Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year
1870, by the PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for
the Southern District of New York.
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD. AN ADAPTATION. BY ORPHEUS C. KERR. CHAPTER XXIV. MR. CLEWS AT HIS NOVEL.[1] Thrown into Rembrandtish relief by the light of a garish
kerosene lamp upon the table: with one discouraged lock of hair hanging
over his nose, and straw hat pushed so far back from his phrenological
brow that its vast rim had the fine artistic effect of a huge saintly
nimbus: Mr. BUMSTEAD sat gynmastically crosswise in an easy-chair, over
an arm of which his slender lower limbs limply dangled, and elaborately
performed one of the grander works of BACH upon an irritable accordion.
Now, winking with intense rapidity, and going through the muscular
motions of an excitable person resolutely pulling out an obstinate and
inexplicable drawer from somewhere about his knees, he produced
sustained and mournful notes, as of canine distress in the backyard;
anon, with eyes nearly closed and the straw nimbus sliding still
further back, his manipulation was that of an excessively weary
gentleman slowly compressing a large sponge, thereby squeezing out
certain choking, snorting, guttural sounds, as of a class softly
studying the German language in another room; and, finally, with an
impatient start from the unexpected slumber into which the last shaky pianissimo
had momentarily betrayed him, he caught the untamed instrument in
mid-air, just as it was treacherously getting away from him,
frantically balanced it there for an instant on all his clutching
finger-tips, and had it prisoner again for a renewal of the weird
symphony. Seriously offended at the discovery that he could not drop
asleep in his own room, for a minute, without the music stopping and
the accordion trying to slip off, the Ritualistic organist was not at
all softened in temper by almost simultaneously realizing that the
farther skirt of his long linen coat was standing out nearly straight
from his person, and, apparently, fluttering in a heavy draught. “Who’s-been-ope’nin’-th’-window?” he sternly asked,
“What’s-meaning-‘f-such-a-gale-at thistime-‘f-year?” “Do I intrude?” inquired a voice close at hand. Looking very carefully along the still extended skirt of his
coat towards exactly the point of the compass from which the voice
seemed to come, Mr. BUMSTEAD at last awoke to the conviction that the
tension of his garment and its breezy agitation were caused by the
tugging of a human figure. “Do I intrude?” repeated Mr. TRACEY CLEWS, dropping the skirt
as he spoke. “Have I presumed too greatly in coming to request the
favor of a short private interview?” Slipping quickly into a more genteel but rather rigid position
on his chair, the Ritualistic organist made an airy pass at him with
the accordion. “Any doors where youwasborn, sir?” “There were, Mr. BUMSTEAD.” “People ever knock when th’ wanted t’-come-in, sir?” “Why, I did knock at your door,” answered Mr. CLEWS,
conciliatingly. “I knocked and knocked, but you kept on playing; and
after I finally took the liberty to come in and pull you by the coat,
it was ten minutes before you found it out.” In an attempt to look into the speaker’s inmost soul, Mr.
BUMSTEAD fell into a doze, from which the crash of his accordion to the
floor aroused him in time to behold a very curious proceeding on the
part of Mr. CLEWS. That gentleman successively peered up the chimney,
through the windows, and under the furniture of the room, and then
stealthily took a seat near his rather languid observer. “Mr. BUMSTEAD, you know me as a temporary boarder under the
same roof with you. Other people know me merely as a dead-beat. May I
trust you with a secret?” A pair of blurred and glassy eyes looked into his from under a
huge straw hat, and a husky question followed his: “Did y’ ever read WORDSWORTH’S poem-‘f-th’ Excursion, sir?” “Not that I remember.” “Then, sir,” exclaimed the organist, with spasmodic
animation—”then’s not in your hicsperience to know howssleepy-I
am-jus’-now.” “You had a nephew,” said his subtle companion, raising his
voice, and not appearing to heed the last remark. “An’ ‘numbrella,” added Mr. BUMSTEAD, feebly. “I say you had a nephew,” reiterated the other, “and that
nephew disappeared in a very mysterious manner. Now I’m a literary man—” “C’d tell that by y’r-headerhair,” murmured the Ritualistic
organist. Left y’r wife yet, sir?” “I say I’m a literary man,” persisted TRACEY CLEWS, sharply.
“I’m going to write a great American Novel, called ‘The Amateur
Detective,’ founded upon the story of this very EDWIN DROOD, and have
come to Bumsteadville to get all the particulars. I’ve picked up
considerable from Gospeler SIMPSON, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, and even the woman
from the Mulberry street place who came after you the other morning.
But now I want to know something from you.—What has become of your
nephew?” He put the question suddenly, and with a kind of suppressed
leap at him whom he addressed. Immeasurable was his surprise at the
perfectly calm answer— “I can’t r’member hicsactly, sir.” “Can’t remember!—Can’t remember what?” “Where-I-put’t.” “It?“ “Yes. Th’ umbrella.” “What on earth are you talking about?” exclaimed Mr. CLEWS, in
a rage. “—Come! Wake up!—What have umbrellas to do with this?” Rousing himself to something like temporary consciousness, Mr.
BUMSTEAD slowly climbed to his feet, and, with a wild kind of swoop,
came heavily down with both hands upon the shoulders of his questioner. “What now?” asked that startled personage. “You want t’ know ’bout th’ umbrella?” said BUMSTEAD, with
straw hat amazingly awry, and linen coat a perfect map of creases. “Yes!—You’re crushing me!” panted Mr. CLEWS. “Th’ umbrella!” cried Mr. BUMSTEAD, suddenly withdrawing his
hands and swaying before his visitor like a linen person on
springs—”This’s what there’s ’bout ‘t: Where th’ umbrella is, there
is Edwin also!“ Astounded by, this bewildering confession, and fearful that
the uncle of Mr. DROOD would be back in his chair and asleep again if
he gave him a chance, the excited inquisitor sprang from his chair, and
slowly and carefully backed the wildly glaring object of his
solicitation until his shoulders and elbows were safely braced against
the mantel-piece. Then, like one inspired, he grasped a bottle of soda
water from the table, and forced the reviving liquid down his staring
patient’s throat; as quickly tore off his straw hat, newly moistened
the damp sponge in it at a neighboring washstand, and replaced both on
the aching head; and, finally, placed in one of his tremulous hands a
few cloves from a saucer on the mantel-shelf. “You are better now? You can tell me more?” he said, resting a
moment from his violent exertions. With the unsettled air of one coming out of a complicated
dream, Mr. BUMSTEAD chewed the cloves musingly; then, after nodding
excessively, with a hideous smile upon his countenance, suddenly threw
an arm about the neck of his restorer and wept loudly upon his bosom. “My fr’en’,” he wailed, in a damp voice, “lemme confess to
you. I’m a mis’able man, my fr’en’; perfectly mis’able. These
cloves—these insidious tropical spices—have been thebaneofmyexistence.
On Chrishm’s night—that Chrishm’s night—I toogtoomany.
Wha’scons’q’nce? I put m’ nephew an’ m’ umbrella away somewhere, an ‘ve
neverb’n able terremembersince!” Still sustaining his weight, the author of “The Amateur
Detective” at first seemed nonplussed; but quickly changed his
expression to one of abrupt intelligence. “I see, now; I begin to see,” he answered, slowly, and almost
in a whisper. “On the night of that Christmas dinner here, you were in
a clove-trance, and made some secret disposition, (which you have not
since been able to remember,) of your umbrella—and nephew. Until very
lately—until now, when you are nearly, but not quite, as much
under the influence of cloves again—you have had a vague general idea
that somebody else must have killed Mr. DROOD and stolen your umbrella.
But now, that you are partially in the same condition, physiologically
and psychologically, as on the night of the disappearance, you have
once more a partial perception of what were the facts of the case. Am I
right?” “That’s it, sir. You’re a ph’los’pher,” murmured Mr. BUMSTEAD,
trying to brush from above his nose the pendent lock of hair, which he
took for a fly. “Very well, then,” continued TRACEY CLEWS, his extraordinary
head of hair fairly bristling with electrical animation: “You’ve only
to get yourself into exactly the same clove-y condition as on
the night of the double disappearance, when you put your umbrella and
nephew away somewhere, and you’ll remember all about it again. You have
two distinct states of existence, you see: a cloven one, and an
uncloven one; and what you have done in one you are totally oblivious
of in the other.” Something like an occult wink trembled for a moment in the
right eye of Mr. BUMSTEAD. “Tha’s ver’ true,” said he, thoughtfully. “I’ve been ‘blivious
m’self, frequently. Never c’d r’member wharIowed.” “The idea I’ve suggested to you for the solution of this
mystery,” went on Mr. CLEWS, “Is expressed by one of the greatest of
English writers; who, in his very last work, says; ‘—in some cases of
drunkenness, and in others of animal magnetism, there are two states of
consciousness which never clash, but each of which pursues its separate
course as though it were continuous instead of broken. Thus, if I hide
my watch when I am drunk, I must be drunk again before I can remember
where.’[2]“ “I’m norradrink’n’man, sir,” returned Mr. BUMSTEAD, drawing
coldly back from him, and escaping a fall into the fireplace by a
dexterous surge into the nearest chair. “Th’ lemon tea which I take for
my cold, or to pr’vent the cloves from disagreeing with me, is
norrintoxicating.” “Of course not,” assented his subtle counsellor; “but, in this
country, at least, chronic inebriation, clove-eating, and even
opium-taking, are strikingly alike in their aspects, and the same rules
may be safely applied to all. My advice to you is what I have given.
Cause a table to be spread in this room, exactly as it was for that
memorable Christmas-dinner; sit down to it exactly as then, and at the
same hour; go through all the same processes as nearly as you can
remember; and, by the mere force of association, you will enact all the
final performances with your umbrella and your nephew.” Mr. BUMSTEAD’S arms were folded tightly across his manly
breast, and the fine head with the straw hat upon it tilted heavily
towards his bosom. “I see’t now,” said he softly; “bone han’le ‘n ferule. I
r’member threshing ‘m with it. I can r’memb’r carry’ng—” Here Mr.
BUMSTEAD burst into tears, and made a frenzied dash at the lock of hair
which he again mistook for a fly. “To sum up all,” concluded Mr. TRACEY CLEWS, shaking him
violently by the shoulder, that he might remain awake long enough to
hear it,—”to sum up all, I am satisfied, from the familiar knowledge of
this mystery I have already gained, that the end will have something to
do with exercise in the Open Air! You’ll have to go outdoors for
something important. And now good night.” “Goornight, sir.” Retiring softly to his own room, under the same roof, the
author of “The Amateur Detective” smiled at himself before the mirror
with marked complacency. “You’re a long-headed one, my dead-beat
friend,” he said, archly, “and your great American Novel is likely to
be a respectable success.” There sounded a crash upon a floor, somewhere in the house,
and he held his breath to listen. It was the Ritualistic organist going
to bed. (To be Continued.) [1] The few remaining chapters with which it is proposed
to conclude this Adaptation of “The Mystery of Edwin Drood,”
should not be construed as involving presumptuous attempt to divine
that full solution of the latter which the pen of its lamented author
was not permitted to reach. No further correspondence with the tenor of
the unfinished English story is intended than the Adapter will endeavor
to justify to his own conscience, and that of his reader, by at least
one unmistakable foreshadowing circumstance of the original
publication, which, strangely enough, has been wholly overlooked, thus
far, by those speculating upon the fate of the missing hero.
[2] See Chapter III., The Mystery of Edwin Drood.
An Old Saw with a Modern Instance. The Farthing Candle of New York journalism appears to be
trying to find what political party he can best bully into offering the
largest reward for his conscientious support. As a looker on,
PUNCHINELLO would suggest to the political parties, as applicable in
this case, the following quotation from VIRGIL: ——”timeo Dana-os et dona
ferentes.”
SOME TRAITS OF THE CHINESE.  f all human
races, next to the monkies, the Mongolians are the most imitative. They
are only a little lower than the monkies in this respect, and we have
seen some trained ones that could successfully compete with the Simians
on their own ground.
A Chinaman employed in the North Adams shoe factory, for
instance, was asked to imitate exactly a boot of a particular style,
which was shown to him. After a few trials, he imitated the boot so
perfectly, that a customer who came in took him to be the fellow of it,
and was not undeceived until he went to try him on. No wonder that the
regular Crispins are jealous of a foreign cordwainer who can do this. In the art of dress-making for ladies the Chinese display
wonderful skill. Their taste and inventiveness in this branch are
unrivalled even by the best French modistes. The panier
with which it pleases the ladies of the period to protuberate their
persons was of Chinese origin. It was revealed in an opium dream to a
celebrated male mantua-maker of Pekin, who sold the idea to a
Yankee-Notions man travelling in China for a Paris house. The inventor
was so chagrined at hearing afterwards of the immense fortune realized
from it by the man of the West, that he committed suicide by hanging
himself on a willow-pattern plate. Although the Chinaman does not naturally possess an ear for
music, according to our standard, yet his imitative power enables him
to adapt himself very readily to the production of melody. One of the
Coolies employed in the great HERVEY wash-house at South Belleville,
N.J., was observed to watch with great interest an itinerant performer
on the accordion. Shortly afterwards, catching up a sucking-pig by the
tail and snout, he manipulated it precisely as the player did the
accordion, producing—accordion to the testimony of several credible
witnesses,—strains quite as good as, if not worse than, those drawn out
by that musician. As soon as the 200,000 Chinamen ordered by Mynheer
KOOPMAN-SCHOOP arrive in this country, a good business can be driven by
Yankee toothpick makers in supplying them with chopsticks. This word
was originally “stop-chick,” being so called from the use occasionally
made of it by Chinamen for knocking down young poultry. It became
corrupted, like everything that is good and pure, by contact with
extreme civilization. Anybody who can make a shoe-peg or wooden
toothpick can make a chopstick. It is to be hoped that the chopstick
may ultimately be adopted here instead of the knife and fork. It would
preclude the possibility of people carrying their food into their
mouths with the knife—an outrage so commonly to be remarked at hotel
tables. A very intelligent Chinaman told the writer, not long since,
that there is absolutely nothing to be seen or heard of in this country
that the Chinese were not familiar with several thousand years ago.
Among them he enumerated target-companies, sewing-machines, patent
baby-jumpers, nitro-glycerine, shoo-fly chewing-tobacco, wooden hams,
stuffed ballot-boxes, and a hundred other things which we are prone to
brag of as being purely Yankee and original. We are too conceited about
ourselves, by a great deal, and it is good for us that even Chinese
shoemakers should come here once in a while, to “take us out of our
boots.”
A Midnight Reflection. The man who commits suicide may be said to show his contempt
for the hollowness of the world by putting his foot in it.
 Gentleman, (reading.) “THE MILITARY AUTHORITIES OF
PARIS HAVE CUT DOWN AND UTTERLY DESTROYED THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE.” Old Lady. “POOR BOYS!—AND TO THINK WHAT THEIR DEAR
MOTHERS MUST SUFFER!”
NAPOLEON’S CORRESPONDENCE. The following letters were yesterday discovered among the
private papers of the late Emperor—L.N. BONAPARTE. They were instantly
forwarded to us by our special correspondent. They will be used
to-morrow in a mutilated form by less enterprising journals, such as
the Tribune and its partners of the Associated Press.
“NEW YORK, May 10, 1860. “DEAR EMPEROR: I am thinking of
writing a biography of you, in the same style as my biography of your
Uncle. I shall want to prove that you were never in New York, that you
behaved with perfect propriety while you were here, and that you are
humble, unambitious, and deeply religious. This will not be a difficult
matter, after the success I have made in the case of your Uncle. Still,
I shall want a fact or two in the book. Can you not supply me with
them? Any small favor you may think fit to send me may be directed to
my usual address. “Yours for truth and justice,
J.S.C.A.B.B.O.T.T.”
“CLICHY PRISON. “VILLAIN AND USURPER! Your minions
have incarcerated me in this vile den on a pretence that I owe a debt
which I have not paid. They lie, wilfully and malignantly. I always pay
my debts. Ask SEWARD if I do not. He remembers how I paid him the
little debt I owed him, when I defeated his Presidential aspirations.
Release me at once, or the Tribune will show your rotten Empire
no mercy. If I am at liberty this evening I will send you a prize
strawberry plant, and a copy of my work on political economy. If I am
not at liberty by the time mentioned, beware. SMALLEY shall be sent to
Paris as the Tribune‘s special correspondent, and you’ll see
the sort of news about your infamous court that he’ll be instructed to
send home. “Yours Profanely, H.G.”
“BERLIN, July 1, 1870. “To THE EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH: His
Majesty, the King, instructs me to say that he shall do just as he
pleases in all affairs public and private. He advises you to attend to
your own affairs, and if you have any more propositions for stealing
other people’s territory, to address them to Russia, or the United
States. Prussia is not at present in that line of business. BISMARCK.” “BUREAU OF POLICE, Jan. 1, 1870.
TO HIS MAJESTY, THE EMPEROR—SIRE: I
beg leave to report that M. ROCHEFORT demands the sum of 1,000,000
francs, to be paid at once. Otherwise be will continue to be a patriot,
and will abuse Her Majesty, the Empress, with more violence than ever.
Both M. ROCHEFORT and M. FLOURENS are much enraged since their annual
stipend has been discontinued. PIETRI, Chief of Police.”
Other selections from the Imperial correspondence will be
shortly laid before our readers. Remember, the only genuine letters are
those in PUNCHINELLO. All others are garbled forgeries.
Roma! Roma! non e plu com’ ora Prima. With the downfall of the Pope’s temporal power, comes the
report that several newspapers have been established in the Eternal
City. Thus the “great world spins forever down the ringing grooves of
change.” For Papal Infallibility, the Romans will have that of the
editorial WE; for the canons of the Church Militant they will have
ubiquitous reporters discharging themselves in the public ear; the
testimony of the pillars of the Church will be replaced by the
assertions of the editorial columns; the Inquisition will become a
press club-house for Reporters and Interviewers, and the Propaganda an
office where ‘extras’ are concocted and forced on the unsuspecting
public. At least let us hope that the change will offer a reputable
business for the army of beggars which has formerly been licensed by
the church. A chance will now be offered them to become newspaper
agents, thus making a living respectably by selling accounts of other
people’s deformities, instead of disreputably by exhibiting their own.
A CAPITOL MOVE. The immediate probability of the formation of the United
States of Europe, suggests how wise we were not to change the location
of the Capitol to some facetiously distant western metropolis of the
future. The Capitol buildings are quite large enough to receive the
delegates who will of course come on here to study the art of
log-rolling, while the Chesapeake, being navigable almost to the
Capitol steps, will save them the fatigue of a luxurious journey in the
palace sleeping cars.
Sublunary Observations of the Sun. From a careful analysis of the daily appearance of the Sun,
it has been satisfactorily settled that it is completely enveloped in
gas. By the application of the literary spectrum, it is also shown that
this gaseous vaporization is the result of brass in a high state of
incandescence, while the indications of alkalies, and, in fact, all
kinds of lies, are no less distinct.
Forethought. One reason why this country is so earnestly opposed to the
Napoleonic dynasty, is that there is no probability that the
descendants of the Prince Imperial would give us any assistance in
settling the Alabama Question.
Prompt. The Methodists recently opened a school for young ladies in
Salt Lake City, and BRIGHAM’S third son is courting it already.
VERDICT ON A BARBER’S WHISKERS.—Dyed by his own hand.
THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.  olemn and severe
German tragedy reigns in the Fourteenth Street theatre. Once it was
called the French theatre, and was devoted to the witty comedies of
SCRIBE, and the luxurious legs of OFFENBACH. But a woe has been
denounced against the SCRIBES and OFFENBACHS—(there is considerable
difference between the latter and the Pharisees)—of that once gay
theatre. Like many other French frivolities, it has lately yielded to
Teutonic tragedy. The cold and calculating German “MEPHISTOPHELES”
treads the stage where once tripped the light feet of Parisian beauty.
The burlesque Germans of the Grand Duchy of Gerolstein have vanished
before the grim and earnest countrymen of grand and simple old King
WILLIAM. It will be long before the French players find heart to
burlesque anew the German soldiery. It will be some time, let us hope,
before the German players at the Fourteenth Street theatre give way to
the shameless antics of French Opera-Bouffe buffoons.
PUNCHINELLO gives a glad farewell—with no thought of saying au
revoir—to the French follies that have given the French theatre so
unenviable a reputation; and he waves his pointed hat in joyful welcome
to SEEBACH and her German friends who have made the Fourteenth Street
theatre a temple of the classic drama. Like other places which can
properly be called dramatic temples, the theatre now partakes of the
solemnity of a religious temple. One goes to see SEEBACH, not to laugh,
but to test one’s ability to suppress the desire to weep over the woes
of MARGARET, and to mourn with MARY STUART. Fortify yourself, O reader,
with a substantial dinner and much previous sleep, and come with me for
a night of German tragedy. Come to the Fourteenth Street theatre, not
to look back regretfully at departed opera-bouffe, but to SEEBACH. It
is with such reckless puns as the foregoing, that I endeavor to brace
your spirits for the exhausting struggle with six hours of tragedy
played in the most tragic and awful of modern languages. You are to
hear Faust in German. No man who has accomplished this feat can
wonder at the stolid bravery of the German infantry. It is said that
the new recruit is forced to hear Faust once a week during his
first year of service. This terrible discipline has the natural effect
of giving him that steadiness under fire, at which the world marvels.
He will stand with his regiment for hours under the merciless fire of
the mitrailleuse with no thought of flight. What terrors can shot or
shell have for him who has been taught to listen unmoved to the
dialogue of “FAUST” and “MEPHISTOPHELES” in the first thirty-two acts
of Faust? We find the theatre full of Germans, wearing that grave and
earnest expression of countenance wherewith the German takes his
legitimate tragedy. Sprinkled among the Germans are several Americans,
more grave and more in earnest than even their Teutonic neighbors, for
they are straining their attention to detect a familiar German
word—such as “Mein Herr,” or “Ach.” When once they have heard the
expected syllables, they smile a placid smile of contentment, and
remark, one to another, “I can understand pretty nearly everything that
is said,—with the exception, of course, of an occasional word.” We take our seats and wait for the entrance of SEEBACH. The
curtain rises upon “FAUST” pursuing his studies in middle-age,
respectability, and a dressing-gown. To him, after hours of soliloquy,
enters “MEPHISTOPHELES.” We observe, with surprise, that those
estimable gentlemen, Col. THOMAS W. KNOX and Hon. ERASTUS BROOKS, have
been engaged to play “FAUST” and “MEPHISTOPHELES” respectively, To be
sure the programme informs us that these parts are taken by two newly
imported German actors, but we prefer the evidence of our senses to the
assertions of the programme. Have KNOX and BROOKS been copied in
German? If not, they are now playing in Fourteenth Street. Don’t tell
me that it is merely an accidental resemblance. Haven’t I played
billiards with the gallant COLONEL, and gone to sleep when the
Honorable EDITOR was speaking in Congress? And shall I now be told that
I don’t know them when I see them? But this is irrelevant. Hours of dialogue succeed to the previous hours of soliloquy.
At intervals of fifteen minutes the curtain is dropped to enable the
actors to discuss mugs of beer and the audience to discuss the actors.
During these intervals we hear such remarks as these: 1ST GERMAN. “Subjectively considered, Faust is a
tragedy. Objectively, we might regard it as a comedy. To the
subjective-objective view, it is certainly a ballet pantomime. Ach! he
was many-sided, our GOETHE. Here in this drama he has accomplished
everything. There is food for our laughter and our tears. It excites us
and calms us.” 1ST AMERICAN. “I should think it did calm us. That’s why the
old fellow went to sleep and snored all through the last twelve acts. I
think it’s the heaviest and stupidest play that was ever put on the
stage. Of course it’s the greatest thing ever written, but then I
prefer DALY’S Gaslight, myself.” 2ND GERMAN. “Ah, my friend, how this sublime creation stirs
the inner depths of our spiritual natures. Ach, Himmel! it is the poem
of Humanity. Let us go out for beer.” 2D AMERICAN. “When are we going to see SEEBACH?” USHER. “She don’t appear until the twenty-third act, sir. That
will be on about three hours from now.” 2D AMERICAN. “Come, TOM, let’s go and have supper. I am
getting exhausted.” USHER. “Step this way, sir. Mr. GRAU has some refreshments at
your service.” And they go in search of the cold ham and beer which the
beneficent GRAU has kindly provided. Refreshed by much beer, and
enlivened by the cheery influence of the genial sandwich, they return
for a few more hours of soliloquy and dialogue. Time passes slowly, but surely. At last we reach an act in
which SEEBACH walks quietly across the stage. The curtain instantly
drops amid the sobs of the excited audience. 1ST GERMAN. “Lend me your handkerchief, my friend, that I may
wipe away my tears. I have a sausage wrapped up in mine, but what are
sausages compared with art! How divinely SEEBACH walks. To me, she
seems like an incarnation of Pure Reason, an Avatar of the spirit of
transcendental philosophy. Come, we will pledge her in beer.” 1ST AMERICAN. “What are they making all that row about—just
because SEEBACH walked across the stage? Why, she never said a word.” 2D AMERICAN. “Let’s go round to the hotel and take a quiet
sleep till she comes on again. I’ve got my night-clothes with me.
Always bring ’em when I go to see German tragedy.” Then ensue other hours of dialogue, interspersed with
soliloquies of half an hour each. Interspersed also with perpetual
dropping of the curtain, whereby the play is made to last some eight or
ten hours longer than would otherwise be the case. Most of the German
music that has been written during the last three centuries is played
by the orchestra during these intermissions. But in course of time
SEEBACH gives us the Garden scene, winning our frantic admiration by
her inimitable tenderness and grace, and finally we reach that grandest
scene ever written by dramatist, that most pathetic poem ever conceived
by poet—the meeting of “FAUST” and “MARGARET” in prison. At last we are
more than repaid for the dreary hours that have gone before. We have
seen SEEBACH’S “MARGARET”—the most powerful, the most pathetic, the
most beautiful, the most perfect creation of the stage. And as we pass slowly up the tortuous, steep stairways of the
theatre, while the Germans, all talking at once, burden the air with
unintelligible gutturals, you say to me—if you are the intelligent
person that you ought to be—”SEEBACH is the greatest actress of this
century—greater than RISTORI, subtler and more tender than RACHEL.” With which opinion the undersigned concurs with all the
emphasis of conviction; and over our late breakfast, to which we
immediately sit down, we discuss the question, Which is the
greatest—the poet who drew “MARGARET,” or the actress who made the
poet’s picture warm with passionate life? MATADOR.
Absolutely True. For the last fifty years or so the metaphysical thinkers of
Germany have been engaged in seeking for the Absolute. From present
indications it would seem as though they are about to find it—where
perhaps they least expected it—in the imperial reign of King WILLIAM,
aided and abetted by Count VON BISMARCK.
“THE RIGHT PARTY.” A few days ago PUNCHINELLO officially announced his adhesion
to the Right Party. PUNCHINELLO hadn’t the slightest idea which party was the
right one, but thought that, as some party must be right, he could not
go very for wrong. But mark the denouement. Every party
imagines itself the right party, and welcomes him joyfully to its
bosom. Republicans love him, Independents worship him, while Democrats
would endure even the Fifteenth Amendment for his sake. In order to
reciprocate their sentiments Mr. P. would have to resolve himself into
a kind of Demo-Independent-Republican, which he has no idea of doing.
Here’s what some of the “organs” say of him: The Sun. “We hail with joy the accession of PUNCHINELLO to the ranks of
independent journalism as embodied in the Sun, with a
circulation of over 100,000, CHAS. B. DANA Editor, price two cents.
Reinforced by this powerful journal, we shall continue with renewed
vigor to demand of HORACE GREELEY his reasons why J.C. BANCROFT DAVIS
should not be removed from the Assistant Secretaryship of State. We
shall persevere in our attempts to make Gen. GRANT understand that to
move four and a half inches from the White House is an infraction of
the Constitution. Regardless of the tears of the thousands of
advertisers who carry their announcements to our office, we shall
devote our entire space to the vilifying of BORIE, FISH, the Disreputable
Times and False Reporting Tribune. Those elaborate attacks upon
moral corruption and the Erie Ring, for which we have become famous,
will remain specialties with us. All this by PUNCHINELLO’S aid. Bully
for PUNCHINELLO.” The Tribune. “The moral influence of this paper, which retains the only
correspondent at the seat of war, and whose dispatches, procured at a
cost of over $2,000,000, are copied by the Herald, Sun
and World,—(and whoever denies it lies damnably, with intent to
malign, etc.,)—the moral influence of this paper is rapidly extending
itself throughout the country. As a late instance, we note that
PUNCHINELLO has given in its adhesion to the only true and pure
republican agricultural party, which it appropriately names the “Right
Party.” PUNCHINELLO was once a frivolous, good-for-nothing sheet,
devoted to low jokes and witticisms. The conversion of its editor to
the temperance cause is the reason of the recent change in its tenets.
We bid it God speed.” The World. “As the irrefutable and all-enduring truths of Democracy
receive exemplification in contemporaneous events, the reflecting and
refined masses of this city purchase the World in preference to
that decrepit and fast decaying sheet, the Herald. PUNCHINELLO,
recognizing with ethereal foresight the exigencies of the situation,
proclaims itself for the “Right Party”—our party. We welcome with
acclamation this valuable addition to the Democratic ranks.” The Star. “PUNCHINELLO has joined the Right Party, by which he obviously
means the Star, whose circulation last Sunday exceeded 375,005
copies. “But this has nothing to do with the domestic policy of the
Peruvians, as expounded by the first CAESAR. “PUNCHINELLO will prove a pillar of strength to Tammany Hall,
unless the siege of Paris should prove disastrous to the consumption of
lager-bier, as set forth in ‘Boiled for her Bones’ and other tales by
the best authors.” But Personals, my dear Star, Personals are the things
that pay. If thus, why not? As thus: “EDITOR OF PUNCHINELLO. The Editor of PUNCHINELLO has an
income of about $500,000. He usually dines at the Hoffman House when
out of State’s Prison. He owns some fine lots somewhere underneath the
East River, besides a brown stone front in Alaska.” “PUBLISHER OF PUNCHINELLO. This gentleman’s income does not
exceed $350,000 per annum. He expends it principally in beautifying his
delightful summer residence in Mackerelville. It has been his
misfortune to pass many years of his life in a lunatic asylum, the
unhappy result of organizing plans for American Comic Papers. All is
joy and peace with him now, however; he looks hopefully forward to the
time when PUNCHINELLO shall have attained to his legitimate rank of the
Foremost Journal in the Nation. Meanwhile he lunches daily at a leading
restaurant on thirteen oysters, (a dozen and one over) with vinegar,
pepper and a bottle of Bass.”
“ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE.” MR. PUNCHINELLO: I fancy myself a victim of imposition, and I
wish to place my case before you. Having, for a period of six months,
“honorably and persistently,” (to use the language of my friends,) held
the office of third Deputy-Assistant Register of Caramels, in and for
the city and county of New York, my associates in office and my friends
in general have determined to present me with a testimonial of their
distinguished regards. Accordingly, they have ordered a massive and
handsomely engraved pair of silver tongs, and a splendid silver
fire-shovel. This is all very well, so far, but the committee informed
me yesterday that the shovel and tongs would cost four hundred and
twenty-five dollars, and that, as only eight dollars and a half had
been collected, it was considered highly important that I should
immediately hand over the balance of the price, in order that the
presentation and banquet, (to take place at my house on next Saturday
evening,) might not be postponed, to the great disappointment of my
associates in office and my friends in general. Now, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, is not this a little hard on me? I know
very well that it is customary for the recipients of testimonials to
pay three-quarters of the cost of the present, and I am perfectly
willing to abide by this custom; but forty-nine fiftieths is, I think,
rather too heavy, especially as my house is heated by a furnace in the
cellar and I have no use for a shovel and tongs—particularly silver
ones. Yours perturbedly, A. DOANE KNEA.
Roaming Troops. The Italians in this country are very jubilant over the
occupation of Rome by the army of Italy. But people of other nations
hereabouts are not so much elated about the occupation of Roam in which
the numerous troops of Italian organ-grinders are engaged.
Subject for a Debating Society. Can a couple who have contracted a clandestine marriage be
properly said to be carrying out their clandestiny?
 A CHEERFUL PROSPECT. THE MORNING HAVING BEEN BRIGHT AND CLEAR, MR. DEBOOTS DECIDED
TO AVAIL HIMSELF OF AN INVITATION TO SPEND THE DAY IN THE COUNTRY. HE
ARRIVES AT THE STATION, AND HAS A MILE TO WALK.
 COMFORTING ASSURANCES. H. Greeley and G. W. Curtis, together. “OHO! LITTLE
WOODFORD; AIN’T YOU GOING TO BE LICKED, NEITHER!—WON’T YOU GET YOUR EYES
BLACKED, AND YOUR NOSE SMASHED, AND YOUR TEETH BROKE!—AIN’T I GLAD I
AIN’T THE ONE AS HAS GOT TO FIGHT BIG JOHNNY HOFFMAN!”
AN AGRICULTURAL RHYME. NOT BY H.G. Plough
deep—two feet, at least—for corn or rye.
You can’t, in stony land? Sir,
that’s a lie;
A sub-soil plough will do it;
then manure,
And put on plenty; if the land is
poor,
Get muck and plaster; buy them by
the heap,
No matter what they cost, you’ll
find them cheap.
I’ve tried them often, and I
think I know,
Then plough again two feet before
you sow. Potatoes get on best in sandy
soil,
I’m sure of that—but
plant before you boil;
Then put in strawberries; that’s
what I do—
Confound you for a blockhead! Why
don’t you
Get modern works and read them?
No, you’d rather
Go creeping on just like your
stupid father.
That patch is good for melons.
Why the deuce
Don’t you convert those swamps to
better use? Beets are a paying crop, and
don’t cost much
To raise; so’s cabbage, pumpkins,
squash, and such;
They’ll always sell and bring you
back your money—
No bees? The mischief! What d’ye
do for honey?
Sir, let me tell you plainly
you’re an ass—
Just look at those ten acres gone
to grass!
Put turnips in ’em. Timothy don’t
pay—
Can’t cattle feed on anything but
hay? I don’t consider hogs a
first-class crop;
Give me my own free choice, sir,
and I’d swap
The best of ’em for strawberries
or sheep—
But let me say again, you must
plough deep;
The trouble with our farmers is,
that they
Can’t be induced to look beyond
to-day;
Let them get sub-soil ploughs and
turn up sand
And hang it, sir! let them manure
their land.
SALVATION FOR EUROPE. Some hope that the great Powers of Europe may yet be saved
from a fate similar to that of the Kilkenny Cats, is to be found in the
fact that General BURNSIDE, favorably known in Rhode Island, is making
arrangements for bringing about peace between France and Germany. It
has already been said by journalists of mark, that, unless Providence
interfered, and that soon, all Europe would shortly be deluged with the
blood of her peoples. General BURNSIDE is the direct representative of
Providence, and he has gone specially to Europe to interfere. He was
born in Providence, (R.I.); he believes in Providence; his portrait is
the special pride of Providence; and there is a “Providence that shapes
his ends.” Thus it will be seen that BURNSIDE is the very man for the
situation. It may be asked, (there are cavillers who ask impertinent
questions about everything,) what business BURNSIDE has to meddle with
European affairs? Pshaw!—one might as well ask what business Colorado
JEWETT has to meddle with everybody’s affairs, or GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN,
or PAUL PRY, or WIKOFF. BURNSIDE against BISMARCK for diplomacy any
time. Probably he aims at the throne of France for himself, and having
Providence (R.I.,) to back him, he may sit on it yet.
What bad habit does a man contract when he falls into a way of
praising everything and everybody? He takes to laud’n’m.
 ORPHEUS GREELEY, CHARMING WITH THE STRAINS OF THE REPUBLICAN
LYRE THE CERBERUS, (O’BRIEN, MORRISSEY, AND FOX,) ON GUARD AT THE
ENTRANCE TO THE DREAD ABODE OF THE JOHN REAL DEMOCRACY.
HIRAM GREEN AT THE BOSTON WOMAN’S CONVENTION. Old Time Agitators again on their Muscle.—Thanks to Henry
Wilson.—Advice to Charles Sumner.—Left-Handers to Wendell Phillips. Oho! ye gods and little fishes,
Beggars ‘d ride, if hosses was
wishes;
Wimmen would have a millenium day,
And all through the land the
“deuce be to pay.” The Masserchewsetts Woman’s Suffering Society pulled
off their cote and vest and struck a beligerent attitood, at Bosting, a
few days since. Yes, sir! I was there, and I still live to tell my tale. E-x-z-a-ckt-ly! As usual, on all such occasions, the women wore the
bre-b-bifurcated garments, while the softer sex shone
transparently, in silk, satins, and black and bloo spots. Like jumpin’ jacks, they danced when the strong-minded
pulled the strings, while their ears were pinned back and greased,
ready to be swallered at a minnit’s warnin’. JEWLEIR WARD HOW was chosen President, and S.E. Sewell, ABBI
KELLY FOSTIR, MARY E. SARGINT, the Rev. J. Freman Klark, LIDIA MARIAR
CHILDE and Frank B. Sanborne, Vice Presidents. THE REV. HON. JUDGE AGUSTY J. CHAPIN, ESQ., L.L.D., opened the
dance with a prologue. Mrs. How then rose and got up, and said: “Feller citizens: We’ve got together, as usual, without any
plan of operation, except to howl and make faces at the critter man,
ontil he is ready to give up his liberties and endow us angelic
beeins with the privilege of fillin’ up with benzine on eleckshun day;
to vote and rool the destinies of the land.” (Cheers.) “No woman who desires the ballit, shall desist from hen-peckin
her husband, ontil, in his agony, he cries: ‘Peace! be still! there’s
my harness, get into it.'” Mrs. LIVERMOOR, H.B. Blackwell, MARGARET CAMBELL, M. Fiske,
and SARY E. WILKINS, committee on resolutions, reported the follerin: Whereas: When our anshient relative, Adam, had the
monopoly of the ballit box, it was diskivered that it was not ment for
man to vote alone, and enjoy too much of a good thing. Consekently EVE
was sent to stir him up. Whereas: When Mother EVE got there, she made it
slightly warm for Adam, by assertin’ her rites. Like many of our
members, she made Adam “walk chalk.” On eleckshun day she took him by
the ear and walked him to the poles, and for the first time in his life
he voted the woman’s rites ticket, and Mr. SATIN was elected by a
unanimous vote. Therefore, we recognize in EVE the pioneer of woman’s rites,
with ST. NICKOLAS as our patron saint. (Great applause, with “3 cheers
for OLD NICK, the first candidate elected by femail suffrage.”) It was then resolved to send committees to the Democratic and
Republican conventions, to see if any LOONATICS had been nominated, who
were in favor of femail soopremiosity. If any such persons were found, they should be requested to
announce it through the columns of the Woman’s Journal, and let
the world know the fools wasent all dead yet. Should the candidates be opposed to our cause, it was
recommended that when the Woman’s Convention Committee meet, on the
18th of October, that ten talented talkers be appointed to surround the
candidates and talk them to death as a warnin to futer candidates. Congratulatory speeches, endorsin’ these last resolutions, was
made by the wimmen, and I gess they would have kept talkin’ ontil
doomsday, if the chokin-off committee hadn’t been sent around with
copies of Harper’s Bazaar, full of pictures of the new fall
fashions. (Between you and I, Mister PUNCHINELLO, the only thing which
our wives goes heavier on than their rites, so called, is fashions.)
The convention then thanked Hon. Hank Wilson for blowin’ their trumpet,
and voted to present him with a new hoop skirt and a pound of spruce
gum as a token of their appreciation. Charles Sumner was then trotted, out, viz.: Whereas: Charles Sumner has, somehow or other, got one
foot kerslop on our platform; Whereas: He must go the hul hog or none; Be it resolved: We can’t take any stock in Charly,
ontil he wears his hair parted in the middle and done up in a
waterfall, pledgin’ himself to go his entire length, next winter, for
the 16th Commendment. (Enthusiastic applause. Cries of “them’s um!”
“Kor-rect!” “Selah!'” etc.; “Bully boy with the glass eye!” etc., etc.) Mrs. How then got up and said thusly: “My friends: I’me down
onto colleges like a 1000 of brick. They are the mad puddles of
artificial ignorance. If a red-headed woman was alowed to shed her
lite, the proffessors would be throwed into the shades rite lively. The
result would be, the blind would lead the near-sited by the nose.
Them’s my sentiments.” Stephen L. Fostir got up and said: “He woulden’t go to the poles on eleckshun without his wife as
his ekal a hangin’ on his arm.” Mrs. LIVERMORE sprung quickly to her feet and said: “She’d bet
$4.00 if she was Steve’s wife, he’d go to the poles under diffikilties,
then, for she wasen’t the woman who thought the man lived that was the
ekal of any woman; and that hain’t all,” said she. “When we get hold of
the ballit, man has got to get up early in the mornin’ to fool us
much. All the koketting with the Democrats, Republicans,
Prohibitionists, and Labor Reformers in the offis of the Woman’s
Journal, last summer, don’t amount to shucks. Prominent politicians
had entreeted her to go slow and not mash things. I can only say,” said
Mrs. L., “as John Bunyan once said: ‘When
woman will, she will.
And you can jest bet on’t;
When she won’t, she won’t,
And there’s an end on’t.'” An aged individual named Jenking, from Andover, said: “When he
was in his first childhood, he was drest in peticotes. He was now over
75 years old, and believed an old man would feel better in caliker than
satinett. Hereafter they could count on him to wear out their old
dresses.” A few left-handed compliments were paid to Wendil Fillips, and
altho’ Wendil had allers went heavy on Wimmen’s Rites, his bein’
endossed by his own sex was a squelcher on him. He wasen’t endossed,
but, like Jonah, went overboard, to be hove up agin onto dry land in a
few days, for a whale has got to have a pretty good stomack to keep
Mister Fillips down a great while. That’s so. A few more resolutions were then voted, but as the Mayor of
Bosting had sent lots of perlicemen there, I didn’t heer of any men
gettin’ killed outrite, altho’ a few innercent husbands got slitely
bruised by bein’ whacked over their heads with their wive’s umbrellers.
Then they adjerned. The
critters then got in their vests
And then got in their cotes,
Then got in a dredful pes-
Piration about their votes. (Let ’em sweat.) Ewers, a Non-Resistanter, HIRAM GREEN, Esq., Lait Gustise of the Peece.
FALLEN ON THE MARCH. You
see that hoss, don’t you, there, sir, ahead?
Well, that’s JAKE. An hour ago,
The last trip up, he fell—stone
dead:
Drop’t right flat in his
harness, you know.
He’d fell down, too, pooty
often before,
And—I guess he won’t do it,
though, any more. I allas pitied the poor old cuss;
He was mighty hard driv and
terrible thin,
And many a time when he quit the
‘bus
I’ve led the mis’rable creetur
in
And giv him a reg’lar bang-up
feed
That the Company thought he
didn’t need. And now, to see him lyin’ there
All by himself, a feast for the
flies,—
Why, it kinder makes a feller’s
hair
Creep all over, first, then
straighten and rise.
Maybe you’ll say to yourself:
“That’s all stuff.”
But I tell you what—I
think it’s blamed rough. It makes me feel, too, a little
bit glum,
To see how everything goes on
the same;
Some day, I s’pose, my
turn ‘ll come,
When I’ll have to try on poor
JAKE’S little game,
And they won’t mind me any
more, I’ll bet.
Than they do him.—Off, here,
sir?—G’long, JEANETTE!
 A FITFUL YOUTH. Younger Party. “LOOK HERE, VAN, CAN’T YOU LEAVE THOSE
“PERSONALS” ALONE, FOR A MINUTE, AND GIVE ME A CANDID OPINION ON THE
BACK FIT OF MY NEW COAT?”
AUTUMN SONG. Leaves
are falling (though, coal is not,)
And pumpkins are yellow, and
maids are blue;
Potatoes and apples begin to rot;
There’s many a liver congested,
too. The dews stay late on the
cabbage-leaf,
And the red, red beet forsakes
the ground;
And lovers’ wanderings grow more
brief,
And fewer loafers are loafing
around. The celery rivals the turnip fair;
There’s new delight in the
tender steak;
And boys go munching the chestnut
rare,
Without one thought of the
stomach-ache. The last of the cattle-shows is
seen;
The monster squash to the cows
is fed;
Everything’s brown that once was
green,
Except tomatoes, and they are
red. The drowsy citizen hates to rise;
The hash may be cold, but so is
the air:
‘Tis heaven to slumber, for now
the flies
Are less affectionate, and more
rare. And who is the busiest man we see?
‘Tis the Doctor, dashing by in
his chaise;
And well may he hurry, you will
agree,
For it isn’t every patient that
pays. ‘Tis a rare, rare season,—so
breezy and bright!
The dahlias, and even the
squashes, are gay!
One wouldn’t regret the cold at
night,
If it wasn’t so deucedly cold
by day. A wandering shiver inspires the
doubt
Whether Indian Summer will come
this year;
But its warmth can be felt when
you don’t go out,
And it’s haze may be seen
through a glass of beer.
Query for Romancers. Used the Knights of the Round Table ever to get a “Square
meal”?
SARSFIELD YOUNG ATTENDS A COUNTY FAIR. DEAR PUNCHINELLO: From early ages, man has been a tiller of
the soil. My ancestors were pretty much all in this line of business.
My venerable great-grandfather-in-law came over in the Mayflower, and
though not exactly a tiller himself, he is supposed to have had a good
deal to do with the tiller department of that historic ship. Several of
our folks have, from time to time, studied agriculture on New England
town farms; which explains the passion I always had for such attractive
out-of-door sports as stump-pulling, laying stone wall, and drinking
very hard cider in the shade. Being down at my uncle’s this week, I have attended the Annual
County Agricultural Fair. The managers wanted me to go on one of the
committees, (whether it was plain Durhams, or short-horn needle-work, I
don’t this moment remember,) but I declined. I told them that, while I
was ready to fill any vacancy that might occur in the “Committee on
Bills upon their Second Reading,” they really must excuse me elsewhere.
I finally compromised by accepting a free pass, and agreeing to poke
the ribs of all the cattle I could reach, just as though I was a bona
fide official. The show began yesterday with a grand concourse of all the
farming people for miles around. Every farmer brought a pair of hands
with him. The teams were innumerable; I had no idea it was such a
teeming population. There was a procession of yokes of oxen, a brass
band, the living skeleton, two fire engines, citizens generally, the
Orator of the Day, more oxen, marshals in cowhide boots and badges, and
a cavalcade. There may have been other oxen. I did not intend to omit
them. The Orator was announced in the bills as “a finished speaker.”
He managed to get himself so thoroughly mixed up with his subject,
however, and knew so much about farming, which he was willing to
disclose, that I soon saw he couldn’t be safely set down as finished
till late in the afternoon. I don’t recall much of his address, further
than that, when he got to talking about Fall Ploughing, he said: “In
the hour of his country’s peril, if fall he must, he would a little
rather fall ploughing, than in any other way!” I think, too, he spoke
of the Fates always smiling upon the farmer who improved his soil. I
suppose he meant the phosphates. To-day I have been all around the cattle pens. I never saw
such stock before. Owing to their habit of staying out in the country
the year round, they have a firm, sleek, animated look which the best
guaranteed city stock fails to attain. One cow, from her impartial
method of hoisting visitors out of her pasture, was labelled “The
General Hooker.” There was a fine display of Dorking lambs and Jersey hens,
while some bees of the Berkshire breed fairly divided the honors with a
few very choice Merino pigs. A handsomely built North Devon chain-pump
attracted much attention from the milkmen. The turkeys, geese, ducks, poultry and other farm yard habitués,
though cooped up in one corner, did all they could to make the show a
success. The products of the soil were heaped up in the richest
profusion. This is a great raising county. No community raised their
quota of substitutes more rapidly, during the war. Rows upon rows of
corn, of barley, rye and oats [like most modern Serials,] seemed as
though they would never come to an end. Some early squashes were pointed out to me. I understood that
they were gathered at four o’clock in the morning. This is nothing. I
distinctly remember picking up watermelons, when a schoolboy, much
earlier than that. The butter, cheese, and bed quilts, were all of the finest
texture. Everybody took a first premium. Among the newly patented inventions I noticed “The JOHN
MORRISSEY Smasher,” “The Swamp Angel Sheller,” and a lovely piece of
mechanism called “The Just One Mower.” There was the usual horse trotting from morning to night, both
days, with pool selling, from which, I presume, agriculture derived
great benefit. I say nothing of the other side-shows, for (with the exception
of ALEXIS ST. MARTIN,) I never heard of one that was worth going across
the street to see. Yours truly, and yours rurally, SARSFIELD YOUNG.
OUR PORTFOLIO. PARIS, THIRD WEEK OF THE REPUBLIC, 1870. DEAR PUNCHINELLO: I concluded I would leave Paris for Tours
last week, as the refusal of Life Insurance Companies to take war risks
made me apprehensive for the temporal welfare of the youthful TINTOS in
case I should be untimely called hence. It was a wise resolution, but a
few trifling obstacles, to which I shall refer, prevented me from
carrying it out. WASHBURNE advised me, as the safest means of escape, to adopt
the character of an American tourist, with which disguise he thought
the Gallic cast of my features would not materially interfere. I took
the hint, and, assuming my scrip and staff, set forth by way of the
Neuilly gate towards Courbevoie. It was after nightfall when I reached
the bridge that crosses the Seine in that neighborhood. A garde
mobile was pacing over the crest of the slight acclivity that rises
near its eastern extremity. As I approached he came to a halt, and challenged me sharply. “Qui va là?” “C’est moi,” I answered, (with a very decent accent
which I had cultivated by the daily use of a mild decoction of
alum-water—an application which I can cordially recommend to Americans
who do not naturally possess that peculiar “pucker” of the lips
essential to the correct pronunciation of the French language.) “C’est moi, mon ami,” I repeated. “The countersign,” said the garde. “What countersign?” said I, remembering to my consternation
that I had forgotten to secure that important credential. The sentry brought his piece to that position which usually
precedes the order “Take aim.” I got back a few feet—the situation was
too close. “Mon ami,” I ventured to observe, “that ain’t the way
we treat noncombatants in America.” “The countersign,” reiterated the garde, still holding
his chassepot in the previous threatening manner. I looked up. The stars were in the quiet sky, and the new moon
was just sinking beneath the bold outline of Mount Valerien. The surge
of the Seine against the stone piers of the bridge could be distinctly
heard. The scene was unspeakably tranquil, not to say mournful, and I
said to myself, “Is this a night for assassination?” Again I looked up, and I saw the gleam of two more bayonets at
the other end of the bridge. Thereupon I said to myself, “This is not a
night for assassination.” “The countersign,” for the third time, proceeded from the
armed Apollyon in front of me. I grew familiar. “Come now, my good friend, this little business of mine
requires some dispatch. During the war in America—” The click of the hammer of the sentry’s rifle interrupted me.
I felt uncomfortable. I had been out in the night air many times
before, but I never knew it to be so disagreeably chilly. It climbed in
behind my shirt collar, travelled down my back with a shivering
sensation, and culminated in a regular ague when it reached my knees.
With a terrific effort I calmed myself, and opened on the soldiers
again. “During the war in America—” There are occasions in a man’s
lifetime when the mere fact of his tongue cleaving unexpectedly to the
roof of his mouth is no evidence of cowardice. I had unquestionably
reached that eventful period of my existence, but I also possessed
physical energy to try once more. “My good, kind friend, I was going to say that during the war
in America—” “Oh! d—n your war in America!” roared the sentry, levelling
his rifle full at me. There is no American living who would sooner resent an insult
to his native land than myself, and at such a crisis I felt that within
me which might rise at any moment and crush the foul calumniator. But I
reasoned to myself that I would not take the life of this man, now. I
would wait awhile. It was only too evident he was angry, and he might
cool off and apologize. Yes, that was the best course for me to pursue.
Accordingly I ran rapidly over in my mind a little speech, and, turning
to him, spoke thus: “Rash, impetuous man—” L A T E R. Thanks to the persistent efforts of my dear friend WASHBURNE,
I have just been released from the guard-house after three hideous days
of incarceration. His is a heart that I may truthfully say yearns
toward the unfortunate. I consider him the crowning glory of American
diplomacy in Europe. Language is inadequate to express the feelings of
one who regrets that his sex forbids him to sign himself Your weeping MAGDALEN, DICK TINTO.
A Toothsome Con. Why should dentists be entitled to class with artists? Because
they all draw.
NEWSPAPER PERILS. The local reporter of a Boston daily gives us the following: “On Wednesday morning, as the early freight train on the Old
Colony railroad neared the bridge in Quincy, THOMAS ELLIS, a brakeman,
raised up for the purpose of throwing off a bundle of newspapers, when
he was struck by the timbers of the bridge and knocked senseless upon
his car. He wan saved from rolling to the track by TIMOTHY LEE, a paper
boy who was upon the train.” We are sorry for ELLIS. But he ought to be thankful for one
thing,—he has a mission. He need not ask, like ANNA DICKINSON: “Why was
I born?” It is all settled that he was “raised up” for the purpose of
throwing off newspapers. Now, although he missed it this time, we have
no doubt he is ordinarily as successful in that line as the most
improved Lightning Press could be. Should he, unfortunately, continue
senseless, PUNCHINELLO suggests that THOMAS devote himself to “throwing
off” editorial articles for the Sun, It was very noble in TIMOTHY LEE so promptly to come to the
rescue. But,—hold! PUNCHINELLO will not be imposed upon: at this moment
are there not grounds for suspecting this “paper boy” to have been
merely a “man of straw”?
 APPROPRIATE. Pompey, (sawing.) “HOW YOU GWINE TO VOTE, SAM?—I’SE
BIN saw BY DE ‘PUBLICAN PARTY.” Sambo. “BOFE PARTIES SEE’D ME, AND SO I’M GWINE TO
SPLIT.”
A Sporting Con. Why is the famous horse DEXTER like a musical conductor? Because he beats Time.
Theatrical Item. Since Colonel FISK, Jr., floored that other manager, he is
known in the profession as the great floor manager.
Good News for the Birds. In Westchester county a fine of $25 is hereafter to be levied
upon each jackass in human form who shoots birds on Sunday. It is to be
hoped that the little bills may thus be saved from holiday havoc by
persons who object to incurring large ones.
 CONSTERNATION OF THE EDITORIAL STAFF OF THE NEW YORK SUN,
(INCLUDING THE OFFICE BOY,) ON SEEING CHIEF EDITOR PECKSNIFF DANA
DECLINING TO ACCEPT A HEAVY BRIBE OFFERED HIM TO PUBLISH A MENDACIOUS
PARAGRAPH ABOUT A RESPECTABLE CONTEMPORARY.
A NEW SENSATION WANTED. The reprehensible haste with which various European nations
terminate their wars is a source of annoyance to every one. Hardly have
we acquired a decided taste for news of some transient war or other,
when the conflicting parties judge that they have had enough of it, and
thus an avenue of enjoyment is summarily closed. It is as though one’s natural aversion to tomatoes had
gradually changed to liking, and then an untimely autumn frost had
come, to anticipate the gardener and the air-tight can. These foreigners are so different from the Americans! During the Rebellion—a comparatively staid and respectable
affair—a correspondent, after the first two years, became so expert as
to anticipate battles, and knew as much about war as a general. War
news and buckwheat cakes enlivened the matutinal meal. The chances pro
and con gave a zest to conversations else intolerably dull. The war was
an Institution. But see how it is in Europe. In ’66, they spirted away for six weeks and stopped. And now,
after a similar splurge, they have as good as stopped once more. The
correspondents just sent over by our “enterprising” newspapers, are
hardly yet recovered from their sea-sickness. Just as they begin to
sharpen their pencils, presto! the war is over, and the occupation of
these hardy gentlemen is gone. Can nothing be done about this? If a protest—”firm and
dignified”—would really do no good, what about some new
excitement, which, as every one knows, we must have or perish!
Will no other jealous contiguous nations fall out? Must we fall out
ourselves? Election is still a good way off, and, really, we don’t see
what’s to be done. Fights are few, and suicides are falling off. The
Indians are disgustingly peaceful, and even the Mormons have subsided.
It is two years and over to the next Presidential election; and there
is no more cholera. Really, this is too bad! We must muse on the situation for a
season, and, meanwhile, shall confidently expect something or other to
turn up almost any day.
PUSS AS A PORT-MONNAIE. The following eccentric freak of a cat is reported in a daily
paper: “A two dollar note was taken to one of the Lebanon banks for
redemption last week, which had been taken from the intestines of a
cat, in Montgomery county. The cat had stolen the note and swallowed
it, was caught and shot, and the note thus recovered.” There is nothing new in getting notes “from the intestines of
a cat.” PAGANINI got no end of notes from catgut. So do VIEUXTEMPS, and
OLE BULL, and TOM BAKER, and others too numerous to mention. The cat
that swallowed the greenback should have been added to BARNUM’S “Happy
Family,” however, instead of being sacrificed to Mammon. With its
two-dollar bill it would have been a formidable rival to the Ornithorynchus
Paradoxus, or beast with a bill, of Australia.
NEW PUBLICATIONS. A TREATISE ON THE BANKRUPT LAW, FOR BUSINESS MEN. By AUDLEY W.
GAZZAM, Solicitor in Bankruptcy, Utica, N. Y. New York: GEORGE T.
DELLER, No. 95 Liberty Street. This book contains not only all the latest amendments to the
Bankrupt Act, with copious notes covering the latest English and
American decisions, but it also has a prefatory chapter of “Hints to
Persons contemplating Bankruptcy.” PUNCHINELLO, feeling a deep interest
in the welfare of The Sun, The Free Press, and certain
others of his contemporaries, earnestly requests their attention to
that chapter. Some such advice as it contains is evidently needed by
them for their guidance through the financial gloom that seems to be
settling on them. The loss of thirty per cent of its circulation within
the past month has brought deep depression upon The Sun. The festive
laugh of its editors —especially that of the roystering Lothario OLIVER
DYER,—is but seldom heard, now, in the famed restaurant of MOUQUIN. We
cordially commend to their notice, then, the work in question, that,
availing themselves of its “Hints,” they may so arrange as to have
ready, when the smash comes, funds to qualify them for enjoying the
blessed privilege constitutionally granted to all who, like them, have
been “weighed in the balance and found wanting.”
| 
