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.
MAN AND WIVES. A TRAVESTY. By MOSE SKINNER. CHAPTER SECOND. LOVE. The Hon. MICHAEL LADLE and ARCHIBALD BLINKSOP were interrupted
in their conversation by BELINDA, who sent off the former under
pretence that the croquet players were waiting for him, or, as she
expressed it, it was “his turn to mallet.” As soon as he was fairly out of sight, she turned to
ARCHIBALD, and said; “Come with me.” “What for?” said ARCHIBALD, as she seized him by the arm and
hurried him into the shrubbery. “Recollect,” he added, “that I am an
orphan, with a constitution never robust.” She made no reply till they were screened from observation. “You needn’t be afraid, you little fool,” she said. “Sit down
on that stump.” ARCHIBALD tremblingly obeyed her. She imprisoned his fluttering hand in hers, and smoothed his
hair reassuringly. “ARCHIE,” she murmured; “dear ARCHIE.” “Oh, don’t, don’t talk that way,” said ARCHIBALD. “You
make me afraid of you.” “Afraid!” she returned. “And of me? Oh cruel, cruel
ARCHIBALD. Is it for this that I have passed many a sleepless night,
awaking unrefreshed with haggard orbs? Is it for this that I’ve pined
away and refused meat victuals?” She paused. Her heart was beating violently. She took from her
pocket a copy of the Ledger, adjusted her eye-glasses, and
continued: “ARCHIBALD BLINKSOP, for weeks I have basked in the sunlight
of your existence. Your celestial smile, shedding a tranquil calm o’er
my perturbed spirit, has been my daily sustenance. Your ethereal form,
beautiful as an houri, has, with its subtle fascination, enthralled and
steeped in bliss my innermost soul, lifting me as it were into a purer,
a holier existence. Your—” “Oh-h,” moaned the wretched ARCHIBALD, “please stop.
That’s COBB, Jr. I know it is. When I was sea-sick on the
canal, they read a chapter to me just like that, instead of giving me
an emetic, and I was out of my head all next day.” “But you do love me, don’t you, ARCHIBALD?—just a very
small fragment, you know.” She seized him by the ear and kissed him twice. “Come, own up now,” said she, “that from the first moment you
saw me, you have felt a sort of a spooney hankering, and a general
looseness, including a desire to write poetry and use hair-oil, and
wear pretty neckties; a sort of a feeling that your clothes don’t fit
you, and you can’t bear the sight of gravy, and dote on lavender kids,
and want to part your hair in the middle. That’s being in love,
ARCHIE. That’s—” At this juncture voices were heard calling for ARCHIBALD. “Oh, do, do let me go,” he pleaded. BELINDA grasped him firmly by the collar. “Heaven knows,” said
she impressively, “that I have wooed you thus far in a spirit of the
most delicate consideration. Now, I mean business, I want a husband,
and by the Sixteenth Amendment, you don’t stir from this spot, until
you promise to marry me!” “But—but—I don’t want to get married,” said ARCHIBALD;
“I—I—ain’t old enough.” She glared at him menacingly. “Am I to understand then,” she shrieked, “that you dare refuse
me?” And she laughed hysterically. “Oh, no, no. I wouldn’t. Of course I wouldn’t,” groaned the
ghastly youth. “I’ll promise anything, if you’ll only let me
go.” Thus it was, mid the hushed repose of that lovely June
twilight, while all Nature seemed to pronounce a sweet benediction,
that these loving hearts commingled. The soft hum of the June-bug
seemed to have a sweeter sound, and the little fly walked unmolested
across their foreheads, for they were betrothed. CHAPTER THIRD. WHERE THE WOODBINE TWINETH. Notwithstanding the thrilling events enacted near by, that
modest production of Nature, the woodbine, still continued to twine in
all its pristine virginity. And meanwhile, JEFFRY MAULBOY is at the
appointed rendezvous, waiting for ANN BRUMMET. She comes. But why that glazed expression, and that convulsive twitching
of the lips? She is chewing gum. “Hilloa, JEFF,” said she. “Mean thing. Been here a whole day,
and not a single word about my new overskirt. How does it hang behind?” What reply does this cruel, this heartless man make? He took a chew of tobacco, and said: “Oh, bother your overskirt. Is that the ‘something very
particular’ you wanted to see me for?” “Oh no,” she replied; “I forgot.” She looked cautiously round,
and added: “Say, JEFF, folks are talking about us awfully.” “Let ’em talk,” was the rejoinder. “Oh, yes,” she replied. “Of course you don’t care. The
more a man is talked about the better he likes it, and the more he’s
thought of. But it’s death to a woman.” “Well, I don’t care any way,” said JEFFRY. “Yes you do care too,” she replied. S’posen it should get to
the ears of that rich widow you’re engaged to. ‘Twould be all up with
you there, sure, JEFF. She ain’t burdened with principle, the
Lord knows, but she’s got jealousy enough to break the match short off,
and kill you besides, if she hears of it. “And she’ll hear of it anyhow, if they keep up their infernal
clack,” said he fiercely. “I’d like to choke the whole confounded pack.” “The talk would all die out,” said ANN slowly, “if I should go
away.” “Any fool can see that,” replied he. “What do you mean?” “I’ve been thinking of going,” she continued, “for six months.
I’m a poor relation, and Mrs. LADLE hates me. And as for BELINDA, she
has so many good clothes, I can’t take any comfort seeing her round.” “Where to?” inquired JEFFRY incredulously. “Oh, anywhere,” she replied. “I can dance a jig, you know.
I’ll go to New York, and let myself as the ‘Eminent and Graceful Queen
of Terpsichore, imported from Paris at a cost of Forty Thousand Dollars
in Gold.’ And then I’ll make a tour of the New England States. Or I’ll
learn to play the banjo and get off slang phrases, and then I’ll appear
as ‘The Beautiful and Gifted Artist, ANNETTA BRUMMETTA, who has, by her
guileless vivacity, charmed our most Fashionable Circles.’ Or I’ll go
as Assistant Teacher in a Select Boarding School for Young Ladies. I
ain’t proud, you know.” JEFFRY grinned. “Let me advise you,” said he, “to go right off
to-morrow. I’ll help you pack your trunk inside of an hour, if you say
so.” “That ain’t the point,” she retorted sharply. “I ain’t got rid
of so easily as that, I tell you.” “What do you mean by that?” he inquired, with a scowl. “I mean just this,” she returned. “I won’t go at all if you
don’t do what’s right by me. If you’ll agree to my terms I’ll go, and
not without.” “Your terms!” said he, with a sneer. “Well, that is
a go. What may your ‘terms’ be?” he continued, derisively. “Marriage,” replied she; “private if you say so, and a
remittance of fifty dollars a month for six months.” He laughed in her face. “Marry you? Well, I guess
not,” said he. “Do you take me for an idiot?” “You ain’t obliged to stick by it,” she continued. “We’re in
Indiana, ain’t we? We’ll take a minister and a lawyer along with us.
While the minister is marrying us, the lawyer can be at work on the
divorce papers. When you are JEFFRY MAULBOY again, a single man, and
I’m once more ANN BRUMMET. spinster, I’ll go away and never trouble you
again. There’s no risk. I go in ANN BRUMMET, and come out ANN BRUMMET,
all inside of two hours, and there’s nobody to tell of it. The lawyer
and minister are used to it, you see, and the secret’s safe with them.” JEFFRY MAULBOY took an unusually large chew of tobacco, and
thought it all over. “I won’t do it,” he finally said. “All right, then,” she replied; “I’ll write to Mrs. CUPID and
tell her the whole story, and I’ll stay here besides. It’ll be hard
enough on me for a while if I go, and harder still if I stay; but I’ll
do it to spite you. I’ll break off your match with Mrs. CUPID
if I do stay, now mark my words.” JEFFRY MAULBOY walked back and forth, and emitted the choicest
string of curses that his extensive and valuable collection enabled him
to cull. At last he stopped in front of her, and said savagely: “I’ll do it. But if you ever lisp a word to any living soul
till I’m safely married to CUPID, I’ll kill you, dead sure. Do you hear
that?” “When and how is the thing to be done?” he growled again. “The sooner the better,” was ANN’S reply. “If you don’t hear
from me by to-morrow noon, go to the Half-way House at Forney’s Crag.
That’s all you’ve got to do. I’ll have the lawyer and minister
both there. You’d better be there too. That’s all I say.” Alone in his room, JEFFRY admitted that ANN had been too smart
for him. “And I’m mighty afraid that, somehow or other, the old
she-dragon will get the best of me yet in this infernal business,” he
soliloquized. “Anyhow, I’ll sleep on it,” and he went to bed. He got up in the morning, firmly resolved to break his
engagement with ANN. “She was only bluffing me last night,” he said. “She daren’t
tell CUPID.” But he didn’t feel easy for all that. After breakfast he took his hat and started out. “Where are you bound, JEFF?” inquired ARCHIBALD. “Anywhere,” was the reply. “Come along.” JEFFRY was awful dull company, so Archibald thought. He took
very large chews of tobacco, and expectorated freely into the eyes of
the small boys whom they chanced to meet, and if he didn’t make a good
shot, he swore awfully. Once he went away across a field on purpose to
kick a very small dog, and ARCHIBALD waited for him. “Why, JEFFRY,” said ARCHIBALD, “what ails you? You’re awfully
down in the mouth this morning.” “And so you’d be if you was in my boots,” was the reply. And then he up and told ARCHIBALD the whole story. The latter was so thoroughly dumbfounded that a decently-smart
boy could have blown him over without any apparent effort. “Why, JEFF,” said he, “only to think of it. Ain’t it awful?
And ANN BRUMMET, too; ain’t I glad it ain’t me, though.” “That’s no way to console a fellow, you fool,” said JEFFRY.
“You’d better offer to help me out of the scrape.” “Why, so I will, of course,” said ARCHIBALD. “If I hadn’t
saved your life, of course you wouldn’t have got into it; and so I feel
bound, you know, to see you out of it. What shall I do?” “Why, just go over to the Half-way House, and tell ANN I can’t
come. Tell her I’ve got the small-pox, or broke my leg, or my old man’s
dying—or anything, so that she understands I can’t come.” “You’d better give me a letter,” said ARCHIBALD, “and I’ll
slip it under her door and run off. I never could remember all that, I
should be so flustered, you know.” “No,” replied JEFFRY, “I shan’t give you any letter. I ain’t
fool enough to commit myself to any woman in black and white.” “Well,” replied ARCHIBALD drearily, “just as you say. Oh, what
a knowing man the Hon. MICHAEL is! He said you’d make me pay that debt
of saving your life, sooner or later, and it’s turned out sooner. But
I’ll go, JEFFRY, if I can get away from BELINDA. She tags me round
everywhere, and wants to court me all the time. Ain’t it dreadful? What
time shall I go?” “Three o’clock,” answered JEFFRY. “Tell her I’d come if I
could but I can’t anyhow. Be sure and tell her that,
and anything else you’ve a mind to.” (To be continued.)
PIGEON ENGLISH. Certainly newspaper writers are given to making very
remarkable statements. In describing General CHANGARNIER, a newspaper
lately informed us that “he stoops his head, which is sprinkled over
with a few gray hairs when walking.” Now, if the general’s head be
sprinkled when walking, we may fairly infer that the gray hairs, unless
brushed off, remain upon it when it stands still. We are additionally
mystified by the further statement—still with reference to the same
officer—that “he enjoys the personal demeanor of the French people to a
remarkable degree.” This we are very much delighted to hear, although
we have not the slightest idea what it means.
Corroborative. A late item of war news states that “the Prussians have
advanced to Dole,” while from several other sources we learn that the
Prussians have come to Grief.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. Ambergris.—Can you give me the motto of the City of
Strasbourg?
Answer.—We cannot at this moment recall the Flemish
version of it, but it means, in English, “We make our own Pies.” Katrina Shwachenzittern.—We have had some difficulty in
deciphering your manuscript. Your grievance, however, seems to be that
one of your boarders, an Alsatian, keeps a ten-pound brass cannon in
his bedroom, and fires a grand salvo with it whenever a French victory
is announced. This, of course, is very foolish. The best way of putting
a stop to it would be for your German boarders to keep guns of even
larger calibre in their rooms, and fire the Frenchman down. You will
then have a perfect right to charge all your boarders for extra fires. Ney.—Please explain two things about the war. First:
How did the Mobile Guard come to leave Mobile? Second: Is Francs-Tireurs
the French for FRANK BUTLER’S black-and-tan terriers?
Answer.—We cannot perceive much difference between NEY and
BRAY. Artichoke.—You are mistaken in supposing total deafness
to be an indispensable qualification in a candidate for the position of
prompter to a theatre. Flippertygibbet.—How is the belligerent attitude of the
Russian Bear likely to affect the New York money market?
Answer.—Turn a rushin’ bear into any market, and see what
the result will be. Paterfamilias.—I am the unhappy father of three brace
of twins, and wish to dispose of one out of each brace. Can you advise
me in the matter?
Answer.—If you don’t mind being put in the
Lockup, perhaps you had better apply to “Dr.” LOOKUP. Sad-you-See.—We cannot sympathize with you in your wail
about the markets being “flat.” Wait a while, patiently, and they will
come “round.” Peter Dole.—Your questions about cooking turkeys for
Thanksgiving Day are so multitudinous, that we can only reply to them
generally. In Europe it is the usage for Crowned Heads and their
families, only, to eat sausages with their turkey; and, if ever the
true story of the Man with the Iron Mask comes to be unveiled, it is
more than likely that the mystery will be found to hinge upon that fact.
A PRESIDENTIAL FLOUT. According to the Washington special despatches to the Philadelphia
Inquirer, the President has tendered a Cabinet appointment to
several distinguished members of the Union League of that city. Either
from excessive modesty, however, or, as is probable, from prudent
doubts as to their ability to fill the position, all of these gentlemen
have declined to accept the offer. It is surmised that the object of the President’s recent visit
to Philadelphia (ostensibly to see his old friend, Mr. BORIE), was to
examine the roll of the League, comprising two thousand members, for
the purpose of selecting one who might serve on a pinch to fill the
office in question. This was a bitter stroke of satire on the part of Mr. GRANT,
since it is generally understood in Philadelphia, that, outside the
ranks of the Mutual Admiration Society to which we have referred, there
are no brains to be found among the Republicans of Philadelphia.
A Bubble of Air. What is the most favorable sort of weather for ballooning? Highly favorable weather.
THE THREE CENTS. An Incident both Dramatic and True.  |  |  | SLINEY, OF SWAMPVILLE, COMES TO THE CITY. AS HE
SHAMBLES ALONG THREE BRIGHT CENTS FALL AT HIS FEET. AMAZEMENT OF
SLINEY, WHO GAZES UP AT AN OPEN WINDOW, BUT, NOT SEEING ANY PERSON
THERE, SUPPOSES THAT SHOWERS OF COPPERS ARE PECULIAR TO THE CLIMATE. | HAVING POCKETED THE COINS, SLINEY PROCEEDS UPON
HIS WAY. HARDLY HAS HE GONE A DOZEN PACES WHEN THREE CENTS AGAIN RING
DOWN UPON THE FLAG-STONES, AND SPARKLE THERE IN THE SUN. DELIGHT OF
SLINEY, WHO AGAIN GAZES UP SMILINGLY AT THIRD-STORY WINDOWS, HOLDING
OUT HIS HAT AS IF TO ASK FOR MORE. | AGAIN SLINEY PROCEEDS TO POCKET THE COINS. BUT,
HA!—WHAT IS THIS? HIS COUNTENANCE CHANGES: HIS LONG BONY FINGERS NOW
FOR THE FIRST TIME DETECT THE FATAL FLAW IN HIS TROUSERS POCKET. ‘TWAS
HIS ORIGINAL CAPITAL, BROUGHT BY HIM FROM SWAMPVILLE TO INVEST IN
STOCKS, THAT HE HAS BEEN PICKING UP ALL ALONG. AGONY OF SLINEY, WHICH
IS AGGRAVATED BY THE RIBALD LAUGHTER OF SOME WICKED PERSONS WHO HAVE
THROWN THEMSELVES UPON HIS TRACK. |
THE LATEST BOSTON NOTION. The well-earned reputation acquired by Boston for leading the
world in new ideas is so thoroughly established as to need no
recapitulation here. We merely speak of it for the purpose of
mentioning that city’s last contribution to mankind, of this kind. They
have a hotel there which advertises through the seductive fly-pages of
our magazines in the following terms: “Courtesy to strangers is a
marked feature in the management of—” But we remember in time that we have no right to interfere
with the advertising columns. However, it is a fact that there is a
hotel in America where courtesy to guests is a feature, and of course a
marked one. It is a cheering fact, and especially so just now, in this
early fall, when we are all smarting with the fresh memories of our
summer’s sufferings at the hands of the hotel proprietors, their head
clerks, and the rest of the rapacious crew. What an attractive picture
it presents! A hotel where guests are treated with courtesy! Really, if
anything could seduce us into making a visit to Boston, the desire to
actually witness this surprising innovation upon our national customs
would prove too strong for the reverential fear which keeps us distant
worshippers of that American Mecca.
Odious Comparison. “She is a gem,” remarked Mr. JENKINSOP, speaking of his
red-haired wife. “Yes—a diamond of many carats,” was the low rejoinder of
JENKINSOP’S friend, WINKLESOP.
ROYAL DEMOCRACY. It appears to have been decided that one of the royal
princesses of England can be allowed to marry, without being obliged to
find some royal prince for that purpose. Perhaps this course has been
discovered to be possible from the fact that the stock of royal princes
is getting short in Europe. Prussia has gobbled up any number of German
ones, and bids fair to do so with the rest. But we prefer to think that
this innovation is really due to the women’s rights movement. Their
platform is broad enough for the entire sex to stand on, and why should
a princess, from the unfortunate accident of her birth, be debarred her
natural right to fall in love with the man of her choice, and to marry
the man she loves. At any rate we commend this change of policy to the
leaders of the women’s rights party, as a proof of the success their
movement has gained, and advise them to send a series of congratulatory
resolutions to the princess in question, upon her gaining her
unquestioned right to consult her heart rather than a Lord Chancellor
in the bestowal of her hand.
An Anecdote from Salt Lake. A GYPSY came to BRIGHAM YOUNG with a pony for sale. “Why, the beast is half-starved,” said BRIGHAM, running his
hand over the pony’s side. “You can count his ribs.” “That’s more’n a chap could do with yours,” retorted the gypsy. BRIGHAM YOUNG did not buy that pony.
NATURAL HISTORY IN OUR PARKS.  o greater
tribute has yet been paid to the already improved condition of our city
parks under the new régime, than the arrival in them of
strange birds by which they had not hitherto been patronized. Within a
few days past several owls have been captured in the solemn pines with
which these delightful retreats have lately been made green, if not
shady. The owl, as is well known, was regarded by the ancients as the
Bird of Wisdom. He fully sustained his right to the title by letting
severely alone the city parks while they were still dreary and
disgusting wastes. The only night-birds by which these were, then
occupied were of the featherless (and apparently motherless) kind, and
were well known to the police. They were quite as watchful, it is true,
as the genuine feathered owl that has just commenced to give its very
extraordinary countenance to the parks, but then it was with other
people’s watches, not their own. It is with much concern that we hear
reports of the slaughter of some of these solemn but beautiful owls
that have come to ventilate their wisdom among us. The reports in
question were very definite and unmistakable, most of them proceeding
from revolvers handled by members of the Municipal Police Force, while
others emanated from the barrels of shot-guns wielded by beery Teutons,
who rushed frantically out from their sawdust lairs when they were told
that the game was up—that is, that an owl was up a tree. This was
scurvy treatment for the visitors. To “put a head on” an owl, which is
already provided with one so large and so comical, appears to be a work
both superfluous and inhuman. The only apology for it in this instance
is, that these night-birds of prey were supposed by the police to have
been attracted to the parks by the prospect of succulent suppers on the
very well-fed sparrows by which these resorts are now thickly tenanted.
The owls hooted at this notion; but their hooting was only answered by
shooting, and the poor foolish Birds of Wisdom have been stuffed with
tow instead of sparrows, and set up to form the nucleus of an
ornithological Rogues’ Gallery in the City Hall.
On visiting the Battery a few days ago, one of the
park-keepers (himself looking in his bright new uniform somewhat like a
blue-jay) expressed his conviction that, next spring, that time-honored
pleasure-garden of the old Knickerbockers will be a paradise for
song-birds such as it has not been since the original Swedish
Nightingale warbled her “woodnotes wild” there a score of years ago,
more or less. The sea-gulls, he thought (will Judge HILTON have the
goodness to provide these park officers with manuals of ornithology?),
would build their nests in the pine-trees with which the wide esplanade
that stretches away to the water’s edge will soon be bristling. Honest,
but mistaken young man! As well might he have said that the sea-wall [a
very substantial one, by the way] would build its nest in the
melancholy pines. But it is reasonable to hope that pine grossbeaks
will find their way thither, and that the German flutes of various
finches will provide for the coming Bavarians and Hessians (should any
be left after the siege of Paris and the sorties of the
truculent TROCHU) a welcome such as has not heretofore been accorded to
the strangers who at Castle Garden first set foot upon our shore. The Bowling Green—late a nuisance and a pandemonium, now an
oasis of verdure—has not as yet reported its owl, but the public eye is
upon it, and the nocturnal marauder may yet be detected in the forks of
the great willow-trees, which still retain their verdure. The sparrows
are almost disproportionately numerous in this small park, but this may
be accounted for. It has lately been laid down with new grass, the
green, tender blades of which, just now beginning to crop out, are
probably mistaken by the birds for “sparrow-grass” munificently
provided for them by the Commissioners. In all of these city parks the contrast between past and
present is very striking and agreeable. But a few short months ago they
were the domiciles and dormitories of outcast roughs and vagrants of
the worst description, whose “‘owls,” as a Cockney explorer observed,
“made night ‘ideous.” The only muss now common to them is the mus
tribe, comprising the mus ratus, or ordinary rat (so called
from its haunting ordinaries, we suppose), and the timid mouse, with
which the Bird of Wisdom is contented to put up when the sparrows
decline to come to his claw. Central Park offers numerous attractions now to all who love
to keep up their animal spirits by studying animal life. There is a fat
little Asiatic pig there, who is the very picture of content. A red pig
he is, and exceedingly well behaved. The best red pig, in fact, that we
remember ever to have seen, beating the learned pig by several trumps
and an ace. When we last saw him he was very busy with his pen, and our
surmise was that his mind was fully occupied with arrangements for
editing the works of BACON, or, possibly, those of HOGG. The young elephant has increased immensely, since last year,
in stature and girth. He is remarkably neat in his person, wisping
himself all over with hay for hours at a time. Whether he does this for
cleanliness or to obtain a flavor of elephant for the hay is doubtful,
however, for he always eats it after having made use of it as a
flesh-brush for a good while. Notices requesting visitors “not to feed
or annoy the animals” are posted on the compartments. In the case of
the elephant, though, it might be as well also to caution persons
against making jokes about his trunk—a low kind of ribaldry in which
every carpet-bagger, who never had one, seems to think himself bound to
indulge. There is a cinnamon bear in one of the outside cages, whose
claws remind one sharply that cinnamon and cloves go together, and that
clove is a tense of the verb “to cleave.” But we do not want such a
fellow as that to cleave to us, since it is evident that a grocer kind
of brute than a cinnamon bear cannot be found in all the ursine family.
“Sugar and spice, and all things nice,” are stated in song to be the
materials that “little girls are made of,” but if we thought that
cinnamon bear figured upon the list of groceries thus used for
modelling young maidens, we would either fly to the desert with Dr.
MARY WALKER or immure ourselves in a nunnery with SUSAN B. ANTHONY, and
all the other females of the anti-sugar-and-spice persuasion. Fattest of all the beasts in the Central Park collection is
the larger of the two grizzly bears. From the easy way in which he
takes life, he reminds one of a successful politician, who had worked
his way up from being a slim and impecunious “repeater” to the position
of Alderman, or Custom House official, and President of the Fat Men’s
Club. There is a drunken leer in this beast’s eye, an inebriate roll in
all his movements, that lead one mechanically to peer into the darkness
of his den with the view of seeing what the Bar fixings are like. It
would be a rare freak to treat the huge fellow to a cask of rum and
sugar, and then stand by with a comic artist, and take down for
PUNCHINELLO the traits of BRUIN the Grizzly on a “bender,” and with all
his repressed nature brought out by the strong drink. “Carnivorium” is the word now properly applied by the Park
authorities to the establishment in which the wild beasts are kept.
That is, the term will be correct when applied only to the particular
department allotted to the fierce flesh-devouring animals. At present
camels are accommodated in the Carnivorium, and so are cows, which is a
sort of slur upon the habits of these poor innocent vegetarians. The
new word, however, is likely to find considerable extension, and if any
provider for the public maw should choose hereafter to call his
dining-saloon a Carnivorium, none would have a right to cavil at him on
philological grounds, at least. By and by the Park will have a new and sensational attraction.
The antediluvian monsters of that great FRANKENSTEIN of the period, Mr.
WATERHOUSE HAWKINS, will soon be advanced enough to “give fits” to the
nursery-maids and their tender charges. Accipitrine in features as in
name, Mr. HAWKINS is a living illustration of the Darwinian theory.
Certainly his remote ancestors must have been of the falcon family. He
revels in birds; though, when he cannot obtain those, he can put up
with lizards, which he usually prefers manufactured, and of a length
not less than from sixty to one hundred feet. This reminds us that a
saurian of a hundred feet should not be confounded with a centipede. It will be seen, then, that the landscape-gardens of our great
city are in a fair way of being able to afford some illustrations for
students of Natural History more interesting than the oyster-shells and
old boots with which most of them have hitherto been stocked.
FRUIT FOR BALLOONISTS. Currents in the air.
 FASHION CORRESPONDENTS REPORT THAT “NETS ARE TO BE WORN MUCH
LONGER.” PUNCHINELLO SUGGESTS, THEN, THAT THEY MIGHT BE PROFITABLY
ADAPTED FOR CATCHING FISH AS WELL AS BEAUX.
THE AVERAGE THANKSGIVING. NINE O’CLOCK A.M. I’m
thankful I was bright enough, this year,
To have my turkey bought a week
ahead!
Oh, what a bird it is! ‘Twas
awful dear,—
But, thank the Lord! the
turkey’s been well fed. TEN O’CLOCK A.M. There!
I’ve forgot the oysters. Thank the Lord,
There’s time enough with early
church; Old GRIMES,
I hope, will pity us to-day; he’s
bored
A hungry crowd so many, many
times. ELEVEN O’CLOCK A.M. Oh,
what a crowd! Hallo! Another man!
Well, thank the Lord, ’twill be
a change, at least;
I s’pose he’ll aggravate us all
he can:
And that’s so easy just
before a feast. TWELVE O’CLOCK M. Oh, what a bore! He’s worse than
Grimes by half;
So slow!—That turkey will be
done to rags!—
I’m famished! I could eat the fatted calf.
There! Thank the Lord! He’s
winding up; he fags. ONE P.M. Give
me the knife. Be quick, my love, be quick!
I never was so hungry in my
life!
Well, thank the Lord, that
tedious old stick
Did let us off.—Oh, hang
this carving-knife! TWO P.M. I
wish I had not eaten quite so much;
But, really, the mince-pie was so
prime!
You gave it just the real, old,
fancy touch.
There! (Thank the Lord, I got
the meat in time.) THREE P.M. My
eyes! how sleepy I have grown since noon!
Some wine or music, now, would
make me gay;
Come, ANNA, let us have a little
tune—
There! thank the Lord, there’s
no more work to-day. FOUR P.M. What
was it, ANNA? I was sound asleep;
I rather think I had the
nightmare, too.
I feel half sick; cold chills
around me creep.
Well, thank the Lord,
Thanksgiving is all through!
A Pen and an Inkling. A certain HERR BISSENGER, of Pforzhelm, has presented BISMARCK
with a golden pen, set with jewels, with which to sign the treaty after
the capture of Paris. Foresight is well enough in its way; but if the
treaty which is to end this war is not a very different one from any
BISMARCK has yet suggested, penning his signature to it will be merely
a preliminary to his repentance for being so short-sighted as not to
see that Sedan, not Paris, was the place at which to make a lasting
peace.
A Chance for Metaphysicians to be Useful. The German metaphysicians who have been so long bothering the
world with reports of their searches after the undiscoverable, should
now exercise whatever skill they have gained in this pursuit, in
looking for signs of republican protest in Germany against the growing
tyranny of their Prussian masters. Such a course would do their own
country good, and, if successful, would be most grateful to the rest of
the world.
A Twist of the Cable. Telegrams per cable state that “VON DER TANN is
retreating”—also that “a Prussian bark has been blown up.” Combining these two statements, we obtain an excellent quality
of Tan Bark, which may or may not be suggestive of further “Hidings” of
the Prussians by the French.
Grant-ed. Recent disclosures concerning the President’s Cabinet would go
to show that this piece of administrative furniture is a cabinet with
Drawers.
Bad for their Health. Travel is so impeded by the terrible state of affairs at
present existing in France, that the Prussians cannot take Tours.
New Occupation for the President. A display heading in the World of November 18th has
the following astounding line:— “GRANT cuts SCHURZ.”
 NONE THE BETTER FOR TOO MUCH NURSING. Dr. W.G. Bryant.—”MR. KELLEY, THAT POOR CHILD
PENNSYLVANIA HAS BEEN FED TOO EXCLUSIVELY WITH PIG-IRON PAP. SUPPOSE
YOU TRY SOME OF MY FREE-TRADE MIXTURE, AND SEE IF THAT WON’T RESTORE IT
TO HEALTH.”
HIRAM GREEN SURPRISED. His Fellow-Citizens Present Him with a Silver Tea Service. When the Hon. BILL SOOWARD allers gets home from a voyige, the
sitezens of Auburn give him a warm recepshen. When Goyenor HOFFMAN visits the home of his childhood days, a
spontaneous bust of friendship throws her lovin embrace about him. When a few sundry other peeple, whose names shall be nameless
in this communication, have arroven to their long home on tother side
of the River Sticks, they will get a recepshen so warm, that, settin on
top a red hot koal stove and sokin their feet in a kittle full of
b’iling water, will be full as cheerin to ’em as a Mint Jewlip is to an
inhabitant of the Equinoxial line. Recepshens and presentashens bein the order of the day, I took
it into my head, a short time since, to have my feller sitizens of
Skeansboro’ give me some of it. Consekently I hired 1/2 dozen of my nabors, whom I supposed
wouldent make turnal fools of their selves, to call at the Old Green
manshon with a crowd of peeple, at the hour when I was supposed to be
to bed, for the purpuss of presentin me with a silver tea sarvice,
which our Joowiler had lent me for the occasion. I writ up an impromptu
speech, and practiced it for over a week, out in my barn, so as to be
reddy for the cerprise. My 3 oldest darters had agreed to be dressed up in white,
representen the 3 graces—Faith, Hope, & Charity—and arrangin their
selfs in a tabloo in the back parler, they was to throw open the foldin
doors at a signal from me. I also tride to get my wife to rig up; says
she: “Me rig up? No, sir! I wouldent encourage sich a lot of tom
foolery to save your consarned neck. And I know of a sartin Old
Noosants who’l ketch Hail Columbia if he musses up these ere parlers to
freely.” The noosants referred to was no doubt the undersined; I know
it was. Mariar was allers full of pet names, and this was one of them. When she called me pet names, I dident stop to argue with her.
It is no use; shee’l allers have the last word, if she sets up all nite
for a week for it. You mite just as well try to make Bosting fokes
think the hul United States don’t resolve around Masserchussetts Bay
and Bosting Common once every 24 times an hour, as to undertake to stop
a womans clack when she gets on a talkin fit. The appinted nite came, and I was standin behind the winder
curten, peekin out the upper hall winder, anxiusly awaitin the arrival
of the crowd. All of a sudden a percession, hove in site, headed by a drum
and fife. Their onsartin way of marchin, by gettin their legs mixed all
up together, made me think that by the time they got up to my house,
the painful duty would devolve on to me of goin down and getten their
legs ontangled. The fifer was continually mistakin his head for a drum stick,
as he fell over and let it strike vilently agin the sheep skin head of
the base drum. Whilst the drummer, hisself, was mistakin evry bodys
head for his musikle instrument, as he dealt out blows rite and left,
to all who come within hittin distance of his intossicated drum sticks. Arrivin before my domisil, the leeder sung out and says: “Now boys (hic!) let’s rattle up bald head, (hic!) if old
2-and-ninepence don’t (hic!) shell out with his ‘freshments, we’ll
(hic!) smash this ‘ere borrered tea sarvice over his (hic!) figger
head.” Sayin which he gives the door bell a yank, which was enuff to
pull the roof off from over our heads. Slippin on my red nite cap, I poked my head out of my winder,
and in fained cerprise, Bays to ’em: “My good peeple, what’s the meanin of this demon-stration?” “A lot of fellers, who you hired to come and pay you a visit,
has got here. So come down and let us in, old hoss,” says a voice. I went down stairs, with doubts in my mind as to the way the
thing would turn out. Unboltin the door, the assemblige filed in. A casual glance
convinced me that I was not receivin into the buzzum of my family
manshon a deputashun from the Skeensboro Lodge of Good Templers, for a
skalier lot of whiskey-soked human beins I never sot eyes on. There was JOB BIGLER, who useter leed the Skeensboro brick
meetin house quire, tryin to pick his teeth with the corner of a
pictur-frame, while standin before the lookin glass was WILLYAM DUNBAR
vainly endevorin to ascertain if he was the Siameese Twins, or else was
the lookin-glass a double-plated one. Old JIM SPENCER insisted on standin with his cow-hide butes on
top the mahogony senter table, for the purpuss of presentin me with the
tea sarvice, while his son-in-law had no sorter hesitation,
whatsomever, of planten his muddy feet into my wife’s work basket,
which was settin on a stool in the sou’-west corner of the front room.
Others had piled theirselfs in heeps, in various parts of the room,
presentin a picter which JOHN B. GOFF could work up to sich an affectin
pitch, that tears could be got out of the eyes of a perfessional
grave-digger. “SQUIRE GREEN, yer (hic!) feller sitisens, wishin to do the
square thing by you, hereby (hic!) take this opportunity of presentin
you with this (hic!) tea sarvice, which you hired down to GRIZ’LES
jooliry (hic!) store, for this momentous occassion. Take it and be
‘appy. Now trot out yer (hic!) benzeen,” says SPENCER. At this pint I
give the signle, and the foldin doors was throde quickly open, revealin
my 3 gals in a classic tabloo. I then said: “Feller Sitizens: When I say I’me hily pleased at this
onexpected cerprise, I but reiterate the pent up feelins of an
overflowin heart.”— “Oh, cork up on that ere spoutin, and sound yer supper bell,”
said JOE BIGLER, interuptin me. I again went on. “As I casts my eyes about me, I see the smillen faces of my
feller sitizens, who have been tride and not found wantin—” “That’s a lie! We are wantin some vittles, with a
little (hic!) opedildock to wash her down. When you hired us to do this
job, you (hic!) ‘greed to fill up,” says a voice. I pertended as how I dident hear the raskle’s insultin
remarks, but I was secretly itchin to be a silent spectator to his
funeral, and see his miserable carciss sunk down under about 6 foot of
free sile. I continnered; “You see before you, Faith, Hope & Charity, otherwise
called the 3 graces,” said I, pintin to my darters, who looked as
sheepish as if they was jest let loose from a femail convenshun, or
some other loonatick asylum. “Yer cant cram that stuff down our gullets, no more’n I can
stand on this sugar bole without mashin it” said a vile youth, ceasin
the sugar bole from the silver tea sarvice and settin his foot onto it.
“Them gals haint no more faith in hoops and charity, than I have that
the french peeple can live under a Republican form of government.” Said
another chap: “Oh, no, old GREEN, them tow-headed maidens is your
darters, JOHANNER, BETTY, and MARIAR, Jr.” “Leed us to the bankett halls,” says some one else. “Come, do as yer (hic!) ‘greed, and give us some
pirotecknicks,” some one else yelled; at this juncture all was hollerin
vociferously for vittles and whiskey. I assure you, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, it was very affectin. In fact, I don’t believe there was a dry mouth in the
crowd. “I blush for every drunken soul of you,” said I, wishing to
get rid if em; “and I want you to understand this meetin is adjourned
to sober off.” I noticed that the 3 graces had left the room, while the
assemblage was vainly endeavorin to git hold of the silver tea sarvice. Suddenly the back parler door was busted open, and Mrs. GREEN
and my 3 gals rushed in with pans of hot water and broomsticks, and if
ever I enjoyed seein a lot of people baptized, it was that ere crowd,
who was a yellin “bloody murder,” as the hot water made their hides
curl up. “Go It, My Sweet Dears,” Said I, “Peel Off Their Skins, And
You Shall All Have A Bran New Caliker Apiece To-Morrer Mornin.” Well, sir, in quicker time than I can write this, the house
was cleared and the front door locked agin em; but my troubles had only
just commenced, for I had, figerately speakin, jumped from the fryin
pan into the fire. “HIRAM GREEN,” said MARIAR, backin me up into a corner, “you
old sinner, you, look at that senter table, all scratched up with heels
of a pair of drunken cow-hide butes. Look at my work basket; it looks
as if a percession of hogs had been marchin into it.—See that nice rag
carpet which took me over 6 months to make; what is it? eh! it’s
covered with old tabacker cuds, mud, segar stumps, broken whiskey
bottles, and dish water. Haint you a sweet venerable head of a family?
Haint you a saperb copy bound in calf, of ex-legal jewrisprudence? “Presented you with a tea sarvice, did they? Oh! yool be the
ruination of this family with your confounded efforts seekin arter
fame. You—you—” I dident wait to hear no more, but left the house with my
feelins in a hily mixed up state. I have made up my mind to one thing,
that if I ever get up another cerprise, I will hire good moral men,
sich as editors, noosepaper men, and literary folks ginerally, whose
conducts is above suspishon, to conduct the preceedins. When this you spy,
Remember HI, Ewers, truly, HIRAM GREEN, Esq., Lait Gustise of the Peece.
 BABY’S PHOTOGRAPH.
 SONG OF THE OYSTER. “PUT ME IN MY LITTLE BED.”
OUR PORTFOLIO. An Exciting Interview with King William.—”Seeing” Thiers and
Going him Better.—The Influence of Monkeys In Diplomacy. VERSAILLES, EIGHTH WEEK OF THE REPUBLIC, 1870. “I don’t believe a word of it,” said the King, with an
impatient stamp of the foot and a deprecatory wave of the hand—”not a
word of it.” You see, dear PUNCHINELLO, the situation was thus: I had
undertaken, not indeed without grave misgivings, to propitiate his
Majesty, after the failure of the THIERS-BISMARCK negotiations, and, if
possible, procure such terms as would save Parisians from the galling
necessity of immolating the monkeys of the Jardin des Plantes
to the popular demand for something to eat. I thought, as an American
citizen and your correspondent, my propositions might have some
chance of being favorably entertained, especially as I knew that the
English Minister’s presents of Stilton cheese and many dozens of BASS’
bottled ale to BISMARCK had failed to prevent the current of the
Chancellor’s prejudice from running strongly in favor of Americans.
Thus morally armed, and bearing in my pocket a passe-partout
from Prussian Headquarters, I approached Versailles on the second
evening after the departure of M. THIERS, and found the King occupying
the apartment in the central pavilion of the palace, which had once
been the sleeping-chamber of Louis XVI. and his unhappy spouse MARIE
ANTOINETTE. Many alterations had taken place since I was last there and
saw the wretched Queen from the balcony endeavoring to assuage the
fierce mob that surged beneath. The room was not like the room in which
I once helped Louis to pull off his boots, and the delicate perfume
that usually pervades the apartments of French royalty had succumbed to
the amalgamated odors of Schweitzer Kase and Saur Kraut. “It is apparent, sire,” said I to WILLIAM, who was sitting
there “that Count BISMARCK has wholly misunderstood the situation in
Paris.” “Not a bit of it,” said the King; “don’t I know well enough
they’ve got down to two ounces a day for each man, and horse meat at
that? “You forget, sire, their vast supply of asses.” “Do I, indeed? when they’ve done nothing but develop an
unlimited number of them ever since the war began.” I had an idea then that his majesty must have meant this for
sarcasm though my own experience told me that it was only too true; and
it also occurred to me that I was not in my true station as the
representative of a government of “asses.” Nothing but a stern sense of
duty prevented me from clearing out at once under this last harrowing
reflection. Accordingly, I returned to the charge with diminished
vigor, assuring the King that if his army kept on blockading Paris in
this cruel sort of way, the population would soon be dying by
thousands. It was very strange why he wouldn’t draw off his troops.
What did he want with Paris? What had Paris done to him?
Weren’t there plenty of other cities in this world that didn’t care a
cent how much he bombarded them? (I began to think that possibly I
might be growing childish in my method of stating the case, but it was
only a momentary weakness that made me think so.) Where was Tyre? Let
him go and bombard Tyre. Nobody cares for Tyre now. Where was Sidon? If
he wanted to throw away his ammunition, let him “go” for Sidon. Where
was Tuckahoo, New Jersey? Would New York care if Tuckahoo was reduced
to the level of its original swamp? Moreover, there were lots of cities
away off in China, yearning to have the rays of modern civilization let
into them. Would it be anything out of his way to travel in that
direction with a few big KRUPP guns, and give civilization a fair
opening to get in at? Wasn’t it cowardly to be punching all the time at
one poor, miserable little town like Paris, that ain’t big enough to
help itself, and wouldn’t have done the same by him no matter if it got
ever so many high old chances? “Think of it, oh! think of it, my royal
brother,” I said, laying a hand on each of his royal shoulders. He took
my hands off, and told BISMARCK to bring him a wisp-broom. It was a
cruel insult, but I stood unmoved in the midst of it. “Perhaps at some
future hour and place, Your Majesty, we may meet under different
circumstances.” That was a proposition he exhibited no disposition to
deny. At this juncture a courier arrived from the front, breathless
with excitement, and speechless too. The King seized him by the back of
the neck and shook him violently, but the poor fellow couldn’t
articulate a word, I suggested that cold keys be put down his back, and
his feet thrust into the fire. That brought him to so fast that I got
behind an arm-chair for protection. In a few seconds he gathered voice
enough to say: “S-S-Sire, P-P-P-Paris is e-eatin’ u-u-up the m-m-mon-monkeys.” Fatal news! It was all up with my museum. Paris reduced to monkeys, and no treaty signed! Horrible catastrophe! I offered myself to Satan for a good lie—anything, I didn’t
care what, to clinch matters, and bring the King to terms. The Old Boy
served me. “Your Majesty, I forebore to tell you the worst; but it can be
kept back no longer. You must fly from here; fly from Paris. Your
worthy queen, the great, the good, the patriotic AUGUSTA, is now lying
at the point of—” “Liar!” shouted the King, as he seized a boot-jack from the
hands of BISMARCK and hurled it at me with all his strength. I burst
the back of my coat dodging the missile, which did not, however,
interrupt the rapid utterance of my dreadful communication. “Spare one moment more to hear what I have just received by
telegraph from Berlin, which is to say that your grandmother—” “I never had a grandmother!” roared the King, upon the verge
of madness, as the Crown Prince, at the head of six Army Corps
surrounded the building and captured me without firing a shot. P.S.—It is scarcely necessary in my present exhausted state to
say that my liberation is once more entirely due to the intercession of
that man of all men, the defender of injured innocence, and the
champion of all unfortunates, the most honorable Mr. WASHBURNE,
American Minister, &c. He told them that he had known me from
boyhood; that my father died in the lunatic asylum, and dying,
bequeathed his intellectual characteristics to his son, which was all
he had to bequeath. The King said it was more than likely, and so I got
off. DICK TINTO.
Wonderful Sagacity. Newspapers mention that an Irish crow has lately arrived as a
passenger on board the steamship Colorado. It is stated that
the bird has positively declined to quit the ship, and the inference is
that its unwillingness to do so arises from fear lest it might be
mistaken for a Thanksgiving Turkey.
A Wintry Reflection. The only Weather Profits that never fail are the gains of the
coal dealers.
Nautical. When does a ship display a propensity for climbing? When she runs up her flag.
THE PLAYS AND SHOWS atest of Mr.
BOUCICAULT’S mixtures is another Irish dramatic stew. He calls it the Rapparee,
and it contains the usual proportion of fire, patriots, whiskey,
traitors, pretty girls, and red-coat officers. It has a Tragic Heroine
and a Cheerful Heroine, a French Officer who speaks with an Irish
brogue, and a Dutch General who speaks the Fechterian dialect. It has
FRANK MAYO in picturesque attitudes on the stage, and HARRY PALMER in
gorgeous vestments in the lobby. But here it is—as long as the original
and nearly as tedious. Read it and decide for yourselves whether this
sort of thing is worthy of the clever mechanic who constructed Arrah-na-Pogue?
THE RAPPAREE. ACT I. SCENE I.—A retired spot in the
public highway. [Enter an army of fifteen
Irish patriots, armed with pikes of great scythes.] 1st PATRIOT.—”Hurroo for KING JAMES, we’ll dhrive the
Orange-men into the say. Here comes O’MALLEY, and the FRINCH OFFICIR.
May they niver want a bottle, or a frind to stale it from.” [Enter
O’Malley and Duquesne,] O’MALLEY.—”All is lost. ULICK has betrayed us.” DUQUESNE.—”All is lost. ULICK has followed the national
custom.” PATRIOTS.—”All is lost. Hurroo. What’ll we do now, boys?” O’MALLEY.—”Come with me to France. We’ll fight somebody there.” PATRIOTS.—”We will go this minute.” [They go. Enter Tragic
Heroine.] O’MALLEY.—”Can I belave the eyes of me. Is it you, darlint, or
some other ghost?” TRAGIC HEROINE.—”‘Tis I. Fly, O’MALLEY. ULICK insists upon
marrying me, and hanging you.” O’MALLEY.—”I will fly to-morrow night, and you shall fly with
me. I would go this minute, were it not that Mr. BOUCICAULT’S play
would be spoiled if I did not stay long enough to get into
difficulties. I will hide in the cellar of my ruined castle, and will
give ULICK the worst ‘hiding’ he ever had if I have a convenient chance
at him.” SCENE II—The front parlor in
O’Hara’s castle. Enter the Dutch General and O’Hara. DUTCH GENERAL.—”O’HARA, I dinks you pe ein repel. ULICK is
searging your bapers. If he finds something you shall be hanged.” [Enter
Ulick.] ULICK.—”I have searched O’HARA’s trunk, and the drawer where
he keeps his other stocking. I have found nothing.” DUTCH GENERAL.—”I still pelieve him a traitor, but I gannot
brove it.” [Exit.] ULICK.—”O’HARA, listen. I have lied. I hold here in my left
coat-tail pocket the proofs of your treachery. Give me your daughter
and help me hang O’MALLEY, or I will ruin you.” O’HARA.—”I am in your power. Do as you please.” [Enter
Tragic Heroine.] TRAGIC HEROINE.—”Never. ULICK shall neither marry me nor hang
O’MALLEY.” ULICK.—”Young woman, I will lock you in this room for a year
or two, until O’MALLEY is thoroughly hung. Come, O’HARA.” [Exeunt.] TRAGIC HEROINE.—”I must escape and warn O’MALLEY. But how? I
have it. I can leap out of the window into the sea: I can then swim in
full ball-dress to O’MALLEY’S castle, which is only twenty leagues from
here. I will warn him, and fly with him. Courage. I will remove my
back-hair and make the hazardous leap.” [She leaps.] SCENE III.—The vaults below
O’Malley’s castle. Enter Dutch General,
O’Hara, Ulick, and the “Doctor,” a rebel prisoner. DOCTOR.—”I brought you here to show you O’MALLEY’S
hiding-place. Now I’ve got you. The tide rose the moment we entered,
and cut off your retreat; we’ll all be drowned like rats in a hole.
Hurroo.” [O’Malley descends into the vaults by an iron door.] O’MALLEY.—”Come up-stairs out of the wet. We’ll have some
whiskey.” [They come up.] ACT II. SCENE I.—O’Malley’s ancestral
back-garret. Enter Tragic Heroine in ball-dress, having swum across the
bay. TRAGIC HEROINE.—”Ha! also Ho! I am a little out of breath. I
think I had better faint.” (Faints.) [Enter O’Malley and his
rescued enemies.] O’MALLEY.—”Sit down, while I go for the whiskey.” [He
goes.] O’HARA.—”What do I see? My daughter! Take her up-stairs before
O’MALLEY returns.” (They take her up.) [Re-enter O’Malley.] O’MALLEY.—”Gentlemen, here is the whiskey. It is Gen. GRANT’S
favorite brand, and you’ll find it all right.” [To his servant]
“CONNER, these men mean to arrest me. Go and set fire to the castle.” [Connor
goes, and O’Malley, locking the door, throws the key out of the window.] EVERYBODY.—”What do you mean by throwing away the key? Do you
mean to surround us, and, making us prisoners, drink up the whiskey
yourself?” O’MALLEY,—”‘Tis a custom of our house, intended originally to
give employment to meritorious locksmiths on the eve of election.
Listen while I tell you how one of my ancestors played a nice little
trick on some officers who had come to arrest him for shooting his
landlord. He locked them up as I have locked you up. He then ordered
his servant to set the castle on fire as I have just done, and was
baked with them as we are about to be baked.” DUTCH GENERAL.—”Donner und blitzen!” EVERYBODY ELSE.—”Tare an ounds!” TRAGIC HEROINE, [in the loft above].—”S c r r r e e e
c h.” O’MALLEY.—”Heavings! That shriek. ‘Tis my Grace! TRAGIC
DARLING, I come to die with you.” [Rushes up the chimney, while the
Dutch General, blowing off the lock off the door with his pistol,
escapes together with his friends. The Castle is carefully taken to
pieces in sections by the stage carpenters, while torches are flashed
at intervals. Finally a Roman candle is set off, and the O’Malley
Castle falls a prey to a carefully managed conflagration.—Curtain.] ACT III. SCENE I.—A quiet place in midst
of the turnpike. Enter Cheerful Heroine and French Officer. FRENCH OFFICER.—”Fly with me at once.” CHEERFUL HEROINE.—”Why on earth should I fly? I have never
seen you but once.” FRENCH OFFICER.—”‘Tis true; but you’ll have to settle that
with BOUCICAULT. I’m sure I don’t want you to fly, especially with no
property but a low-necked dress and short sleeves; but BOUCICAULT has
arranged it to suit himself.” CHEERFUL HEROINE—”In that case I will fly.” [Enter the
DOCTOR and a band of patriots.] DOCTOR.—”O’MALLEY is a prisoner in the fort. We are going to
have him out, dead or alive.” FRENCH OFFICER.—”These are the counsels of madness. Why don’t
you get an injunction, or something of that kind, and so get him out
peaceably.” DOCTOR.—”It’s too late. Besides, Mr. BOUCICAULT wants to end
the play with a fight.” CHEERFUL HEROINE.—”I will manage it all. I will let down a
rope from the fort. You shall all be drawn up and rescue O’MALLEY.
Nothing could be more simple. Come and be drawn up.” [They come.] SCENE. II.—Interior of the
O’Malley’s cell. Enter Tragic Heroine. TRAGIC HEROINE.—”‘Tis he!’tis he! Though how he managed to
change his clothes and put on such a nice coat, I can’t imagine.
Dearest, awake!” O’MALLEY.—”Who calls? Is it the boy with the beer? Ha! my own
darling. Come to this embroidered waistcoat.” TRAGIC HEROINE.—”I have agreed to marry ULICK on condition he
permits you to escape.” O’MALLEY.—”Ha! base girl. Would ye onconvenience yourself to
save me? Never! I will not consent to your marrying ULICK. Try some
other little game, darlint” TRAGIC HEROINE.—”I will.” [Exit.] SCENE III.—The castle moat.
O’Malley in the ditch standing in a picturesque attitude.
The Dutch General stands on the summit of a wall three feet high, and
leaning over
the battlements—which tower to the height of three inches—hands
O’Malley a pardon. Enter Tragic Heroine and everybody else. TRAGIC HEROINE.—”O’MALLEY. I have saved you. Now save me. I
have just married ULICK. Kill him for me.” ULICK and O’MALLEY accordingly slash each other
across the legs with their rapiers. O’MALLEY kills ULICK and
embraces the TRAGIC HEROINE. Everybody shouts “Hurroo!” and the curtain
falls. MATADOR.
 EFFECT OF THE PRESIDENT’S PROCLAMATION UPON CERTAIN PARTIES
INTERESTED.
SARSFIELD YOUNG’S PANORAMA. PART II. THE ALPS. These mountains, which are permanently located in Switzerland,
and favorably mentioned in all the geographies, are justly admired by
tourists for their grandeur, natural beauty, and good hotel
accommodations. This is a view at sunrise, by one of the early painters.
Everything is up, but Mont Blanc is up more than his neighbors. The
whole landscape is bathed in the golden glories of the orb of day. A
bath in the morning is invigorating indeed. These Peaks are clustered around in silent majesty. It looks
as though the entire PEAK family had come here and settled. These
snow-capped summits, wild ravines, mountain torrents, and the series of
crags which WILLIAM TELL was in the habit of addressing, are truly
soul-inspiring. Here is a guide with his party. These guides are well-trained
men, who never bolt, but always go with their party—the ultramontane.
They are of high birth, and descended from the best Alpen Stock. No one should pass the season in Switzerland without seeing
these mountains. They will repay a perusal. While the prices may not be extravagant enough for Americans,
still, those who have scaled these noble elevations may well account
the prospect as one of the most striking features of a foreign climb. A SCENE IN THE TROPICS. This gorgeous painting brings before you all the luxuriance of
tropical vegetation. Magnolias and palm trees wave their heads proudly,
while bananas, oranges, and bread fruit abound in rank profusion. Here
the cane brake stretches away as far as the eye can reach (and to those
who are not near-sighted still farther), recalling those beautiful
lines of the poet:— “Break, break, break!” The broad river in the foreground, mountains melting away on
the horizon (that’s because they’re volcanic), and the sun broiling and
sizzling high up in the heavens, are deliciously blended together. Our
artist, full of perspiration (he can blend better than any man we ever
ployed), has seized upon a moment when all Nature seems to say:
(“Steady there, what makes that canvas wriggle so?”) Notice the warmth of coloring; and see to what a high degree
of art the general effect is carried-about 90° Fahrenheit in the
shade. This picturesque object is an alligator basking in the sun. Our
advice to inexperienced travellers is: “Let him bask!” These cotton fields, rice plantations, and the colored member
of Congress addressing his constituents on the right, all stamp this
scene as unmistakably Southern. We will cancel the stamp and move on. In our next we shall find that our artist has given himself
more latitude, say about eighty degrees North. WINTER IN SPITSBERGEN. Behold these regions of eternal ice and snow—miles upon miles
of frozen real estate. There is a great ice monopoly here. All, all is
blank; except the ship over in this corner. She is a prize. This is the
place to buy thermometers; you’ll generally find them going very low.
The weather in this region is mostly day and night, but rather
irregularly divided between the two. You see these people with rough beards and red shirts, looking
like New York firemen? You take one to be MOSE? You are right—they are
Esquimaux. They are a tough, and hardy race. Though not precisely
students, they yet consume the midnight oil—chiefly as a beverage. This great work is the combined production of thirteen
artists; twelve of them, perishing in the attempt, were handsomely
buried at our expense; and the survivor is now keeping a bar, for his
own consumption, at St. Paul, Minnesota. He was compelled to lay aside
the brush, which accounts for the water in this corner not being
frozen, as the contract stipulated. But this allows the ship to which I
referred to float comfortably. These small buildings are settlements. They are not so
frequent here as in New York or Chicago, where business men inform me
they occur about as often as—once in two years. “Ice cream for sale,” on this sign, has a flavor of
civilization in it. Woman does not go to the poles here, although one of them is
only a few miles distant in a northerly direction, with excellent
sleighing. I would make a passing allusion to this figure, introduced by
artist number nine, to please the young people. It represents a
Spitsbergen lover. He is clad in fur, and has a catarrh. He is just now
oh his sneeze, warbling hoarsely: “Rein deer in this bosom!” (Sentimental strains from the melodeon.) THE GRAND CANAL. This is not the Erie Canal, but the Grand Canal of Venice. It
does not own so many mules, or forward so much corn and flour, as the
New York concern, but is more airy and picturesque. It is surrounded by
palaces; but what is a palace without a mother? These swan-like men-of-war are gondolas. Our skipper is called
a gondolier. Every other skipper is called something worse than that if
he gets in our skipper’s way. I respect a man’s calling; that is, if he
follows it up energetically. The Rialto, with its busy throngs. The Bridge of Sighs, where Lord Byron is said to have stood on
either hand. A group of native beggars. This man is blind. With this
Venetian blind we beg leave to close this scene. SARSFIELD YOUNG.
The Flesh-pots or Paris. A late newspaper item states as follows:— “The Archbishop of Paris has given permission to use
horse-flesh on fast days.” It is lucky for Mr. BONNER’S crack horses, then, that they are
not stabled in Paris just now, since they are all considered first-rate
for Fast days.
“SOAP”-STONES.—Wall street “rocks.”
| 
