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.
 FASHIONABLE RELIGION. Father. “WELL, MY DEAR, DID YOU HAVE AN AMUSING SERMON
THIS MORNING?” Daughter. “O NO!—VERY STUPID. DR. CHIPPER ISN’T THE
LEAST FUNNY
NOWADAYS—PREACHES THE REGULAR OLD MISERABLE SINNER SORT OF BUSINESS.”
GREAT MEN OF AMERICA. By MOSE SKINNER DANIEL WEBSTER Was the sort of a man you don’t find laying round loose
nowadays to any great extent. It’s a pity his brains wasn’t preserved
in a glass case, where the imbecile lunatics at Washington could take a
whiff occasionally. It would do ’em good. We are told that as a boy DANIEL was stupid, but this has been
said of so many great men that it’s getting stale. Some talented men
were undoubtedly stupid boys, but it doesn’t follow that every idiotic
youth will make an eminent statesman. But there are plenty of vacancies
in the statesman business. A great many men go into it, but they fail
for want of capital. If they would only stick to their legitimate
business of clam-digging, or something of that sort, we should
appreciate them, and their obituary notice would be a thing to love,
because ‘twould be short. But D. WEBSTER wasn’t one of this sort. He didn’t force
Nature. He forgot enough every day to set five modern politicians up
for life. When he opened his mouth to speak, it didn’t act upon the
audience like chloroform, nor did the senate-chamber look five minutes
after like a receiving tomb, with the bodies laying round
promiscuously. I should say not. He could wade right into the middle of
a dictionary and drag out some ideas that were wholesome. Yes, when
DANIEL in that senatorial den did get his back up, the
political lions just stood back and growled. Take him altogether he was our biggest gun, and it’s a pity he
went off as he did, for he was the Great Expounder of the Constitution. HON. JOHN MORRISSEY Is also a Great Ex-pounder. Even greater than WEBSTER, for the
constitution of the United States is a trifling affair, compared with
the constitution of J.C. HEENAN. Mr. MORRISSEY is a very able man and made his mark early in
life. Before he could write his name, I’m told. No man has made more
brilliant hits, and his speeches are concise and full of originality.
“I’ll take mine straight.” “No sugar for me,” &c., have become as
household words. A man like this, though he may be vilified and slandered for
awhile, will eventually come in on the home stretch with a right bower
to spare. That’s a nice place JOHN has got at Saratoga. Fitted up so
elegantly, and with so much money in it, it looks like a Fairy bank
with the fairies gambolling upon the green. It’s all very pretty, no
doubt, but excuse me if I pass. GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN. This gentleman is yet destined to send a thrill of joy to our
hearts, and flood our souls with a calm and tranquil joy. This will
come off when his funeral takes place. He wasn’t born like other
people. He was made to order for the position of common scold in a
country sewing-circle. But he wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to be an Eminent Lunatic
and found private mad-houses. And so he began to lecture. He used to
rehearse in a graveyard, and it was a common thing for a newly-buried
corpse to organize a private resurrection and make for the woods,
howling dismally. A village out West was singularly unfortunate last summer. In
the first place the cholera raged, then they had an earthquake, and
then G.F. TRAIN lectured three nights. Owing to this accumulation of
horrors the village is no longer to be found on the maps. TRAIN’S
second night did the business for ’em. The once happy villagers are now
aimless wanderers, and one poor old man was found in the churchyard,
studying a war map of Paris and vicinity in a late New York paper. It is said that TRAIN has his eye on the White House, and is
indeed a shrewd, far-seeing man. When he visited Europe and kissed all
the little Irish girls, could he have had in his mind the time when
they, as naturalized American Female Suffragers, would cast their votes
for G.F. TRAIN as President? That the mind of the reader may not become hopelessly dazed by
contemplating this last paragraph, I will stop. MOTHER GOOSE. I cannot close these memoirs without a simple tribute to this
remarkable woman, who has probably done more to mould the destinies of
this Republic than any other man put together. She was an eminently
pious woman, devoted body and soul to Foreign Missions, and to the
great work of sending the gospel to New Jersey. But it was as a composer that her brilliant talents stand
preeminent. MOZART, BEETHOVEN, and a host of others excelled in this
respect, but they all lack that exquisite pathos and graceful rhetoric
which so distinguished this queen of literature. The beautiful
creations of that fruitful brain are as a passing panorama of constant
delight. Her style is singularly free from affectation, and, while we
are at one moment rapt in wonder at her chaste and vigorous description
of the annoyances of a female in the autumn of life, training up a
large family in the limited accommodations afforded by a common shoe,
we cannot but feel a twinge of compassion for the singular Mrs. HUBBARD
and her lovely dog, who “had none,” only to have those tears chased
away by the arch and guileless portrayal of the eccentric JOHN HORNER. That we cannot to-day gaze upon the classic lineaments of her
who welded such a facile pen, is a source of the most poignant regret.
It is a crying shame, for I think I am correct when I say that there
does not exist on the civilized globe a statue of this peerless woman,
but she will always live as long as there are infant minds to form, or
tender recollections of childhood to remember. P.S.—I forgot to say that I hold a copyright of old GRANNY
GOOSE’S works. I have just got it renewed, and it is as vigorous as a
kicking-mule. Send in your orders. Contributions to the old gal’s
statue will be duly acknowledged, and deposited with my tailor.
THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.  JANAUSCHEK is a
Bohemian, and with the Bohemian propensity for
picking up things, has picked up the English language. The public is
somewhat divided in its estimate of her skill in speaking English.
One-half of her average audience insists that she speaks better English
than nine-tenths of our native actresses: the other half asserts that
she is at times nearly unintelligible. Neither of these statements
necessarily contradicting the other, they might both be easily true.
The fact is, however, that she speaks English like a foreigner. Mud
itself—or a Sun editorial—could not be plainer than this definition of
her exact proficiency in our unmelodious tongue.
If we go to see her play “Lady Macbeth,” we meet evidences at
every step of her want of familiarity with English, or at all events
with American customs. We find her playing at the ACADEMY, and we at
once remark that no one but an unnecessarily foreign actress would dare
to awaken the sepulchral echoes of that dismal tomb. We find, too, that
at the very threshold of the house she defies the one of the most
time-honored institutions of our stage, by employing a pleasant and
courteous door-keeper—instead of the snarling Cerberus who lies in wait
at the doors of other theatres. We find again that she outrages the
public by the presence of decent and civil ushers, who neither insult
the male spectators by their surly impudence, nor annoy the lady
visitor by coloring her train with tobacco juice. So that before the
curtain rises we are prepared to lament over her unfamiliarity with
American customs, and to predict her ignorance of the American, as well
as the English language. Divers well-meaning persons repeat the dialogue of the earlier
scenes of the play. There is a good deal of dramatic force in the legs
of Mr. MONTGOMERY, who plays “Macbeth,” much animation in the feathers
which Mr. STUDLEY’S “Macduff” wears in his hat, and a foreshadowing of
ghostly peculiarities in the solemn stride of Mr. DE VERE’S “Banquo.”
We listen to these gentlemen with polite patience, waiting for the
appearance of “Lady Macbeth.” When at length that strong-minded female
strides across the stage, we hail her with rapturous applause, and
listen for the strident voice with which the average “Lady Macbeth”
reads her husband’s letter. We don’t hear it, however, for JANAUSCHEK reads in a tone as
low as that which a sensible woman who was plotting treason and murder
would be apt to use. Why “Lady Macbeth” should proclaim her deadly
purpose at the top of her lungs is quite incomprehensible, except upon
the theory that stage traditions have confounded the Scotch with the
Irish, and that the “Macbeths” husband and wife—being the typical
Fenians of the period, were accustomed to roar their secrets to the
listening world. Be that as it may, we are constrained to note the actress’s
unfamiliarity with the language, as evinced in the tone in which she
reads the letter, and also in the way in which she urges her husband
onward in the path of crime. The usual “Lady Macbeth” “goes for” her
weakminded spouse, and drives him by threats and strong-language to
consent to her little game. JANAUSCHEK, on the contrary, does not raise
a broom-stick, or even her voice, at “Macbeth,” but actually coaxes him
to be so good as to kill the king, so that she can bring all her
relations to court, and appoint them surveyors, and internal revenue
collectors, and foreign ministers. This is not the tone of other
actresses in the same part, and we therefore at once charge her
departure from the common standard to her ignorance of English. We listen with fortitude to the dismal singing of the witches
and their friends in mask and domino. The music, we are told, is
“LOCKE’S music.” What is the proper key for LOCKE’S music, is a
question which we have never attempted to solve, but we heartily wish
that the key were lost forever, since by its aid the singers open
vistas of musical dreariness which are disheartening to the last
degree. But we sustain our spirits with the thought of the bloody
murder that is coming. Talk as we ill, we all enjoy our murders,
whether we read of them in the Sun and the Police Gazette,
or witness them upon the stage. When JANAUSCHEK comes upon “Macbeth” with his bloody hands,
and explains to him that it is now too late to repent, either of murder
or matrimony, she furnishes us with more instances of her unfamiliarity
with the language. Her night-dress is not at all the sort of thing
which an English-speaking woman would be willing to sleep in. We are
confident upon this point, and we have on our side the testimony of a
married man who has lived four years in Chicago, and has been annually
married with great regularity. If he doesn’t know what the average
female regards as the proper thing in night-dresses, it would be
difficult to find a man who does. Then, too, her gross ignorance of
English is shown in her back hair, which is a foot longer than the
average hair of previous “Lady Macbeths,” and is as thick and massive
as a lion’s mane. Wicked and punnish persons go so far as to call it
her mane attraction. They are wrong, however. JANAUSCHEK does not draw
by the force of capillary attraction. By the bye, did any one ever
notice the fact that while a painter cannot be considered an artist
unless he draws well, an actress may be the greatest of artists and not
be able to draw a hundred people? But this is wandering. Owing to the imperfections of her English, JANAUSCHEK does not
indulge in drinking from the gilded pasteboard goblets which grace the
banquet scene. She also shows her lingual weakness in the sleep-walking
scene. For instance, when, after having reigned queen of Scotland for
several months, the happy thought of washing her hands strikes her, she
commits the absurdity of scrubbing them with her hair. On the other
hand, she pronounces the words “damned spot” with a, perfection of
accent that constrains us to believe that she must have taken at least
a few lessons in pronunciation from some of the leading members of
WALLACK’S company. Still, her way of walking blindly into the table,
and falling over casual chairs, ought to convince the most skeptical
person that her English accent is not yet what it should be. And in
general, her walk and conversation in this scene demonstrate that even
the most carefully simulated somnambulism may not resemble in all
respects the most approved Oxford pronunciation. But when we are freed from the depressing influences of the
Academical Crypt, we forget all but our admiration of JANAUSCHEK’S
superb acting, and the exceptional command which she has gained over a
language so vexatious in its villanous consonants as our own. And we
express to every available listener the earnest hope that SKEBACH and
FECHTER will profit by her success, and at once begin the study of
English, with the view of devoting their efforts hereafter to the
American stage. MATADOR.
POISONING THE PLUGS. A Rampant Virginia editor proposes to kill off the Yankees by
putting poison in chewing-tobacco, so that we shall meet mortality in
mastication, fate in fine-cut, and perdition in the soothing plug! In
short, Virginia not having got the best of it in political quiddities,
this pen-patriot is for trying the other kind. The short-sightedness of
this policy will be evident, when we remember how many Republicans
consider the weed to be the abomination of desolation. Virginia might
poison chewing-tobacco till the crack of doom, but what effect would
that have upon the eschewing (not chewing) GREELEY, who, even if he
used it, has bitten T(he) WEED so many times that he can consider
himself poison-proof. When, moreover, this LUCRETIA BORGIA in
pantaloons remembers that his scheme might prove more fatal to his
friends than his enemies, perhaps he will take rather a larger quid
than usual, and grow benevolent under its bland influences.
FIRM AS A ROCK. All the newspapers are full of descriptions of the earthquake
of the 20th of October, and of the panic thereby occasioned. We are
proud to state, although massive buildings quivered and great cities
were scared, that Mr. PUNCHINELLO was not in the least shaken. At the
moment of the quake (11h. 26m. A.M.) he must have been seated upon his
drum partaking of a lunch of sandwiches and small beer. He did not
perceive the slightest reverberation, nor did the drum give the least
vibratory sign. Mr. PUNCHINELLO has prepared a most elaborate and
scientific paper, giving a full and elaborate and intensely scientific
description of the various phenomena which he did not perceive, and
which he proposes to read before any scientific associations which may
invite him to do so. Terms, $50 and expenses.
 THE PREVAILING DISORDER. Planet (responsively). “WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH ME,
EH?—GOT THE FEVER
AND EARTHQUAKER—GOT ‘EM BAD.”
EDITOR’S DRAWER. OH YES! PUNCHINELLO has an Editor’s Drawer, and a very nice
one, too. (As no allusion is here made to any of the artists of the
paper, you needn’t be getting ready to laugh.) This Drawer—and no
periodical in the country possesses a better one—is chock full of the
most splendid anecdotes, and as it is impossible to keep them shut up
any longer (for some of them are getting very old and musty), a few of
the bottom ones will now be given to the public.
A GENTLEMAN just returned from a tour in Western Asia sends to
the Drawer the following account of a little bit of pleasantry which
took place in the gala town of South Amboy:— A young doctor, clever, rich, pure-minded, and just, but of
somewhat ambigufied principles, was strenuously married to a sweet
young creature, delicate as a daffodil, and altogether loveliacious.
One night, having been entreated by a select party of his most aged
patients to go with them on a horniferous bendation, he gradually
dropped, by dramific degrees, in a state of absolute tipsidity, and
four clergymen, who happened to be passing, carried him home on a
shutter, and thus ushered him in all his drunkosity, into the presence
of his little better-half, who was drawing in crayons in the back
parlor. “My dear,” said she, looking up with an angelic smile, “why did
you come home in that odd manner, upon a shutter?” “Because, mon
ange,” said he, “you see that these worthy gentlemen, all good men
and true, mon only ange, brought me home upon a shutter
because they were not able to get any of the doors off of their hinges.
(Hic.)” This is almost too funny.
The descendant of the Hamnisticorious sojourner in the ark
knows what is good for him. For pungent proof, hear this: A young lady,
a daughter of the venerable and hospitable General G—–, of Upper
Guilford, Conn., was once catechizing a black camp-meeting, and when
the exercises were over, a colored brother approached her and said: “Look-a-yar now, ‘s MARY, jist gib dis nigger one obdem
catekidgeble books.” “But what would you do with it, CUDJO, if I gave it to you?” “Oh, dis chile ‘ud take it!” Ha! ha! ha! Our colored brother will have his wild hilarity.
Two septennialated youngsters of Boston. Mass, (so writes
their gifted mother), thus recently dialogued: “PERSEUS,” said the younger, “why was the noble WASHINGTON
buried at Mount Vernon?” “Because he was dead,” boldly answered his brother. Oh! the tender-aged! How their sub-corrected longings curb our
much maturer yearnings.
Here is an anecdote of a “four-year old,” which we give in the
exact words of our correspondent, an aged and respected resident of
Oswego county, in this State: “Well, now, ye see, I couldn’t do nothing at all with this
‘ere four-year old ‘o mine, fur he was jist as wild an onruly as
anything ye ever see; and so I jist knocked him in the head, and kep
the hide and the taller, and got thirteen cents a pound for the beef,
which wasn’t so bad, ye see.” Strange, practical man! We could not do thus with all our
little tid-toddlers of but four bright summers.
A correspondent in San Francisco sends the Drawer these
epitaphs, which are entirely too good to be lost. The first is from the grave of a farmer, much notorified for
his “forehandidification,” and who, it is needless to say, was buried
on his own farm:— “Here
lies JOHN SIMMS, who always did
Good farming understand;
E’en now he’s gratified to think
He benefits his land.” Here is one upon a gambler, who died of some sort of sickness,
superinduced by some description of disease:— “His
hand was so bad that he laid him down here;
But up he will certainly jump,
And quick follow suit for the
rest of the game
When Gabriel plays his last
trump.” Here is one on a truly unfortunate member of the human race:— “Here lies CORNELIUS COX,
who, on account of a series of
unhappy occurrences, the principal
of which were a greatly increased
rent and consumption of
the lungs,
Got himself into a tight box.” The ladies must not be neglected. Sweet creatures! even on
tombstones we sing their praises. This is to the memory of a
fashionable and lovely siren of society:— “She always moved with distinguished grace,
And never was known to make
slips.
At last she sank down into this
grave
With the neatest of Boston
dips.”
An old lady in Bangor, Maine, sends the following entertaining anecdote
of one of our most distinguished fellow-citizens:— The late Senator R—–, who, by the way, was a very portly
man, was in the habit of riding over the fields to consult Judge
B—–, his wife’s cousin, on points of extra-judicial import. One
morning, just as he was about to get down from his horse.—(NOTE BY
ED.—The middle of this anecdote is so long, so dull, and has so little
connection with either the head or the tail, that it is necessarily
omitted.) “Well,” said the Judge, “what would you do then?” “I don’t know,” said the Senator. “Do you?” If our public men were, at all times, as thoughtful as these
two, the country would be better for it.
NECESSARY NOTE.—Persons sending anecdotes to this Drawer (or
those reading them), need not expect to make anything by the operation.
PRUSSIAN PRACTICE AND PROFESSION. KING WILLIAM of Prussia thinks he has a mission to perform,
and goes on his present raid in France as a missionary. To an
unprejudiced sceptic, however, needle-guns, rifle-cannons, requisitions
on the country, devastations of crops, bombarding of cities, and the
rest of the accompaniments of his progress are, if possible, even worse
in their effects upon the unhappy people subjected to his missionary
efforts than the New England rum which accompanied the real
missionaries in their descent upon the now depopulated islands of the
Pacific. Private people with missions are nuisances, but public people
with such ideas are simply unbearable. In the case of kings, if we may trust the democratic movement
which this war in Europe is aiding so greatly, the only mission the
people will soon allow to kings is dis-mission.
Prussian Cruelty. “A PASS for THIERS,” the telegrams state, has been promised by
the King of Prussia. There is a sound of mockery in this. Prussia’s
obstinacy in pushing the war has made so many widows and orphans that
all France is a PASS for TEARS.
 FRIGHTFUL SHOCK SUSTAINED BY BEAU BIGSBY ON BEING SUDDENLY
BROUGHT FACE TO FACE WITH ONE OF THOSE DISTORTING MIRRORS.
OUR PORTFOLIO. “Up in a balloon, boys!”—Macbeth. TOURS, FIFTH WEEK Of THE REPUBLIC, 1870. DEAR PUNCHINELLO: To all men of lofty ambition I would
recommend a balloon excursion. The higher you get, the smaller and more
insignificant do earthly things appear. A balloon is the best pulpit
imaginable from which to preach a sermon upon the littleness of mundane
realities, first—because no one can hear you, and your congregation
cannot therefore be held responsible for indifference to your teaching;
and second—because at that height you are fully impressed with the
truth of what you say. Aspirations of whatever kind, all longings and emotions of the
“Excelsior” order, all appeals to “look aloft,” come handier when you
can “do” them in an aerial car. You will pardon this philosophic digression in respect to the
peculiar feelings of a man who has just been “up in a balloon.” Our
air-ship had been anchored in the Champ de Mars two days,
waiting for a fair wind. An hour before we started, a Yorkshireman, who
had evidently never seen such a creation before, annoyed me with
incessant questions as to what it was. His large, wondering, stupid
eyes never ceased gazing at the monster as it tugged heavily at the
stake which held it. “Na’ wha’ maun that be?” he exclaimed,
starting back as it gave a very violent jerk. I could stand it no
longer, and thus broke forth:— “See here, my good fellow, you’ve got plenty of cheek to be
bothering me with your confounded ridiculous questions; and so I’ll
answer you once for all. What you see tied fast there is called a
balloon, and it’s only a French method of drawing Englishmen’s teeth.”
He left me—I trust not in anger; but that was the last I saw of the
Yorkshireman. We got off, (M. GODARD and I) about four o’clock P.M., and
ascended steadily till Paris, with its rim of fortifications, looked
more like the crater of a volcano than anything else. I brought out my
opera-glass as we moved in the direction of Versailles, and
reconnoitred the situation. In a field adjoining the palace I saw an
object that looked like a post driven into the ground, and capped with
a large-sized clam-shell. GODARD levelled his glass and examined it.
His lip curled proudly with scorn as he said:— “That is the butcher himself, WILLIAM of Prussia. The
clam-like appearance you notice is due to the baldness of his head.” I only said: “Can it be possible?” and we moved on. How my
blood throbbed as we cavorted through the blue depths of heaven! I was
far from feeling blue myself, and GODARD said that if anything I was
green. The bearings of the remark did not strike me at the time, as a
cannon-ball from the direction of Versailles whirled within twenty feet
of the balloon and lifted the right flank (a military expression) of my
moustache into your subscriber’s eye, notwithstanding it was waxed with
LOUVET’S best, warranted to keep each hair en règle,
even in the worst gales. From that moment I renounced LOUVET. Following
the cannon-shot came a miscellaneous assortment of small projectiles,
which had the effect of creating some excitement among the atmospheric animalculae,
but failed to disturb the serenity of M. GODARD or myself. When about
ten miles from Blois I detected what I supposed was a large vein of
chalk-pits. It was very white, and apparently motionless. My companion
expressed his surprise at the difficulty I had in distinguishing
objects correctly, and seemed to lose patience. “Bigarre, you no know zat? It ees ze dirty Proosien
linen vashed out, and hoong zere to dry!” I told him in Arabic that he needn’t get his back up; but he
understood me not, and continued playing with the cats which we were
transporting to Tours to protect the Commissary stores from the ravages
of the rats that the Prussians had despatched to eat up the provisions
of the garrison. Towards night I began to have a queer sensation in the
stomach. It wasn’t like sea-sickness, nor like the feeling produced by
swinging. If a man just recovering from the effects of his first cigar
were offered a bowl of hot goose-grease for supper, I suppose he would
have felt as I felt. At the moment a queer twinge took me; I
ejaculated: “Oh! Lord!” “Vat ees de matter?” inquired GODARD. If the man had had any
other nationality, I might have talked sense to him; but he was a
Frenchman, so I said:— “Do you love me?” “Do I loves you?” “Yes!” I roared frantically, “do you love me?” “Begaire I dunno, but I zinks so.” “Then,” said I, dimly discerning a chance of relief from my
suffering, “throw me out as ballast.” “Oh, horrible! horrible! Mon Dieu! vat a man!” I turned my sickly gaze upon him and saw that he was deadly
pale, and that the perspiration stood out in great drops upon his
forehead. The explanation was plain enough—he took me for a maniac. I
would have protested and moved the previous question, but taking a
small phial from his pocket he broke off the head and threw the
contents in my face. Ten seconds later I was totally oblivious, and
upon recovering found myself in this place, where such strange things
are going on that my fingers prick to write them. DICK TINTO.
AN EX-MONSTER. It is a bad day for monarchs. Boston has, for several weeks,
had upon Exhibition His Marine Majesty the Whale. The captive was shown
for the ridiculously small sum of two shillings, and great was the
gathering to gaze upon the spouter, who would have come just in time to
attend the political caucuses, only he happens to be dead, and cannot
spout any more, albeit his jaw is still tremendous. His defunct
condition renders it unnecessary to feed him upon JONAHS, which is
lucky for a good many superfluous voyagers upon the Ship of State. If
the King of All the Fishes can draw such crowds at a quarter a head,
what a chance is there for our friend LOUIS NAPOLEON! If he will but
make an Exhibition of himself in this country, we promise him full
houses, and a greater fortune than that which he has lost.
THE MICROSCOPIC MAN.  umps have a
great deal to answer for. Of course we refer to
phrenological bumps, from which, possibly, the powerful adjective
“bumptious” is derived, it being applicable to a person whose
conflicting bumps keep him continually on the rampage.
Of all such persons, the one with microscopes in his bumps for
eyes is the most bumptious. He is continually detecting pernicious
particles in everything that he eats and drinks. One such will seize a
pepper-castor, invert it over his mashed turnips, spank it as if it
were a child, and then, peering at the dark particles with which the
succulent heap of vegetable matter is dusted, proceed to deliver a
lecture upon the poisons that we swallow with our daily food. He sees
iron-filings in the pepper. Also particles of the tail-feathers of
Spanish flies. He will tell you that if you continue to use pepper like
that for a long duration—say seventy or eighty years—you will have iron
enough in your stomach, from the filings, to make a ten-pound
dumb-bell, and blistering stuff sufficient from the Spanish fly to draw
all the interest of the National Debt. If the pepper happens to belong
to the Cayenne persuasion, he magnifies it into a hod of bricks. It is
his hod way of accounting for it. Keep using it daily for
half-a-century, says he, and see if you don’t wake up some fine morning
and find yourself a brick chimney stuck up on the roof of a house for
bats to live in. It will be a just judgment on you; and small will be
to you the consolation should some poetical friend pen an
epigrammatical threnody to your memory, telling in “In Memoriam”
stanzas how you “went up like a thousand of bricks.” “Beef?” says the microscopic man, probing the meat with a
pencil of light that beams from his right eye (the other being closed
for concentration purposes), “Beef, sir?—not a bit of the bos taurus
about it, sir. Horse, donkey, mule, zebra—what you will, but not a
single fibre of ox. Did you ever see the fibres of beef run in a
direction due north and south, like these? If you did I should like to
know it, sir. I inspected this meat raw, sir, to-day, on the butcher’s
stall, and the minute ova perceptible in it were those of the
horse gad-fly, not the ox gad-fly, sir. Yes, begad, sir, and I’m
prepared to maintain the fact upon oath, sir.” Porter and other malt liquors are favorite subjects for the
analysis of the microscopic man. As you are placidly enjoying your pint
of GUINNESS’S brown stout, he will look at you for minutes with a
compassionate smile. Then, suddenly plunging into his favorite horror
knee-deep, he will ask you if you know what becomes of all the ends of
smoked-out cigars. Of course you submit that little boys pick them up
and smoke them to everlasting annihilation. “Pshaw! sir,” exclaims the
microscopic person; “there is a man in the City of Dublin, sir—I
believe he is a baronet now, but will not force that as a fact—and he
made an enormous fortune by going about the streets at early dawn and
picking up all the cigar-stumps he could find, and they were not few,
as you may suppose, in that smokingest of cities. He used to furnish
these by the ton to old GUINNESS, who used them for giving color and
body to his famous ‘Stout.’ Body?—I should think so rather!—but only
think where the body came from! Just recall to mind the filthiest
gutter that ever you saw in your life, with the numerous ends of cigars
that you perfectly remember having observed sweltering in it, and then
take another pull at your GUINNESS, sir, and I wish you joy of it, sir!” Once we remember to have heard the subject of the possibility
of lizards snakes, frogs, and other cheerful reptiles having resided
for indefinite periods in the stomachs of human subjects, discussed in
the presence of the microscopic man. A lady of the party was skeptical
on the subject, dwelling especially upon the impossibility of any
person swallowing a reptile unawares. “Observe those water-cresses of
which you have been partaking so freely, madam,” said the microscopic
man. “Beneath each leaf I discern ova of things that it might
horrify you to enumerate in full. Suffice it to say, then, for the
present, that on the leaves of this small sprig culled by me at random
from the cluster, are to be detected the germs of the trigonocephalus
contortrix, than which, when fully developed, no more deadly
reptile wriggles upon earth. See this minute agglomeration of yellowish
specks on the stalk of the cress. These are the eggs of the lacerta
horrida, a lizard that within the large warts with which its
epidermis is studded secretes a poison of the most virulent character.
Others, too, I discern, but they are too disagreeable to dwell upon—not
to speak of one having them dwell inside one, instead—ha! ha!
Now, remember that all these germs are hatched by gentle warmth. No
degree of temperature that we know of is more gentle than that of the
human stom—” At this point the lady fainted, and the microscopic man was
thrown promptly out of the window by her husband, who has since been
presented by a committee of grateful citizens with a gold-mounted cane,
as a mark of consideration for his services in ridding the world of a
monster.
“GREEK MEETS GREEK.” Oh,
lovers of your lager beer,
Drinkers of wine and ale,
Ye editors and ministers,
Come listen to my tale,
And learn the very slight basis
Characters are built on,
By reading of the fight between
FULTON and friend TILTON. In New York City, Broadway street,
Friend FULTON took his way,
Squinting in ev’ry restaurant,
For it was then mid-day;
He saw a bottle on a stand,
With words all in gilt on,
While right before that awful
stand
Guzzling wine sat TILTON. On Sunday night, while walking
down
Bow’ry to the ferry,
TILTON did spy a lager shop
Where the folks were merry,
And saw a sight that op’d his
eyes,
For, in that beery vat,
Nine lagers foaming by his side,
Reverend FULTON sat. With spirit sword bound at his
side,
And his hand the hilt on,
Brave FULTON smote at hip and
thigh
Of our little TILTON;
Then TILTON took a mighty quill,
Called FULTON a liar,
FULTON took that to his church,
Will he take it higher? Now TILTON says that FULTON lies,
FULTON says ’tis TILTON;
I wish this epic was told by
HOMER or by MILTON.
I cannot tell which yarn
is true,
Nor what each is built on,
But surely there’s been lying by
FULTON or else TILTON.
A FINE OLD LADY. In this day of monetary papyrus, it is pleasing to read of an
ancient matron in Lafayette, Ind., who, at the age of eighty-nine, has
gone to her reward, leaving no property save a $20 gold piece. For
several years, she has been reserving this honest coin to pay her
funeral expenses; and one cannot help surmising that she must have been
distantly related to the late Old Bullion BENTON. “No National Bank
nonsense at my tomb!” said she; “no grimed and greasy currency for my
undertaker! I will have a specie-paying funeral or none at all.” As we
have the precedent of a great many Old Ladies in the Cabinet, we are
rather sorry that it is too late to invite this clear-headed dame to
take a chair in Washington.
 A MODEST REQUEST. Disbursing Agent of Political Organization [to Delegation
on biz.]: “AH! GENTLEMEN, YOU REPRESENT THE—-“ Spokesman. “YES; WE WANT $200. I’M THE KNOCK-‘EM-DOWN
CLUB, AND HE’S THE TARGET COMPANY.”
THE WRONG “DUMMIE.” Gatling (our countryman, you know) has invented a Battery Gun.
They have been trying this gun over at Shoeburyness (how is that, for a
name?) in England, to see whether they had not better order a few, in
time for the next war. It seems that they conducted their experiments
by firing at “dummies, representing men.” (Oh, if they had only
had some of our American Dummies there, who Represent Men so
inadequately.) There were 136 of these simulacra, “99 of whom,”
says the report “would have been killed.” That is, if it had been
possible to kill them. In fact, they would have been killed four or
five times over. “Kilt intirely.” We shall always feel that a great opportunity was here lost of
ridding the country of certain nuisances, who, if anything at all, are worse
than dummies, and deserve not four only, but four hundred balls in
them, “forty-two one-hundredths of an inch in diameter,” or even
larger. There are so many, it would be useless to attempt to specify
them: and besides, everybody knows who they are. We would begin with
the Politicians, and end with the Brokers. And then the Millennium
would begin, “sure pop.”
TROUBLE FOR THE RISING GENERATION. Mr. PUNCHINELLO has often thought with what melancholy
feelings the naughty boys must gaze upon a fine grove of growing
birches; but what pangs would a knowing child experience upon finding
himself in Randolph county, Illinois, where they raise twelve bushels
of castor-oil beans to the acre! Of what depths of juvenile
wretchedness and precocious misanthropy is that crop suggestive! We see
it all—the anxious parent—the solemn doctor—the writhing patient—the
glass—the spoon! Howls like those of a battle-field, only less so, fill
the air. The wretched victim of pharmacy, conquered at last, gives one
desperate gulp to save himself from strangulation, and all is over! Ye
who remember your boyhood’s home! tell us if there was any joke in all
this!
THE GREAT MODERN O MISSION.—The English Mission.
 THE LITERARY
PIRATES.SUGGESTED BY BIARD’S PICTURE, AND SHOWING THE PIRATICAL ROVER
“HARPY” SPRINGING
A TRAP UPON THE GOOD SHIP “AUTHOR” IN A FAVOURABLE
TRADE WIND. “THE HARPY.” With
literary ventures stowed
As full as ship can be,
The good ship “Author” holds her
way
Over the fickle sea;
Now sings the wind, and, all
serene,
The ripples forth and back
Lap lightly round her gleaming
sides
And whiten on her track. Far westward, on the line of blue
That meets the pearly[1] sky,
There looms up large a stranger
sail,
A sail both broad and high;
And as she near and nearer draws
She hovers like a bird,
And strains of music from her deck
Upon the air are heard. Now closer draws the stranger
sail—
Are sirens they who hang
About the quivering cordage with—
Hallo! what’s that?—bang! bang!
The trap is sprung, the siren ship
Runs up the sable flag—
It is the pirate “Harpy,” and
She takes the “Author’s” swag!
[1] A famous foreign
writer offered us £500 to print this Pearl
Street, but we wouldn’t do it for double the money.—[ED.]
WEAPONS THAT TAMMANY HALL CAN NEVER BE TAKEN BY.—SHARPE’S
Rifles.
HIRAM GREEN AT THE BROOKLYN NAVY-YARD. Bread and Butter vs. Old Cheese. I hadent got but a little ways into the Navy-Yard, when a soljer steps
up before me, and pintin his bagonet at my throack, said: “Pass.” I stepped tother side of him to obey his orders, when he agin pinted
his gun at me and said: “Pass.” Thinkin I was on the rong side of him, I undertook to pass into the
middle of the road, when he vociferated in louder tones: “Pass!” “Well,” says I, by this time considerably riled at sich skanderlous
treatment at the hands of this goverment, “if you’l stop rammin
your bagonet into my hash digester and let me pass, ile be hily
tickled.” I was madder than if I had been a candidate for offis, and dident get
elected. “See here, Mister hard-tack Cowpenner,” said I, addressin him, “how
dare you stop me in this ere outragous manner? You say ‘pass,’
and when I try to pass, you jab at my innards with that mustick in a
rather oncomfortable manner. What do you mean?” “I mean, sir,” said he, sholderin his shootin iron, “that if you want
to go further, you must get a pass from the offis across the way.” “Oho! that’s a gooseberry pie of a different flavor,” said I, coolin
off; “why dident you say so before?” and I pinted for the offis to get
the pass. After bein put through a course of red tape, such as feelin of my
pultz, lookin down my throte, and soundin me on my Spread Eagleism, I
got the pass. While on my tower of observashuns, a mechanikle lookin individual
approched me, and says: “Good mornin, Congressman WEBSTER.” I turned in cirprise, as several other men dropped their tools and
rushed out and surrounded me. “God bless you, Mister WEBSTER!” said one. “Make way for the noble and good WEBSTER,” said another. “Let me kiss the hand of the great statesman,” says a third, fallin to
and gettin my thumb in his mouth. “Mister WEBSTER, take care of me, I am yours to command,” says a 4th,
who jumped wildly for an old tobacker cud I had just throde away. On all sides, men was fallin down to worship me, just as if I was the
Golden Calf, spoken of in scripters, or else some great poletikle
Mogul, with a pocket full of blank commissions, ready to be filled out
for good fat offises. All of a sudden, it popped into my mind that these 8 hour sons of toil
hadent heard that DANIEL WEBSTER was dead, or else dident see the joak,
when DAN said: “I aint dead,” and supposed from my likeness to him that
I was D. WEBSTER. I couldent blame ’em for makin such a mistake, when I reccolected the
time I was introjuced to the great man. It was when I was Gustise of
the Peace. As our hands clasped each other, we was both revitted to the spot, and
the rivets was clinched tite. “What! it can’t be possible!” said Mr. WEBSTER, the first to break the
silence. “Well if you haint another WEBSTER, you’l pass for D.
WEBSTER’S bust, any day.” “And,” said I, wishin to return the compliment, “if you haint Green,
you can pass any time for GREEN on a bust.” This was one of my witcisms, and it made DANIEL blurt with lafter. But, Mister PUNCHINELLO, me and WEBSTER looked so much alike, that if
his tailor had sent him a soot of clothes at that time, I believe, in
the confusion, that just as like as not, I should have thought I was
WEBSTER, and wore off the clothes. But, to “retrace my tale,” as the canine said, when a flee was suckin
the heart’s blood from his cordil appendige— “Well, my friends,” said I, humerin these men in their mistake, “what
can I do for you down to Washington?” “Do for us? thou great and mitey!” said they all to once, “keep us into
offis—we ‘go’ you, Nov. 8th.” “Well,” said I, “my good men, my word is law down to Washington.
Everybody respects the great DANIL WEBSTER.” “Eh!—who—what,” exclaimed several. “I say that I, DANIL WEBSTER, is great guns with the goverment,” was my
reply. “DANIEL WEBSTER be d—d,” said the ring-leader. “No, Sir! ED WEBSTER,
the nominee for Congress, and Wet Nurse pro tem. over Unkle
Sam’s family in this ‘ere nursery, is the man we’re after.
Haint you that man?” “You don’t mean the chap who was U.S. Assessor, agin whom I heard them
Wall street brokers and scalpers cussin and swearin like a lot of Rocky
Mountin savages chock full of fluid pirotecknicks, because he made them
pay a goverment tax?” “The same! the same!” they all hollered. “Well! sweet wooers of the bread and butter brigade,” said I, “speakin
after the manner of men, you’ve got ontop the rong hencoop this time.
As Shakspeer, who is now dead and gone, says:— ‘A
rose by any other name
Is sweeter-er than I,
I’ve diskivered I haint the game
You want to see roost high.'” They left me, yes, they left me. I wasent the man, but some
awdacious retch had sot ’em on tellin ’em I was the man. Surgeon GOODBLOOD, of the man o’ war Vermont, then
took me under his charge. I found him one of them noble
docters, under whose perscriptions a man could enjoy ‘kickin the
bucket.’ He took me to see the soljers drill. “Thems the Marines,” said he, pintin to the bloo cotes. “Sho! you don’t say?” says I. “Are them those obligin
gentlemen who are allways ready to listen to what is told ’em?” “Yes,” says the Dr.; “anything nobody else believes, we tell
to the Marines.” I mite okepy your hul paper tellin all about the war vessels,
pattent torpedoes, monitors, and sich, which I saw, but will close with
the remark: That old rats never pile livlier onto roasted cheese, than a
bread and butter patriot does onto candidates who has the cuttin
of a good fat loaf. That’s wisdom which will wash. Ewers, HIRAM GREEN, Esq., Lait Gustise of the Peece.
SIMILE USED UP. We regret to state, that in consequence of a late discovery by
one BÉCHAMP, of living things in chalk (he has actually seen ’em
wriggle!) we are no longer at liberty to say, “As different as Chalk
and Cheese.” The difference is gone! If it is not, we would ask, where
is it? It is true, chalk is not in so general use, as an article of
diet, as cheese, except in boarding-schools; but the difference is
plainly one of degree rather than of kind. We have heard of “prepared
chalk.” It has been whispered that gentle spinsters use it for a
beautifyer. We rather incline to the belief that it is prepared for the
inside rather than the outside of humanity. At any rate, the two articles now agree in their most
prominent characteristics—which they did not, till M. BÉCHAMP
looked into the matter with his microscope. ‘Tis thus, alas! our cherished similes are going. One by one
are they Bé-champ-ed (or chawed up) by the voracious creatures
who hunger and thirst after novelty. Why, we expect to be told, ere
long,—and have it proved to us,—that the Moon after all is actually and
truly made of Green Cheese. And there will go another fond comparison!
Nay, more;—perhaps Cheese itself is but Chalk, in its incipient stages
of development,—with the tenantry already secured, however, that make
it so lively inside.—Si sic Omnes.
To Our Youthful Friends. We wish to do all in our power to keep the world cheerful. If
there is a youth of our acquaintance who despairs of ever raising a
fine moustache, we would remind him of that comforting apothegm of the
Spanish: “Un cabello haze sombra”—”The least hair makes a shadow.”
Courage, lad! and do not cast that shadow from thy lip. If there is a
single hair already there, it is a manly and noble thing!
“Done Brown.” “TOM BROWN” is not looked upon as a sheepish person, and yet,
the English of his name is ewes (‘ughes).
 REAL HARDSHIP. “HERE’S A GO!—STRASBOURG IN RUINS—TRADE DESTROYED—O DEAR!
DEAR!
WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO FOR OUR PATTY DEE FOY GRASS NOW!”
POEMS OF THE CRADLE. CANTO X. There
was a man in our town, and he was wondrous wise,
He jumped into a bramble bush and
scratched out both his eyes;
And when he saw what he had done,
with all his might and main,
He jumped into another bush, and
scratched them in again. Some people have a very curious way of doing things. Nowadays
when the world has advanced by prodigious strides almost to the limit
of civilization, and having no further to go, is debating within itself
whether it shall lie down and take a rest, a man don’t go to so much
trouble to have his eyes out. The age is a fast one, you know; so, when
the man feels like having his glims doused, he just jumps into the
midst of a crowd of real b’hoys, runs his head, good-naturedly, you
know, against a pair of knuckles, and the business is settled with
“neatness and despatch,” as the job-printers say. How different our poet’s description. He must have been a man
of wonderful experience; and foresight, let us add, since from his
simple yet wonderfully powerful sketches there is gained an insight
into all the mysterious workings of humanity, from the lulling of the
babe in the cradle, the ruthless disruption of the apron-string that he
is led with, because some naughty little boys laughed at him, to the
tolling of the bell by the old sexton over another dead. Well, there is no use in moralizing. The tale is before us,
graphically drawn; and to the reader is left naught but the pleasure of
contemplating its beauties. In his pithy way the poet describes a man
who, though possessed of some good qualities, evidently did not know
how to use them. Though the poet has never yet touched upon politics,
yet the careful reader will find that the hero of the sketch must have
been a young Democrat, since he is made to appear very nimble, and has
a fondness, partial to himself, of getting into rather thorny places.
What led him into those dangerous places we have very little chance of
knowing. “He was wondrous wise,” saith the poet, and forsooth he jumps
into a bramble-bush, the last place in the world where a wise
man is to be found. But then, perhaps, a tincture of irony flew from
our poet’s pen; the hero was wise in his own esteem, perhaps; or was
wise in the opinion of his friends, whose wisdom seemed to be
consummated in doing something ridiculous. It is very fortunate for the social welfare of community that
all its actions should not be sublime. Mankind would become too serious
and morose and cynical, and life would be a burden. The ridiculous
makes it enjoyable, but at the expense of those who cause the ridicule.
Man must laugh, no matter what the cost to the object laughed
at. Ordinary intelligence would have decided the fate of the wise
individual who found no other use for his eyes but to scratch them out
in a bramble-bush. But our poet dealeth otherwise with his portraits.
He shows us the fate of an overwrought, badly instilled wisdom; yet
when that wisdom has been deserted by its cause, the promptings of a
heart, pure at the core, hold up to contempt the mad teachings of the
sophist. “When
he saw what he had done,” continues the poet, in a sense not entirely literal, for
reasons which are not necessary to be explained, this man of wondrous
wisdom saw that he had been made a dupe. Cunning as a fox were his
would-be friends; but having got him to the bush, there they let him
gambol as he would, ensnaring him to his own almost utter ruin. A new light flashes upon his brain; his folly appears plainly
to his mind; he had ruthlessly deserted his fond parents; sought evil
counsel; was deserted by his false friends; and was now in a deplorable
condition indeed. Remorse sometimes brings repentance; at least it did
in this case. Our hero remembered the good teachings of his early
youth; and, like the prodigal son, was willing to return to the home of
his fathers. True, he was in a bramble-bush; but, similia similibus
curantur (which, interpreted, signifies, “You tickle me and I’ll
tickle you”). “He
jumped into another bush,” found his eyes as they were before his sad catastrophe, and
without ceremony returned them to their places, by another operation of
scratching. What more need be said! No circumlocution of words will add to
the ending of a tale, but perhaps serve only to conceal the point. The
author is careful of his reputation. He restores the hero to his
original position, in full possession of his senses. There
let him be;
But O Be good, say we.
AGOSTINO THE GUNSMITH. Of
gun-tricks, old or new, the best that we know
Was that performed by JOSEPH
AGOSTINO,
The gunsmith who, by burglars
often vext,
A week or two since plotted for
the next
By planting cunningly a
wide-bored fusil,
With buck-shot loaded half-way to
the muzzle,
Right opposite the window to
which came
The nightly thief, to ply his
little game;
And to the trigger hitching so a
string,
That when the burglar bold was
entering
The charge went off, and,
crashing through the shutter,
Relieved the rascal of his bread
and butter
By blowing off his head.
O! AGOSTINO,
Far better than the helmet of
MAMBRINO,
Or steel-wrought hauberk,
fashioned for defence,
Was this thy dodge; ’twas
dexterous, immense!
Your health, GIUSEPPE; and for
PUNCHINELLO
Construct to order—there’s a
jolly fellow—
A mitrailleuse, both long
enough and large
To kill the burglars, all, at one
discharge.
SORTES SHAKSPEARIANAE. A Picture of the John Real Democracy:— “What
are these,
So withered and so wild in their
attire;
That look not like the
inhabitants o’ the earth,
And yet are on’t?” Macbeth,
Act 1, Sc. 3. A Portrait of Woodford as a General:— “That
never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a battle
knows.” Othello,
Act 1, Sc. 1. Punchinello to Gov. Seymour:— “HORATIO,
thou art e’en as just a man
As e’er my conversation coped
withal.” Hamlet,
Act 3, Sc. 2.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. Nux Vomica. Can you give me a description of the
sellebrated needall gun?
Answer. Your spelling is so eccentric that we guess you to
be connected with the Tribune. As for the “needall” gun, we
should define it as a gun without lock, stock, barrel, flint,
percussion-cap, powder, ball, or anything else. O.D.V. Yes: a man may die of delirium tremens
produced by drinking too much French wine. If the wine should happen to
be Château Margot, the verdict of a Coroner’s Jury would probably
be—”died of a margot on the brain.” Fumigator. What is the proper spelling of the smoking
mixture known as “Killikinnick”?
Answer. Some authorities derive it from a story about an
old Canadian having smoked himself to death with it, and spell it “Kill
a Kannuck.” Others spell it “Kill a Cynic,” and believe that DIOGENES,
the founder of the Cynical School of philosophy, died of a surfeit of
the article. Otis Bunker. Was there not, in old times, a tax on
fires in England, and did it not lead to an insurrection?
Answer. No tax on fires that we ever heard of. You are
thinking, probably, of the Curfew Tolls mentioned by GRAY. Simon Succotash. The expression to “wind a horn” is
frequently used. Do people wind one as they would a watch; and, if so,
what sort of key do they use?
Answer. Try the key of A Flat: you are sure to
have it. Pump-Handle. Is it possible for a person to sleep
during an earthquake?
Answer. Yes: we are acquainted with persons who can sleep
soundly upon any kind of shake-down. Philander. What is the best way of testing a horse’s
temper?
Answer. If you have a suspicion that the horse is quick to
take a fence, just dash him at one and try. Gorman Dyzer. We think it quite proper, as you suppose,
to eat sausages with turkey on Thanksgiving Day. We decline to answer
your other question, as to whether it is right to eat turkey with
sausages on Thanksgiving Day. It is irrelevant. Caspar Van Keek. Why is the height of a horse given in
hands instead of feet?
Answer. Because it is considered handier, of course. John of Boston. I have been blackballed at a club. What
am I to do?
Answer. Let things alone. Clubs are not always Trumps. Margaret Shortcake.—I have a great dread of being
buried alive. Will holding a looking-glass to the face of a person
supposed to be dead determine whether breathing has ceased or not?
Answer. The test is used by physicians. There is an
instance on record of a looking-glass being thus applied to a young
girl who had been unconscious for hours. She opened her eyes to look at
herself in it, which proved that she was wide awake. Widow McRue.—How soon after my husband’s death would it
be proper for me to give up my weeds?
Answer. If your husband allowed you to smoke during his
life-time, we do not see why you should give up the practice after his
death. Although we do not approve of women smoking, yet a fragrant weed
between pearly teeth, with an azure cloud curling heavenward from it,
has a certain fascination, and so our advice is, “Dry up (your tears),
and light a fresh Havana.” Speculator.—What is the best way to double a $20 bill?
Answer. With a paper-folder. Frost-on-the-Pane.—From languid circulation, or some
other cause, I frequently go to bed with cold feet. How can I remedy
this?
Answer. Don’t go to bed. Sleep in a chair.
POLITICS AS A FINE ART. First Class in Politics, stand up. First boy—Define politics as an art. Politics are the art of eating, drinking, sleeping, and
wearing good clothes at the public expense. Next—Is taking presents of houses, horses, &c., included
in this art? No sir, that’s a natural gift. Who invented politics? It has been stated by Mr. SUMNER that politics were well known
to the early Greeks and Romans; but they were first reduced to an art
by T. WEED. What are the elements of success in politics? Cheek and stamps. At what place is this art most cultivated? At Washington. How many classes of politicians are there? Three: big strikes, little strikes, and repeaters. Define them. Big strikes are those who, when they make a haul, mean
business. Little strikes are those who look after the pence, while the
big strikes are looking after the pounds. Both these classes have
steady occupation. Repeaters are little strikes who are employed only
at election time. Where are they found? In both the Republican and Democratic schools. JOHN SMITH, go to the board and do this example: If the House
of Representatives has a Republican majority of thirty, and it remains
in session until 8 P.M. on the 4th of July, at what time will a
Democrat, whose seat is contested by a Republican, obtain that seat? THOMAS BROWN, you can try the same example with the Assembly
at Albany, only taking the majority as Democratic, and the man whose
seat is contested as Republican. Next boy—Who are the most successful artists among politicians? Carpet-baggers. What is the art now called in the South? Black art. Why? Because the leading artists there are of an off color. JOHN SMITH, have you finished your example? Yes, sir. When will that Democrat be admitted, if the session ends at 8
P.M. on the 4th of July? At 5 minutes after 8 on that day. THOMAS BROWN, what is your answer? When will that Republican
be admitted? At 5 minutes after 8 P.M. on the 4th of July. Both correct. That proves that politics have been reduced to a
fine art. The class is dismissed.
BOSTON FIRST. Even in the matter of earthquakes the proverbial superiority
of Boston to all other places, as a centre, has just been proved. A
writer in the Evening Post, discussing the comparative
phenomena of the late earthquake at various points, says:— “Allowing seven and a half minutes for difference of local
time, the shock was two minutes earlier at Boston than at New Haven.
This implies that Boston was nearer to the centre of disturbance than
New Haven.” Further developments will doubtless show that Boston was ahead
not of New Haven only, in the enjoyment of the refreshing young
cataclasm referred to, but was the absolute “Hub” from which it
radiated, and therefore ahead of all the rest of creation in regard of
earthquakes as everything else. Property has already gone up to a
tremendous figure at Boston, owing to the multifarious fascinations of
the place; but the greatest chance folks there ever had to “pile it on”
is the admission of the earthquake as a “Boston notion.”
From the Seat of War. What were the Francs-Tireurs before they were organized?
They wear leather gaiters.
Republicans. It would be dangerous to elect the two leading Republican
candidates. They must have monarchical ideas, inasmuch as they both
come from Kings.
 DEVOTION TO SCIENCE. Mamma. “AH YOU CRUEL, CRUEL BOY, HOW COULD YOU FRIGHTEN
YOUR DEAR LITTLE SISTER SO?” The Incorrigible. “I—I ONLY WANTED TO SEE IF HER HAIR
WOULD TURN WHITE.”
An Advertising Parson. There is nothing like judicious advertising—at least, we have
been told this often enough to believe it. So thinks a Pennsylvania
parson, who advertises himself in a newspaper as follows:— “Cupid and Hymen. The little brown
cottage at Cambridge, Pa.,
is the place to call to
have the marriage-knot promptly and strongly
tied. Inquire for Rev. S. J. Whitcomb.” —While he was about it, why didn’t the Rev. WHITCOMB advertise
the other jobs for which orders might be left at the same shop? Why
didn’t he say: “Funerals attended with neatness and despatch?” or,
“Gentlemen about to leave the world, will be waited upon at their own
bed-sides without additional charge?” or, “Cases of conscience
adjudicated upon the most reasonable terms?” or, “A fine assortment of
moral advice just received, and for sale in lots to suit purchasers?”
Let the Rev. WHITCOMB take our hint, enlarge the field of his
advertising, and make lots of the Mammon of Unrighteousness.
Fulton versus Tilton. FULTON taps TILTON for wine, TILTON taps FULTON for beer;
FULTON gets a tilt, because TILTON finds him full. In case of a
trial, the verdict would probably be, that a full FULTON ran full
tilt against a full TILTON.
“AURI SACRA FAMES.” I
saw a parson at his desk,
Silk-gowned and linen-ruffled;
The organ ceased—he rose to
preach,
And smirked, and mouthed, and
snuffled; He talked of gold, and called it
dross,
And prophesied confusion
To all who loved it—told them that
Their trust was all delusion. ‘Twas filthy lucre, dust and dirt,
The root of every evil;
And its pursuit,—too strongly
urged,—
Would lead straight to the
Devil. Midst other wicked (Scripture)
rogues,
He talked of ANANIAS,—
He and his wife SAPPHIRA were
The wickedest of liars. He showed us clearly, from their
fate,
The sin of overreaching,
And making small the salaries
Of those who do the preaching. And when his half-hour’s work was
done,
The miserable sinners
Rolled home in easy carriages
To Aldermanic dinners; And as I plodded home on foot,
I thought it was all gammon,
To build a temple to the LORD
Of curses against Mammon. The sin of gold is its abuse,
And not its mere possession,—
Wine may turn vinegar, and gold
May turn men to transgression. Then tell the truth, O men of GOD!
Nor scorn the loaves and fishes,
Lest we should take you at your
word,
And leave you empty dishes!
CHEERFUL PHILOSOPHY. We remember a writer who merited more notice than he actually
received, for his well-considered thoughts on the behavior of
Mourners,—whose conduct, as a general thing, is certainly open to
criticism. It is all well enough—”due to decency,” in fact—to wear
“mourning,” and now and then look grave; but “this idea of closing your
house,” observed our philosopher, “and silencing your piano, and
abstaining from your customary amusements and habits for months
[only think of it!], because some one has departed from misery to
happiness, is not alone supremely ridiculous [though that is
bad enough], but it is sublimely preposterous and [what is yet more]
disgraceful to the last degree of shame.” Precisely; just what we have always said, whether we believed
it or not. It is what any feeling man would say. The fact is, people sacrifice too much to their friends.
Especially after the friends are dead. “The cream of the joke is,” as
our lively essayist remarks, “that the dead do not dream of your
sufferings on their account.” And suppose they did: what is a friend, any way? Why,
something you would do well to rid yourself of as soon as possible.
There is scarcely anything mean, sordid, contemptible, and disgusting,
that an average friend won’t do without winking. It would certainly contribute greatly to the cheerfulness of
one about to leave this “mortial wale,” to feel morally certain that
nobody cared a rap about him, or was going to make any fuss just for a
trifle like that. We must say, however, we would prefer to see our mourning
friends go the whole figure, and not visit the opera in weeds. Be
jolly, but also look jolly. The trouble seems to be, that people will be
sentimental; they must do a certain amount of tribulation, “whether or
no.” We would not even counsel the wearing of black diamonds. We would
refrain from jet, bog, and ebony. We would not try to grin through a
disguise of skull and bones. Be gay (and by all means look gay)
in spite of your departed grandmother.
No Great Shakes. It’s a pity that the earthquake came too late for the census,
as it cannot now be included among our native productions.
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RATHER MIXED.