sedan,” replied the aide.

“I knew it,” said MOLTY. “BILL, I told you they had no horses
for a regular carriage.”

Then we went out. The King invited me to sit in his carriage
with MOLTY and SHERIDAN. We reached the scene of war.

The moon shone; the mountains were mountainous; the trees were
treey; and the soft September breeze was breezy. BISMARCK came up and
asked the King to let him cut behind.

“BIS,” said I, “take my seat; I’ll take a trip to the French
camp.”

So I tripped over to the French camp and found things somewhat
mixed. The moon shone. Steadily the Prussian troops advanced; and, with
a heroism worthy of a better cause, the French retreated. The Emperor
wanted to die in the rear of his men.

“NAP,” said I, “you’d better get up and get. The Prussians are
coming.”

“JENKINS,” said he, “kiss me for my mother, I’m betrayed.”

“Why didn’t you have more cheesepots?” said I.

“I’ll surrender,” said he, “get out a white flag.”

So I took one of EUGENIE’S old pocket-handkerchiefs which I
found in the tent, stuck it on the end of the sabre of the nephew of
his uncle, put NAP in the carriage, jumped in myself and drove to the
Prussian camp. The moon shone; all nature smiled; the rivers were
rivery; the Sedans were chairy.

BILL received us very coolly at first, but I gave BIS the
wink, and he suggested to his Majesty that he’d better take the Emperor
prisoner.

“NAP,” said BILL, “is the game up?”

“BILL,” said NAP, “you’ve scored the game. I leave my old
clothes to the Regent. I hope she’ll like the breeches.”

Then he treated to cigarettes, and we all went back to our
game of penny ante. NAP wouldn’t join us. He said he’d just been
playing a game with crowns ante and he was busted. We’d hardly got the
cards dealt, when BILL turned to BISMARCK and asked, “I say, BIS, won’t
you run over and telegraph to the old woman something about our FRITZ?”

“Let JENKINS go,” said BIS.

Of course I assented to the proposition.

“Where the devil is FRITZ?” said BILL.

“Oh, he’s been sleeping for the last two hours,” said MOLTKE.

“Never mind,” said BILL, “telegraph a victory by FRITZ.”

So I telegraphed,

“A great victory has been won by our FRITZ. What great things
have we done for ourselves! We’ll keep it up, old woman,

(Signed) BILL.”

When I reached the tent everybody was asleep. NAP was
reclining gracefully on the breast of BISMARCK, as affectionately as if
they were brothers-in-law. The moon shone; the sky was skyey; the hills
were hilly; and all nature was getting up.

Anybody who says the above did not come over the cable lies,
wickedly, maliciously lies, with intent to deceive. As soon as JACK
SMITH’S smack sails, I’ll send you a piece of the cable it came over.

Mr. Bull: The Sutler of the World.

HIRAM GREEN TO KONIG WILHELM

He Reviews the Career of a Lunatic. — A Graduate with Nice
Ideas.

KING WILYAM, Most noble Loonatic:

We gates all der while! Accordin’ to the Marine Cable,
I understand you’ve given old BONEY a slosh on der cope mit der
Sweitzer case; or in good plain United States talk, LEWIS NAPOLEON
has taken his Umpire, and shoved it up the spout, without the benefit
of Judge or Jewry.

I kinder had an idee that when the now busted up rooler of the
Umpire tackled you, that it would have been a ten dollar greenback in
his panterloons pocket if he had let the contract out on shares to his
nabors.

I’ve allers heard say that as able-bodied a Loonatic as the
French say you be, could handle any 3 ordinary men, “Be be Jost or
Gobler damed,” to cote from our friend BILLY SHAKESPEER.

We have had evidences here, of the superiority of Loonatics,
mor’en once.

If a man can prove that his upper story is crackt, he can
wallop his wife to his heart’s content; and if anybody interferes, he
can popp him off with a six shooter, and the law will stand to his back.

Judges and Jewrys, when tryin’ such a man, think he is sum
punkins, while all the illustrated papers stick the celebrated
Loonatic’s fotograf onto their first page.

I would like to ask you, if your insanity is of the
melon-colic, (this bein’ the season when melons is ripe,) or is it of
the pro temper kind?

I shoulden’t wonder, between you and I, but that you inherited
it from your illustrous Antsister, FREDERICK the Grate, who was about
as sassy a Loonatic as you can pick up.

What we need just now, and what we have needed
for a good while, is a able-bodied Loonatic to send to England as
minister.

With such a crazy Statesman as you be, them ‘ere little
Alabarmy claims would have been squared up long ago, or else, if this
court knows herself intimately, the British lion would have been sent
off howlin’, with a tin kittle tide to his cordil appendage.

You probly observe, I go heavy on Loonatics. Yes, sir! they
are the “Coming man,” the 16th Commandment; or Chinese Coolers can’t
hold a candle to ’em.

When a man ups and does something nobody else can do, if
they’d bust their biler tryin’, then he is sot down as bein’ crazy as a
loon by his jelous nabors.

I haven’t heard whether BISMARK’S or FRITZ’S upper storys were
shaky, or not, but there haint the shadder of a dowt in my mind, but
what both of these long headed chaps are madder than GEO. FRANCIS TRAIN
any day; and that the Crown Prints employs his spare time strikin’
tragic attitoods, and repeatin’ the follerin well known verses:

My object in riting to you, great Conkeror of the man whose
son was so bully at pickin’ up bullocks, is to
congratulate you.

Speakin’ after the manner of men, You are an old Cinnamon bud.
Havin’ served my country for 4 years as Gustise of the Peece, you can
rely on my giving a good sound opinion, from which there haint no
repeal to a higher court.

What do you think of my startin’ a college here for the purpus
of edicatin’ Loonatics?

We’ve got 3 colliges here, Harvard, ‘Ale, and the Electoral
College, and a skalier lot of week-kneed timber than these institutions
sometimes turns out, would make you stick to your stomack to look at.

Stugents are turned out from these asilums with pooty
ristocratick idees into their nozzles.

I once knew a chap who was a gradooate of one of these
institutions of larning,

He was more ristocratick than a retired church deekin’.

When his wife died, he wanted her to look respectable at the
funeral, so he sent to one of his nabors to borrer a silk dress for the
corpse to wear, doorin’ the funeral services.

Thinks I, that was shovin’ a good thing rather too deep in the
ground, merely for the sake of pilin’ on the agony.

However, that’s the way of the world; larnin’ will stick out,
and you can’t atop her.

That son of your’n, FRITZ, is smarter than a 2 year old heifer.

If he haint in that precarious situation which SARY F. NORTON
calls “mummery,” and the Onida Community says Amen! to, but which good
honest folks, like you and I, calls married, then I would say that he
mite go further and fare a site wusser, than to come over here and
examine my stock of risin’ feminine genders.

Mrs. GREEN, the mother of my dorters, is a woman who
understands her biz as housekeeper, and anybody who gits one of her
gals won’t be troubled to death by keepin’ a cook to boss ’em around.

Doorin’ the prosperous days of Skeensboro, when I was baskin’
in the sunshine of offishal life, and had a politikle ax to grind,
MARIAR’S biled dinners used to fetch Polerticians to their milk, ekal
to the way a big dinner at DELMONICO’S, N.Y., will flop over a New York
Alderman.

The surest way of gettin’ round a public man, is via his
stomack.

But, most noble cuss of the Realm, I must lay aside my goose
quil, and go and do the family chores. But afore I close this letter
let me speak a word for your noble prisoner, L. NAPOLEON, Esq.

Deal gently with him.

Altho’ he plade the wrong card when he pitched into you,
recollect the old maxum:

“Never bute a feller when he is down.”

France is better, in a good many respects, for things LEWIS
done for ’em.

But he has gone to the shades, and SHAKSPEER aptly says:

Which sentiment shode that old SHAKE was a hulsail dealer in
human nater.

Hopin’ that in the days of your prosperity, you wont forgit
your poor relations, sich as mothers-in-law and the like, and
when they come to visit you, you wont say:

“Nix cum arous,”

I will dry up.

Ewers anon,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

Lait Gustise of the Peece

THE LOVERS.

In Different Moods and Tenses.

AMOS KEETER

A PRETTY IDEA OF MR. VAN LITTLEDRAM: HE TAKES HIS YOUNGSTER
OUT FOR A SAIL, THUS, AND SAVES THE EXPENSE OF A BOAT.

THE POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO VII.

The above verse immortalizes an event that caused great
excitement in the period in which it occurred, although at the present
date it would not be considered of much account, or cause the smallest
ripple on the glassy calm of our most, sleepy village.

We have progressed beyond being stirred by any little
peccadillo such as the theft of a pig or a sheep, or even a watch or a
purse, unless it contains a large amount, and was taken under the most
aggravating circumstances from ourselves.

A robbery of a bank of a million, when it happens to affect
hundreds of people, or a midnight murder executed with the malignancy
of a fiend, will sometimes stir up the public for a few days, but even
that soon passes out of mind, and society settles back into its
imperturbable apathy, retreating with each wave of excitement still
further, and becoming by degrees proof against being stirred by
anything that does not affect ourselves personally.

Not so, however, in those days of Arcadian simplicity; for the
astounding temerity of the Piper’s son, in laying felonious hands on
the property of the village butcher, or baker, caused an excitement
second only to a hanging, or a first-class sensational horror, of later
days.

Poor TOM was a deal to be pitied as well as blamed; for
although he was the one who committed the crime, he was not the only
one who reaped a benefit therefrom. But the traditional historian tells
us, he was the only one who was punished therefor; so, while we blame
him, let us shed a tear of sympathy because he alone got the beating,
the others the eating. The scene is graphically described thusly—

Here we see Tom, the good-for-nothing, standing idly around,
listening to the witching strains of his father’s bagpipe, played by
the industrious musician before the doors of the well-to-do villagers,
with the laudable view of obtaining the wherewith to purchase the meat
that both might eat; and while the instrument that has well served its
day and generation is groaning and wheezing under the pressure brought
to bear upon it, TOM’S eyes, roving around from window to door, happen
to light on a beautiful sucking-pig, that reposes in all the innocent
beauty of baby pighood before the open door of a zealous stickler for
human rights.

Alas! TOM is not acquainted with the gentlemanly owner of the
fascinating pig, and he doesn’t know how strong his principles are, nor
how far he will go to maintain them.

He gazes enraptured upon the dainty porker, and as he looks,
the desire to own just such a one grows upon him, and soon it becomes a
determination to own that identical one, for never another could equal
that. He looks stealthily around and finds the eyes of all are fixed
upon the musician and his bagpipe. No one notices him, and hailing it
as a happy omen, he pounces upon the coveted quadruped, grasps it
tightly in his hands, and skedaddles.

The music is ended and the crowd disperses. The absence of
piggy is unnoticed till the red-headed urchin whose playmate it is
looks around for the loved companion, of his childish sports, and finds
it not. Great research, amid loud outcries, is made, resulting only in
the conviction that the pet of the family is gone, leaving no trace
behind.

TOM, with his prize, exultingly hurries homeward, his heart
swelling with joy at his luck. Like a dutiful son, he rushes to the
arms of his maternal parent and deposits in her capacious lap the
dainty prize. Visions of a luscious supper float through the mind of
the female piperess, as she bestows her motherly benediction upon her
thoughtful son, and proceeds to put into execution the well-conned
lesson of cooking a sucking pig.

Having accomplished the “First get your pig” part, the rest
comes easy; and at night, when the old Piper returns, his olfactories
are sainted with an odor that startles him from his generally
despondent mood, and awakens his curiosity as to the cause of such an
unusual flavor from his usually flavorless abode. He enters and finds a
smiling wife and son, with a smoking pig awaiting his coming. “What
next occurred the Poet tells us in the laconic words

There was no necessity for describing the way of eating; the
fact was enough. But alas! there is always a dark side to everything,
and this happy family were no exception, The bones were left. They
couldn’t eat them, and they didn’t own a dog; so they picked them clean
and threw them away. But, “Murder will out,” and the tiny bones told
their own tale. The village detective soon coupled the feet of the
missing pig with the unusual occurrence of a heap of bones before the
door of the musician’s abode, and by a process of reasoning unknown to
the detectives of the present day, decided that those bones were a
pig’s bones—a stolen pig’s bones, from the fact that the Piper did not
earn enough to indulge in such luxuries as sucking-pigs. Now who stole
the sucking-pig?

Clearly not Madame Piper, for she was too fat and heavy to
have any light-fingered proclivities.

Clearly not the Piper himself, for he was playing his bagpipe
and could prove an alibi.

There was no one left but TOM. Circumstances pointed him out:
he loved good eating and hated work, and had been noticed gazing upon
the charms of the missing family pet. It was settled, then. TOM was the
thief, and the offender must be punished. But how? Law was too
uncertain and expensive, TOM was too poor to pay for the pig, so it was
resolved to take the worth of it out of him by beating. The poet tells
us

Undoubtedly TOM was glad when they got through, and although he

it was a matter of rejoicing with him that he had saved his
bacon. It was impossible to get that out through his hide, and they had
no stomach pumps in those days.

Scene.—A. City Restaurant.

Waiter, (to customer, who is winding up his repast.)
“Anything more, sir?”

Customer. “H’m—well—yes; bring me an omelette souffle.”

Waiter. “Omelet Shoo-fly, sir? Yessir.”

(Exit, humming the popular tune.)

Unintentionally Appropriate.

The Sun tells a very large story of its own circulation, and
then innocently requests the “False Reporting” Tribune to copy
it!

BY GEORGE!

(Continued.)

LAKE GEORGE, Sept 5.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO:—In my last I promised to finish my trip on
the Lake and give you some reliable rumors about the “Rogers’ Slide.”

I am prepared to do this to-day, in a happy and congratulatory
frame of mind.

I have had breakfast this morning.

When I say this I mean that I have had this morning’s
breakfast this morning.

Any one who has achieved so remarkable a success, at this
place, can safely plume himself on his patience and physical endurance.

For instance, this morning, for the first time, I ordered
broiled Spring Chicken.

The waiter gave me a disconsolate look and proceeded to gird
up his loins with a base ball belt.

In a few moments he dashed past the window in hot pursuit of a
fowl of venerable appearance, but of a style of going that would have
put to shame any ostrich that Dr. LIVINGSTONE ever saw.

I asked the head waiter if he called that a Spring Chicken?

He said he guessed that chicken could out-Spring any chicken
in the place.

This clears up another great hotel mystery.

The man outflanked this gentle birdling on the eighth time
round, in 6.23, which is considered very good indeed, and beats the
time of the late Harvard and Yale “Foul” considerably.

I say “outflanked,” because it is not the intention of these
sunny Amendments to put an end to these feathery Dexters immediately,
but to drive them into the ten-pin alley, where they are leisurely
bowled to an untimely end. As, however, pony balls are generally used,
and there are always half a dozen darkies standing around ready to bet
that the chicken won’t be killed in forty balls, or sixty, as the case
may be, this part of the process is rather tedious to the guest

Sometimes, when the chicken is not very active, there are not
more than nine or ten-pin feathers left.

Well, the next place the boat stopped at is called “Sabbath
Day Point,” in consequence of ABERCROMBIE having landed there on a
Wednesday morning.

Its name will therefore be considered a joke by such as see
the Point.

A gentleman on board informed me that the water was so clear
at this place that one could “see objects when thirty feet from the
bottom.”

I have thought and thought over this remark, but am unable to
see what one’s distance from the bottom has to do with his “seeing
objects.”

I give it up.

On the opposite side of the Lake is a hill called “Sugar Loaf
Mountain”—because it is a sweet place for loafers, I suppose.

Finally we passed “Rogers’ Slide,” which is a rocky precipice
three hundred feet high, sloping nearly perpendicularly into the water.
A decidedly unpleasant-looking place for cellar-door practice.

There are a great many romantic traditions about this same
ROGERS, who is regarded by the simple natives as having been an
altogether high-minded and gorgeous character—the fact being that he
was one of those unmitigated old scamps who owe to the accident of
having lived in Revolutionary times, the distinction of being held up
to the emulation of primary schools as a “Patriot Hero.” Literally he
was simply an “unmixed evil,” fighting only to steal something, and
devoting what time and talent he could spare from his legitimate
profession—which was seven-up—to generally bedevilling and
encroaching upon the neighboring Indians.

As an enchroachist he was immense.

The noble red-skins alluded to finally concluded that enough
was enough, and appointed a Special Commission to put a permanent end
to the delicate attentions of the “Marked Back.”

This sobriquet they conferred upon him partly on
account of the fact that he usually received his wounds while leaving
their immediate vicinity, and partly because of a peculiar
characteristic of the kind of cards he used.

The Commissioners caught ROGERS out hunting, and chased him
until he came to this precipice, down which he slid into the Lake
below, and, unfortunately, escaped unharmed.

The Indians, who were pursuing him by the imprints of his
snow-shoes, soon arrived at the brink. Seeing what had occurred, they
concluded to “let him slide.”

Hence the name.

Evidently they thought, from the trail, that he must have gone
over. Though he was by no means a missionary, the Tracks he had left
produced a profound impression on their untutored minds.

They at once concluded that he was drowned, or had got “in
with” some bad spirits.

It is obvious, however, to the most casual observer of the
place, that the reverse must have been the case. The bad spirits were
in him.

The mark worn by Mr. R’s “cheviots” in his descent can still
be distinctly seen.

About half way up is a shining object which is generally
believed to be a suspender button.

This, however, is merely conjectural.

The clerk of the boat, of whom I have spoken before, tells me
that until within a few years back, the hole in the water where ROGERS
struck could be seen.

“But it is all gone now,” he said, shaking his head sadly.
“Nothing can escape the Vandal horde of tourists and relic hunters.
Piece by piece they have carried the hole away, and there is no trace
of it left now.”

And he “wept at my tranquillity.”

At the north end of the Lake we took stages for Fort
Ticonderoga. These vehicles were run by a man who was pointed out as a
“character,” which means a sort of licensed nuisance.

The monomania of this individual was speech making, and much
reflection inclines me to the belief that he is some unappreciated
politician who has invented a way of “taking it out” on the unhappy
public as follows:

He waits until his five immense stages arrive at some remote
and solitary part of the road, then draws them up in a semi-circle,
mounts a stump, and—on pretence of exhibiting the beauties of
nature—proceeds to harangue the helpless fares to the top of his very
high bent, or until one of the slumbering “outsides” creates a welcome
diversion by falling off and breaking his neck.

We came to what was really a curiosity—two kinds of trees
growing from one trunk, which this concentration of bores, this mitrailleuse,
in fact, improved accordingly.

“Here, Ladies and Gentlemen, you per-ceive one of the re-markable
and pe-culiar works of a benign Per-rovidence. On the
right you see the sturdy and iron-hearted oak, while on the left you
behold the modest and be-utiful ellum. What Having has joined
together let no man put asunder—gerlang with yer hosses!”

It must have been a Sunday-school Superintendent who invented
excursions to Fort Ty.

It is not a place to Tye to.

One old gentleman pointed to an underground hole and advised
me to go and look at the magazine.

I went; but it is hardly necessary to say that I didn’t find
any, and, on the whole, I was glad of it If people don’t know any more
than to leave their Galaxys and Harper’s lying around
loose when travelling, why, they deserve to have them stolen, that’s
all.

I was sorry for the old gentleman, but if there is anything
that disgusts me, it is to meet people that ain’t posted about things.

As the steamer neared the Hotel, on our return, the departing
sun was flinging back his last good-night smile on the lovely scene
below, and the musical chime of the little church at Caldwell came
stealing sweetly over the bosom of the placid Lake. As its fairy-like
sounds reached our ears, a melancholy-looking man with long hair, who
sat near, started, smiled, and turning to me, said:

“Did I ever tell you that story about SLUKER?”

As I had never seen the party before, I replied that if he had
I had forgotten it.

“SLUKER,” he repeated, gazing absently at the distant spire;
“SLUKER,” he reiterated, rubbing his nose abstractedly with the handle
of his umbrella; “SLUKER,” he continued—

—in my next, my dear PUNCHINELLO, in my next.

SAGINAW DODD.

[To be continued.]

Sauce

There can be no doubt that Grévy is in the right place,
as a member of the Provisional government of France.

Old Gent. “Don’t scatter water on my feet,
man,—do you suppose I want ’em to grow any bigger?”

EDUCATION FOR DETECTIVES.

Although our Metropolitan Detectives have hitherto failed to
solve the mystery in which certain atrocious murders remain shrouded,
yet it would be simply captious to impeach them, on that account, for
lack of sagacity, zeal, courage, or any of the numerous other qualities
that go to the making up of an efficient “Hawkshaw.”

That they are not deficient in zeal, at least, is manifest
from a circumstance which took place a short time since. Counterfeiting
had been carried on to a great extent in the city. The rashness of
counterfeiters is proverbial, and they usually carry on their
operations immediately under the nasal protuberance of the law.
Nevertheless, in the case under notice, some vigilant detective, with a
nose as sharp as that of a Spitz-dog, obtained a clue to the
arrangements of the counterfeiters. Having informed some of his
associates, a concerted descent was made by the party upon a house in
one of the lower streets of the city. A portion of the house is, and
has been for years past, occupied by several artists connected with the
illustrated press. Few gentlemen are better known in large circles than
these artists, none more highly appreciated by hosts of friends. But
duty is duty—often stern, but never to be shirked; and so the faithful
detectives inserted their Spitz-dog noses between the joints of the
artists’ doors, and, having smelt a very large rat, suddenly burst in
upon these graphic malefactors, and caught them in the act, with all
the tools and paraphernalia of their nefarious occupation scattered
about their vile den.

Most of them were engaged in executing drawings upon blocks of
wood, although it is probable that some of them were smoking
pipes—tobacco being vastly conducive to that concentration of thought
by which alone great mental efforts can be followed by equivalent
results. Short work was made by the sagacious detectives, when they saw
the graphic malefactors engaged in their diabolical toil. Some of the
officers seized the implements of the gang, while others collared the
delinquents, and marched them through the streets to the nearest police
station, where they were thrust into a dungeon and locked up for the
night.

Next morning, on being taken before a magistrate, the
prisoners were discharged, on the grounds that the affair was a
mistake—or a joke—we are not exactly informed which; but the parties
chiefly interested do not look upon it as a joke.

Now it is a very clear case that the mistake in question—or
joke—may be traced to a deficiency of education on the part of these
vigilant and zealous detectives. Had they been properly cultivated in
the various branches of art, the slight blunder to which we refer could
not have occurred. The Spitz-dog noses, instead of smelling Rat, would
have smelt its anagram, Art. Its influence would at once have been
acknowledged by them, and they would have backed out from the August
Presence with obsequious genuflexions. It becomes a question of moment,
then, whether a course of lectures upon art should not henceforth be
considered an indispensable branch of the education of our excellent
detectives. We would not limit the proposed extension of their
education, however, to the study of art, alone. Botany should be
insisted on as a necessary accession to the stock of the detectives’
learning; and especially would we have them instructed in a full
knowledge of the leguminous vegetables—such as beans.

Temporary Obscuration of the “Hub.”

Boston already has the biggest church- organ in all Creation.
She also has the most public Public Garden of modern times. Last year
she had the loudest Musical Jubilee ever organized, and it is further
to be noted that she is the proud possessor of the most uncommon of
Commons. Early in October, however, all these cherished immensities of
Boston must fall into insignificance and “feel small.” On the second
day of that month, Colonel FISK is to make his triumphant entry into
Boston, at the head of the gallant Ninth. Organ, Jubilee, Public
Garden, Big Drum, Common—all, all of these will then have to subside
and fade away into thin air before the stately presence of the Prince
of Erie and his valiant command.

Boy and Man.

“Miss ANNIE P. LADD, of Augusta, Me., has been appointed by
the governor and confirmed by the council as a justice of the peace.”

A Nut for the Ladies’ Club.

Referring to the recent ladies’ boat race at Harlem, a
reporter says that “the girls all rowed badly.” This is a discouraging
comment on the frantic efforts now making by women to assume man’s
attributes, (not to mention his other “butes” and the
what-d’ye-call-’ems generally associated with them,) and it is a very
significant fact that the comment can be tersely clinched by the words
So rows Sis.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Among the numerous portraits of the late CHARLES DICKENS now
before the public, none are likely to be more popular than one in
chromograph lately issued by PRANG & Co., of Boston and New York.
It represents the great and genial writer as some few years younger
than he was when he last visited this country. The expression of the
face is one of thought—rather as he might have appeared when meditating
over some new turn to be given to the thread of a narrative, than as he
used to look when reading to an audience. This picture is printed in
two or three simple tints, of which the flesh tint is the most
predominant. It is set in an oval passe-partout, and requires only a
glass over it to fit it for placing on a wall.

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.

ADVANTAGES. All on the same premises, and under immediate
supervision of the proprietors.

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OR
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