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 FOURTH. THE HALF-WAY HOUSE  he first person
to discover that ANN BRUMMET had left the house, was Mrs. LADLE, Now,
ever since the Hon. MICHAEL had asked ANN to go to the circus, Mrs.
LADLE had hated her. But when he took ANN to the Agricultural Fair, and
bought her a tin-type album and a box of initial note-paper, Mrs. LADLE
was simply raving. Whether she herself was viewing the Hon. MICHAEL
with an eye matrimonial, and was jealous of ANN, must remain an open
question. At any rate, she was the first to start the scandal about ANN
and JEFFRY, and lost no time in conveying it to the ears of the Hon.
MICHAEL, with profuse embellishments. At the croquet party the Hon.
MICHAEL had been particularly sweet on ANN, his ardor finding vent in
such demonstrations as throwing kisses at her slyly, holding up printed
lozenges for her inspection, or tossing sticks at her and dodging
behind a tree. And when Mrs. LADLE went to ANN’S room next day, for a
good square scold, she found her out.
Now Mrs. LADLE was a mother-in-law, and consequently a pretty
old fowl in ferreting out things of this sort. She determined to
discover the why and wherefore of ANN’S departure. If she could
confront the Hon. MICHAEL with proofs of ANN’S indiscretion, it would
be the loudest kind of feather in her cap. She examined everybody in the house, and everybody that went
by the house, but without the smallest result. She was out in the front
yard waiting for a fresh victim, when she saw HERSEY DEATHBURY coming
up the road. She signed to her to come in. She came in. HERSEY DEATHBURY was an extraordinary woman. A woman of
genius, sir. What if her make-up was limited? What if, when she
was born, nature was economizing, and gave her only one eye,
and she was lame and hump-backed, and hadn’t got any eyebrows and wore
a wig; what of that? It’s to her credit, I say. You saw her
just as she was. No airs there. And in this lay the great charm
of H. DEATHBURY’S character. Looking at her closely, you would see a
fixed and stony eye and a chronic scowl, and you would say:
“Disposition a little morose; some man has soured on her.” Looking at
her more closely, you would see under her right arm a common
blackboard, such as is used in schools, and over her shoulder a canvas
bag containing lumps of chalk, and you would say: “A little eccentric;
likes to write on the blackboard instead of talking. Would make a nice
wife. Looks, on the whole, like a country schoolma’am, whom the boys
have stoned out of town, with the fixtures of the school-house tied to
her.” But she has talents. What is she, an authoress? “Yes, she is.”
But, like other authoresses, she isn’t appreciated, and has returned to
her legitimate occupation, the Wash-Tub; but still doth she itch for
fame, and so, between times, she writes verbose essays on Female
Suffrage, composed during the process known as “wringing.” And when
there’s a Woman’s Rights Convention in that locality, she sits on the
platform, and applauds all the Red-Hot Resolutions with that trenchant
female weapon, the umbrella, in one hand, and an antediluvian reticule
the other. In the words of the Hon. MICHAEL: “She is not only a leading
Reformer, sir, but a great Platformer.” And Mrs.
LADLE will tell you that, as a washer, she is superb. She “does up
things” in a manner simply celestial. Mrs. LADLE told her first to shut the door. “Have you seen ANN BRUMMET to-day?” she said. HERSEY nodded. “Where?” was the eager inquiry. HERSEY DEATHBURY placed her blackboard against the wall,
unslung her chalk, and wrote in very large letters:— “I C hur a-Goin on The rode 2 forneys Kragg.” “Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. LADLE joyfully, “traced at last.” And
she ran to tell the Hon. MICHAEL all about it. *
* * The Half-Way House at Forney’s Crag was a hoary-headed old
vagabond of a house, that had passed the heyday of its youth long
before that great encyclopaedia, the oldest inhabitant, emitted his
first infantile squawk. Each successive season caused it to lean a
little more and the most casual observer must perceive that it couldn’t
by any possibility become much leaner without pining entirely away. Nevertheless, it had been the only hotel that Spunkville could
boast, all within a short period of this writing. Like most Western
hotels, it had been ably supported by a large floating population,
known as “New York Drummers,” and many a time had its old walls
re-echoed with their guileless hilarity and moral tales; and, if the
ancient and time-honored spittoon in the bar-room could speak, it could
relate wonderful stories concerning the Sample Gentry; relating,
perhaps, to a Spunkville merchant, who, having retreated precipitately
down his cellar stairs several tunes during the day, to avoid “them
confounded drummers, with their everlasting samples,” was, while
plodding his lonely way homeward, seized upon by these commercial
freebooters, conveyed forthwith to the Half-Way House, and there
deluged with such a perfect torrent of brow-beating eloquence as to
reduce him to an imbecile state, in which condition he would willingly
order large bills of goods, a custom still somewhat in vogue, and known
as “commanding trade.” At other times, it was refreshing to see a drummer emerge from
a week’s carousal, take a drink of plain soda, and write a long letter
to his employers concerning the extreme dulness of trade. But since the new hotel had been built the Half-Way House had
waned, and its quiet was only invaded by an occasional straggling
traveller or a runaway couple, and its walls resounded with nothing
more clamorous than the orgies of a Sunday-school picnic. It is, however, with the Ladies’ Parlor only (that wretched
abode of female discomfort in all country hotels) that we have to do. The furniture of the room consisted of the articles usually
found in a boudoir of this kind, to wit: a straight-backed
sofa, much worn; the inevitable and horrid straw carpeting; that old
Satanic piano, that never was in tune; an antique and rheumatic table,
and three wheezy old chairs. The only present attempts at ornament were
two in number. The first was a large engraving of the Presidents of the
United States, which had formerly done duty in the bar-room, where the
villagers were wont to gaze upon it in an awe-struck manner, being
impressed with a vague idea that it was CHRISTY’S Minstrels. The second
was a living statue, none other than ANN BRUMMET waiting for JEFFRY
MAULBOY. “Half-past three, and not come yet,” said she. “Look out,
JEFFRY MAULBOY, for if you do go back on me”—- She paused, for she saw a man coming towards the house. “Well, if that ain’t ARCHIBALD BLINKSOP,” she added, “I’m
regularly sold. What can he want here?” Yes, it was ARCHIBALD sure enough, biting his finger-nails and
breathing very short, while he cast furtive glances at the windows. He went slowly up the steps and into the entry just as Mrs.
BACKUP, the landlady of the House, came out of her sitting-room. Now, Mrs. BACKUP was one of your eminently respectable
females, who are always loaded to the muzzle with Beautiful Moral
Essays, which they try to cram down everybody’s throat, but never
practise themselves. She formerly kept a boarding-house in the city,
where, at table regularly after soup, she would regale those present
with long dissertations on the shocking immorality of the present day,
varying the monotony, perhaps, by allusions to the boarders who had
just left. “Mr. SIMPSON was a pleasant-spoken young man as I want to
see, and as good as the bank, but I’m afraid he was agettin’
dissipated;” or, “Mr. FIELDING was quiet and mannerly, and never found
fault with his vittles, but he had one DREADful habit;”
and then she would sigh heavily. And when little Miss PINKHAM, who
occupied the second floor back (and who, being a schoolma’am, was
naturally debarred from the other sex), indulged in the smallest
possible flirtation with the good-looking young man opposite, Mrs.
BACKUP’S sharp eye not only saw her, but Mrs. BACKUP’S sharp tongue
took occasion to berate her severely on a Sunday morning (for then the
boarders are all in), at the top of the first landing (for then the
boarders could all hear her). “I am saprised, Miss PINKHAM.
Why, when I see that young man asittin’ at his winder, and a blowin’
beans. Yes, a blowin’ beans, Miss PINKHAM, through a horrible tin
pop-gun at your’n, and a winkin’ vicious, and you a enjoyin’ on
it, Miss PINKHAM, I sot down; yes, I sot right down, and I shuddered.
‘Sich doin’s in my house,’ says I, ‘I am totilly congealed.'” When all
the time, mind you, the virtuous Mrs. BACKUP was a woman who would bear
any amount of watching, having already caused three husbands to
frantically emigrate to parts unknown. Seeing that ARCHIBALD hesitated, she said:— “Well, young man, what’s wanted?” “I—I—want to see ANN BRUMMET,” said ARCHIBALD. “Oh, you do, do you?” rejoined Mrs. BACKUP, regally;
“and who, may I ask, is ANN BRUMMET?” “A young lady that I was—a—to meet here,” replied ARCHIBALD,
timidly. Mrs. BACKUP immediately organized a virtuous tableau, and
glared at him majestically. “A young lady you was to meet here. In-deed.
And do you think, young man, that my house is a place where
young chaps can go a-roystorin’ and a-gallivinatin’ about, and a
meetin’ young women?” “But I don’t want to go oysterin’,” said ARCHIBALD, “and I
don’t know how to galvinate. I only want to tell her something.” “Oh, to tell her something, is it? Well, I’d have no
objections, young man, if you said she was your wife. Then
you’d have a right, but not now, for my cha-racter is precious
to me, young man.” “But she ain’t my wife,” said ARCHIBALD; “I only—kind of know
her, you see.” “Drat the man,” said Mrs. BACKUP to herself; “he’s a born fool
that can’t take a hint like that. TEDDY!” she cried to a seedy-looking,
pimply man, who was sucking a forlorn-looking pipe on the back-door
step, “you’re wanted.” She whispered a few words in his ear, and went
up-stairs. TEDDY MCSLUSH was the General Utility man of the Half-Way
House. Born down East, of an Irish father and Scotch mother, he was
eminently calculated to live by his wits. His natural talents were
numerous and sparkling. He could tell more lies without notes than any
man in the State, or make a beautiful prayer, all in the way of
business. When a runaway couple were married at the Half-Way House, he
would not only give the bride away in a voice broken by emotion, but he
would bless the bridegroom with tears in his eyes, and he would do all
this at the lowest market price. And every Sunday he dressed in a black
suit and sung in the choir, and patted the little children on the head,
and was generally respected. He approached ARCHIBALD, and poked him in the ribs, facetiously. “Ah!” he ejaculated; “and it’s a cryin’ shame, so it is, that
a fine lad like yerself should be took with sich a complaint. It’s
modeshty what ails ye, man. And wasn’t it Mester JOHN SHAKESPEER
himself, him as writ the illegant versis, Lord luv his ashis, as says
to me only jist afore his breath soured on him, ‘TEDDY,’ says he, wid
much feelin’, ‘TEDDY, modeshty is a fine thing in a woman,’ says he,
‘but it’s death to a man. Promise me now,’ says he, ‘for I feel as this
clay is a coolin’ fast—promise me, TEDDY, as you’ll never hev nothink
to do with it—no, not never, my boy.’ I promised him, and Hevins knows
as I’ve kep’ my word. But, Lord alive, I’m a keepin’ you all the time
from yer own dear wife, as is a dyin’ to see you—and a sweet dear it
is.” He ushered ARCHIBALD into the Ladies’ Parlor, closed the door,
and applied his ear to the key-hole, with an air of the most respectful
attention. According to TEDDY’S way of thinking, ANN was not hankering
for ARCHIBALD’S society. “What do you want here?” said she, sharply. “Oh, don’t speak cross to me, Miss BRUMMET,” said he, looking
timidly around. Then he put his finger on his lip, and shook his head
energetically. “I know all about it, you see,” said he; “JEFF told me. Oh my!
wasn’t I struck up, though? But I’ll never tell. He couldn’t
come, you see. His mother sent for him, and—-“ “You lie,” she broke in fiercely; “it’s a put up job between
you two. But it won’t do; do you hear? It won’t do.” “Oh, don’t look at me that way,” said ARCHIBALD,
backing toward the door; “I want to go home.” “I’d like to see you go home,” she replied, placing her back
against the door. “You must think I’m a fool, to let you off as easy as
that. You’ve got to sit up with me this evening, anyhow.” “But what would folks say?” stammered ARCHIBALD. “Oh, think of
my reputation, Miss BRUMMET, and let me go.” “Your reputation!” she sneered. “Humbug! Men don’t have any
reputation, except when they steal a woman’s. Come,” she added, in a
more conciliatory tone, “we’ll have some supper, and then we’ll have a
game of euchre.” “Euchre! Oh, don’t ask me to play euchre,” said he; “I’m so
mixed up, Miss BRUMMET, I couldn’t tell the King of Ten-spots from the
Ace of Jacks. Oh, won’t BELINDA grab hold of my hair when she hears of
this!” “Yes, she’ll pull it till she makes her ARCHIE-bald,”
said ANN, laughing. ARCHIBALD sat down, and looked at her in a supplicating manner. “I’ll do anything you say,” said he, “if you please won’t get
off any more puns. It’s awful. I knew a fellow once who had it chronic.
He doubled every word that he could lay his tongue to. When he was
going to a party, he’d take the dictionary and pick out a lot of words
that could be twisted, and set ’em down and study on ’em, so he could
be ready with a lot of puns, and when he got ’em off folks would laugh,
but all the time they’d wish he’d died young. And that’s the way he’d
go on. He finally drove his mother into a consumption, and at her
funeral, instead of taking on as he ought to, he only just looked at
the body, and said, ‘Well, that’s the worst coffin-fit the old
lady ever had.’ And then he turned round and began to get off puns on
the mourners. Wasn’t it dreadful?—But what’s that?” Somebody was knocking at the door. “What’s wanted?” said ANN. “It’s your minister as has come, mum,” said TEDDY, from the
outside. “What word shall I give him?” “Tell him I shan’t want him,” said ANN. In a few minutes TEDDY came back. “He says, mum, as he won’t go without marryin’ somebody, or a
gittin’ his pay anyway, for it’s a nice buryin’ job as he’s lost by
comin’.” “But,” said ANN, “I can’t—” She hesitated, and seemed to form
a sudden resolution. “Tell him,” she continued, “tell him—” (To be continued.)
BIOGRAPHICAL. There
was an agriculturist, philosopher, and editor,
Who thought the world his debtor
and himself, of course, its creditor;
A man he was of wonderful
vitup’rative fertility,
Though seeming an embodiment of
mildness and docility,
This ancient agriculturist,
philosopher, and editor.
The clothes he wore were shocking
to the citizen æsthetical,
Assuredly they would not pass in
circles which were critical,
So venerable were they, and so
distant from propriety,
So utterly unsuited to
respectable society,
Which numbers in its membership
some citizens æsthetical.
He kept a model farm for every
sort of wild experiment.
Which was to all the neighborhood
a source of constant worriment;
For every one who passed that way
pretended to be eager to
Discover pumpkin vines that ran
across the fields a league or two,
So queer was the effect of each
preposterous experiment.
He had a dreadful passion, which
was not at all professional,
For going for an office, either
local or congressional.
But though often nominated, yet
the people wouldn’t ratify,
Because they thought, quite
properly, it would be wrong to gratify
The all-consuming passion that
was not at all professional.
Among the many hobbies which he
cantered on incessantly
Was one he called Protection, and
he rode it quite unpleasantly;
For if any one dissented from his
notions injudiciously,
He went for him immediately,
ferociously and viciously,
Did this absurd equestrian who
cantered on incessantly.
With which remarks the author of
this brief, veracious history
Concludes his observations on the
incarnated mystery
Known as an agriculturist,
philosopher, and editor,
Who thought the world his debtor,
and himself, of course, its creditor,
And who will surely figure on the
oddest page in history.
THE FITTEST PLACE FOR A
“PRESERVER” OF THE PEACE. A “Jam” on Broadway.
DR. HELMBOLD TO J.G. BENNETT,
Jr. “Boo-shoo! fly.”
 A BRIGHT IDEA. Customer. “WAITER, BRING ME SOME FROZEN CLAMS.” Waiter (lately caught). “YES, SIR; WILL YOU HAVE ‘EM
ROASTED OR BILED?”
WORDS AND THEIR USES. Nothing, except counting your stamps, can be more pleasant and
exciting than tracing out the origin of words by the aid of a
second-hand dictionary. It’s the next funniest thing to grubbing after
stumps in a ten-acre lot. Dentists make capital philologists—: they are
so much accustomed to digging for roots. It’s rather dull work to
shovel around in the Anglo-Saxon stratum, but, as soon as you strike
the Sanscrit, then you’re off, and if you don’t find big nuggets, it’s
because—well, it’s because there are none there. Sometimes you dig down
to about the time when NOAH went on his little sailing excursion, and
strike what seems to be a first-class sockdolager of root, but what is
the use? Unfortunately the philology business is overdone; it’s chock
full of first-class broken down pedagogues and unsuccessful
ink-slingers, and, as soon as you offer a curious specimen in the way
of roots, they write a book to prove that the root don’t exist, or, if
it does, that it should not. However, there is an advantage in knowing the roots of words,
and the use to which they were put in former years. Everybody, you
know, is very anxious to read CHAUCER and SPENSER. Now, after you have
studied this subject about forty-two years, you will be able to read
CHAUCER with the aid of an old English dictionary and an Anglo-Saxon
grammar. Many so-called philologists, who have preceded me, have
ignorantly derived words from improper sources. Thus, the compound
word, shoofly, has been traced by some to the Irish word shoe,
meaning a hoof-covering, and the French word fly, meaning an
insect, when it is apparent to even the casual observer that it comes
from the Guinea word shoo, meaning get out, and the English
word fly, meaning a tripe destroyer. I propose, therefore, to
show you the origin of a few words, in order that you may use them
properly, and in order that you may subscribe freely for my book on
this subject, which will shortly be placed before an admiring public. Theatres. When the players were servants of the king,
they were compelled to be proficient in reading, riting, rithmetic,
rhyming, riddling, reciting, rehearsing, and romping. These
accomplishments were grouped together and called the 8 r’s,
which name naturally enough was soon applied to the play-houses. This
example shows how simple the whole subject is, and how easily the
philology business could he run by a child six years of age. Country. The origin of this word is, to say the least,
odd. City people were accustomed to visit the rural districts at about
the time when rye was ripe, and they were generally amused by the
farmer’s pereginations around his rye. Farmers always count rye-stacks
in the morning, in order to discover whether any of them have been
lifted during the night. When, upon their return to the City, the
visitors were asked where they had been, they facetiously replied, “To
count rye.” This soon became a favorite expression; the “e” was dropped
for euphony, and the rural districts were called country. Spittoon.—This word comes from the Greek word spit,
meaning to slobber, and the Scotch word, tune, meaning the
noise made by the bag-pipes. As the saliva struck the receptacle it
made a noise delightful to the ears of the smoker, and resembling the
note of the national instrument of Scotland. Hence the receptacle was
called the spittoon. Politics.—Quack philologists, who evidently were
insane, have gone back to the classics for the root of this word, when
it is well known that immediately after the termination of the
Revolution, when the Government of this country was about to be
settled, the word came into existence. A woman, called POLLY, kept a
corner grocery in New York, and all the fellows who wanted offices were
accustomed to go to POLLY’S for their beer, because she trusted. Here
they usually divulged their ideas of the manner in which the Government
machine should be run. When asked why they went to that store, they
always answered, “POLLY ticks.” Outsiders, when asked what was going on
in POLLY’s store, always answered with a wise look, “POLLY ticks.” The
words soon spread, and talking about the Government was facetiously
called POLLY ticks. The expression was finally used in earnest, and, by
euphoric changes, reached its present shape. Cheese-it.—This compound word has by some silly person
been traced to the Saxon cyse, meaning condensed cow, and the
Celtic it, meaning it. Now every way-faring man, even though non
compos mentis, knows that when he is invited to come in and cut a
cheese, come in and take a drop of whiskey is meant. This word, then,
is derived from the Sanscrit cheese, meaning drop, and the
English it, meaning whatever you may happen to be saying, and
the whole expression may be properly translated “drop that yarn.” I might go on straight through the Dictionary, but I refrain,
desiring only to show you what a light and entertaining subject
philology is, and what quantities of fun you can get out of it on
winter evenings. If any one should desire to pursue this subject further, let
him go through CHAUCER, SPENSER, SHAKSPEARE, and MILTON with a
fine-tooth comb and a pair of spectacles, looking for roots, and then
try my book on “Words and their Uses.” He had better not attack the
latter work on an empty stomach. An empty head will be more appropriate.
The Mendicant Mission. Two fresh rumors about that unfortunate English Mission are
afloat. One is that it has been tendered to the Hon. HENRY T. BLOW; the
other is that the—well, no, not exactly Hon.—DAN. SICKLES is to be
transferred from Madrid to the Court of St. JAMES. ‘Tis much the same
thing. If BLOW is appointed, it’s BLOW; and if SICKLES is appointed,
it’s Blow, too.
Military Intelligence. The Fifth Regiment N.G.S.N.Y., composed altogether of Germans,
have adopted the Prussian helmet with a spike on top. This is
appropriate, as most Germans are linguists, and like to “spike the
French.”
Where to Commence the Civil Service Reform. In our Hotels and Restaurants.
THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.  egarding me
thoughtfully for a moment, MARGARET asks, “What is an ‘old comedy?'”
I say to her, “An old comedy is to the comedy of to-day,
precisely what an old beau, padded, painted, simpering with false
teeth, and leering with rhumy eyes, is to a handsome, gallant young
fellow, such as Mr. LESTER WALLACK impersonates in Ours or School.” To which she replies, “What are roomy eyes, dear?” (Being her
fourth cousin by marriage, I am a sort of maiden aunt to her,—whence
this respectful familiarity.) “Eyes in which there is room for the
honest glances that never show themselves?'” I sternly remark that “nice girls never pun.” “Yes,” she replies; “punning, like beer and other vices, is
the peculiar prerogative of men, I suppose. But you need not be afraid.
I read PUNCHINELLO sometimes, and it is a terrible warning to people
who are tempted to pun. I could give you frightful instances of the
appalling depth to which the men who make puns in PUNCHINELLO
occasionally sink.” I hastily close the discussion by inviting her to come to
WALLACK’S and see an old comedy. So we find ourselves on the following
evening in the only theatre in the country where that rather important
adjunct of a theatre—a company—is to be found, There are quantities of elegant dresses in the house,—the
ladies having an idea that an old comedy is one of those things which
every fashionable person ought to see. There are also numbers of nice
young men, who, being the burning and shining lights of fashionable
society (after their day’s work behind the counter is ended), come to
be bored by the old comedy, with a heroism which proves how
immeasurably superior to the influences of tape and calico are their
youthful souls. By the by, it is one of the unavoidable désagréments
of New York society that the wearer of the elegant dress is often
conscious that her partner in the waltz knows precisely how many yards
of material compose her skirt, and exactly how much it cost per yard,
for the excellent reason that he himself measured it with his
professional yard-stick, and cut it with his private scissors. This,
however, is a subject that belongs not to old comedy, but to the
extremely modern comedy of New York society. The two resemble each
other only so far as they are fashionable and dull. But to our WALLACKIAN old comedy. The curtain rises upon the
veteran GILBERT and the handsome ROCKWELL. They converse in the
following style: GILBERT.—”Well, you young dog, ha! ha! So you have decided to
make your old uncle happy by marrying my neighbor’s daughter. Gad! I
remember my own wedding-day. Well, well; we won’t talk about that now,
but hark ye, you young villain, if you don’t marry the girl, I cut you
off with a shilling.” ROCKWELL.—”My dear uncle, I can have no greater pleasure than
to fulfil your wishes. But suppose our adorable young neighbor has the
ill-breeding to refuse me.” GILBERT.—”Refuse you! Refuse my nephew? Gad! I’d like to see
THOMAS OLDBOY permit his daughter to refuse my nephew! I’d—d—e, I’d—”
(chokes and stamps with rage.) Further on we meet with Miss OLDBOY and her mother,—the latter
a stout old lady, addicted to smelling salts and yellow silks. LYDIA OLDBOY.—”To-day I am expecting the arrival of young
WILDOATS, who comes to pay his addresses to me. I wonder if he is like
that dear, delightful THADDEUS OF WARSAW.” Mrs. OLDBOY.—”Now, Miss, remember that your honored father
insists upon this match. I expect you to be a dutiful daughter, and
accede to his wishes. Here comes the young man himself.” ROCKWELL.—”My. dear Mrs. OLDBOY, I am charmed to see you. You
are looking positively younger than your ravishingly beautiful
daughter. Fair LYDIA, I come to lay my heart at your feet. ‘Tis the
wish of my uncle and your honored father that we should unite our
respective houses. Let me touch that exquisite hand. Unseal those ruby
lips and tell me that I am the happiest of men.” Here the UNCLE and OLDBOY enter. They chuckle, and poke one
another in the ribs, remarking “Gad” and “Zounds” at intervals. They
bless the young couple, and order up some of the old Madeira. The
curtain falls as OLDBOY gives the health of the young people, with the
wish that they may have a dozen children, and a cellar never without
plenty of this splendid old Madeira,—”that your father, bottled, Miss
LYDIA, the year our gracious sovereign came to the throne.” This is a fair sample of the old comedy. The oaths are of
course omitted, out of deference to the tender susceptibilities of the
editor of PUNCHINELLO. So are the indecencies, which are the spice of
the old comedy, but which cannot be written in a respectable journal,
and are almost too gross and brutal for the Sun. Take from an
old comedy its oaths and its grossness, and nothing is left but a
residuum of boisterous inanity. The condensed old comedy which has just
been laid before the readers of PUNCHINELLO, is as inane and vapid as
anything that WALLACK’S theatre has shown us in the past month. Do you
find it dull? For my part, I don’t hesitate to say that the “Essence of
Old Virginny,” as furnished by the venerable poet, Mr. DANIEL BRYANT,
is vastly more amusing than the Essence of Old Comedy. All of which I say, in my most impressive manner, to MARGARET
as we struggle through the crowded lobby. But she irreverently disputes
my assertions, and asks, “How is it that everybody admires these
comedies if they are so wretched as you say they are? Is your judgment
better than that of anybody else?” There being nothing to say, if I mean to maintain my ground,
except that my judgment is the only infallible critical judgment in
this city or elsewhere, I promptly and unblushingly say so. But
MARGARET tells me I am “a goose”—(I think I have mentioned that she is
my aunt, and hence allows herself these pleasing freedoms of
speech)—and says that I shall take her to see the old comedies every
night, until I am willing to say that I like them. Who is there that, in view of this threat, will not drop the
tear of sensibility, so neatly alluded to by Mr. STERNE, in sympathy
with the prospective sufferings of MATADOR.
UNIVERSITY-MANIA. MY DEAR P.:—I have made some curious observations of this
disease, which lead to startling conclusions. It is a malady peculiar to the United States, being an
eruption resulting from indigestion of unripe knowledge, together with
excess of vanity in individual blood. Universities spring up among us like mushrooms, in a night.
The seed of knowledge is sown broadcast over our land. In fact, in this
particular we may be said to be very seedy, indeed. For my part I have no objection to Universities—when they are
Universities. But, at the rate at which we are now progressing, we
shall soon have “every man his own University.” It will become the
fashion to keep a University in the back-yard. And then, you know, the
institution must have its own particular organ, you know. Every man,
and every member of his family, shall print his or her Free Press,
and independence of opinion shall reign. Glorious
country! Glorious free speech!
With WALT WHITMAN, we may well
exclaim:
O the BROWN University!
O the splendid University of
SMITH!
O CORNELL, his University!
&c. ad infinitum. As for me, dear NELLO, I am in the front rank of civilization.
I have accepted the Chair of Cane-bottom in a Grub-Street garret, and
rejoice in a barrel-organ, which plays with great freedom of speech. Yours pedagoguically, JEREMY DOGWOOD.
A. Sop for Ireland. It is stated that Queen VICTORIA has ordered from a Dublin
manufacturer an extensive assortment of Balbriggan hosiery for the
wedding outfit of the Princess LOUISE. There is a stroke of policy in
this. In firemen’s phrase it may be called laying on the “hose” to
quench disloyalty.
THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.
The Marine Hospital.
TRIALS OF A WITNESS. MR. PUNCHINELLO:—As all people seem to come to you with their
troubles and grievances, I hope you will not refuse to listen to my
woes. And whether they are woes or not, I leave you to judge for
yourself. At the beginning of last week I made my first appearance in
any court-room, in the character of a witness, in the case of VALENTINE
vs. ORSON; in which the point in dispute was the ownership
of a tract of land in Wyoming Territory. I knew something in regard to
the sale of these lands, and was fully prepared to testify to the
extent of my knowledge in the premises; but judge of my utter surprise
and horror on being obliged to go through such an ordeal as the
following extracts from my examination will indicate. The counsel for the plaintiff commenced by asking me if I was
a married man, and when I had answered that. I was, he said:— “Is your wife a believer in the principles of the Woman’s
Rights party?” I could not, for the life of me, see what this had to do with
the land in Wyoming, but I answered, that I was happy to say she was
not. The examination then proceeded as follows:— Q. You are happy, then, in your matrimonial relations? A.
Yes—(and remembering the oath) reasonably so. Q. Is your wife pretty? A. (Witness remembering
at once his oath and his wife’s presence in court) She is pretty pretty. Q. What are her defects? A. (Witness
remembering only his wife’s presence.) I have never been able to
discover them. Q. Do you wear flannel? A. Yes, in winter. Q. Can you testify, upon your oath, that you do not
wear flannel in summer? A. I can. Q. Now be careful in your answer. What do you wear in
the spring and fall? A. I—I wear my common clothes. Q. With flannel, or without flannel? A.
Sometimes with, and sometimes without. Q. No evasion; you must tell the Court exactly when you
wear flannel, and when you do not. A series of questions on this subject brought out the fact
that I wore flannel when the weather was cold, or cool; and did not
wear it when it was mild, or warm. Q. Have you a lightning-rod on your house? A. I
have. Q. How much did it cost you to have it put up? A.
It has not cost me anything yet—I owe for it. Q. Is that all you owe for? A. No, I have other
debts. Q. Have you any money with you now? A. I have. Q. How much? A. (Counting contents of
porte-monnaie.) Sixty-two cents. Q. Where did you get that? A. (With
embarrassment.) I borrowed it. Q. Were you present when defendant first offered his
land for sale to the plaintiff? A. (Brightening up.) I was. Q. Do you burn gas or kerosene in your house? A.
Gas. Q. How many burners? A. Ten, I think. Q. Are you willing to assert, upon your solemn oath,
that there are only ten? A. (Witness counting on his fingers.)
I am. Q. Do you wear studs or buttons on your shirt fronts? A.
Studs. Q. Gold, or pearl? A. Mother-of-pearl, as a
general thing, but sometimes I wear one gold one at the top. Q. Were all your studs of mother-of-pearl, at the time
when you first heard this transaction mentioned between the parties? A.
They were. Q. Do you ever wear your gold stud in the middle of
your bosom? A. No, sir, I always wear it at the top. Q. Do you ever wear it at the bottom? Can you swear it
was not at the bottom on the day of the transaction referred to? A.
I distinctly remember that I did not wear it at all that day. Q. Did you wear it that night? A. No, sir. Q. Can you swear that after you went to bed you did not
wear it? A. I can. Q. Have you ever been vaccinated? A. I have. Q. On which arm? A. The left. Q. At the of the first mention of this land to the
plaintiff, who were present? A. (Witness speaking with hopeful
vivacity, as if he hoped they were now coming to the merits of the
case.) The plaintiff, the defendant, and myself. Q. Do you use the Old Dominion coffee-pot in your
house? A. (Dejectedly.) No, sir. Q. What kind of a coffee pot do you use? A. A
common tin one. Q. You are willing to swear it is tin? A. I am. Q. Has your wife any sisters? A. She has two;
ANNA and JANE. Q. Are they married A. They are. Q. Are either of them prettier than your wife? A.
(Quickly.) No, sir. Q. Have you any children? A. Two. Q. Have they had the measles? A. They have. Q. Has any other person in your household had the
measles? A. I have had them, and my wife has had them. Q. How do you know your wife has had them? A.
She told me so. Q. Then you did not see her have them? A. No,
sir. Q. We want no hearsay evidence here; how can you swear
that she has had them when you did not see her have them? A.
She told me so, and I believed her. Q. Did she take an oath that she had had them? A.
No sir. Q. Then, sir, you are trifling with the Court. Do you
understand the obligations of an oath? A. I do. Q. Beware, then, that you are not committed for
perjury. Is your gas-metre ever frozen? A. Yes, sir. Q. What do you use when the gas will not burn? A.
Candles. Q. How many to the pound? A. Nine. Q. How do you know there are nine to the pound? A.
They are sold as nines. Q. Then you never weighed them yourself? A. No,
sir. Counsel, to the Court. May it please your
Honor, this is the second time that this witness has positively
testified, under solemn oath, to important points of which he has no
certain knowledge. I ask the Court for protection for myself and my
client. Here a long discussion took place between the lawyers and the
Judge, and at the end of it the case was postponed for four months. I
suppose it is expected that I will then re-ascend the witness-stand;
but I have determined that when I enter a court-room again I shall
appear as a criminal. These fellows have much the easiest times, and
they run so little risk, nowadays, that their position is far
preferable to that of the unfortunate witnesses. J. BADGER.
Singular Fatuity. The reason why so few persons emigrate to this country from
Poland, is the general belief prevailing there that we have throughout
the Union a heavy Pole tax.
THE A.B.C. OF NEW YORK
SOCIALISM. ANDREWS, BRISBANE, AND CLAFLIN.
 THRILLING MELODRAMA. Scene: Lord DE VERE’S Manor: The Blue Chamber. Lord De Vere. “BUT ONE COURSE, LADY CLAUDE, IS LEFT TO
RETRIEVE OUR FALLEN FORTUNES. WITH THESE DEAD CATS WE’LL FLY TO
MICHIGAN AND START A MINERAL SPRING. THE MICHIGANDERS ARE WILD ABOUT
THEIR SPRINGS, AND WITH THIS MATERIAL OURS CANNOT BUT BE A SUCCESS.”
 ONE OF OUR SOCIAL HUMBUGS. Old Gent (figuring up probable receipts of his silver
wedding, close at hand). “I’VE HIRED A SPLENDID TEA-SERVICE FOR
BROWN TO PRESENT TO US; IT WILL MAKE QUITE A SENSATION, AND I’VE GOT IT
CHEAP FOR THE EVENING.”
POEMS OF THE POLICE. I. MARY SMITH. O
gallant p’licemen, list to me,
I’ll sing a mournful ditty
About a poor young serving-gal,
What lived in this here city.
She had a name, and SMITH it was
(The rest of it was MARY);
Her constant duty, at daybreak,
Was sweeping out the arey.
One evening she went to a jig
(Her missus was attending
A private hop), when there befel
What truly was heart-rending.
She wore her missus’ gayest
clothes,
Her muslin dress all fluty,
Her waterfall and tag-rags all,
Which well became her beauty.
But missus found poor MARY out,
And in a p’liceman took her,
And walked her up before the
Judge,
On charge of being a hooker.
The missus swore the girl a thief
Her property as lifted,
Which proved beyond all doubt
would be
When things came to be sifted.
The girl said she’d been to a jig;
Then out spoke Judge MCCARTY,
“You must not wear the fixings of
A party to a party.”
They sent her up for sixteen
months,—
Oh! drop a tear to MARY,
Whose missus ne’er shall see her
more
A-sweeping out the arey.
Sic Transit. Life being in any event a transitory affair, and especially so
in New York, where, every one lives some miles from his business, our
means of transit are of interest to every one. However well the owners
of those at present in use may insist that they are, yet the public
feels they should be better, and Mr. PUNCHINELLO, having the interest
of his fellow-citizens at heart, most earnestly hopes that the
undertakers of the last new scheme will not so mistake the meaning of
this term as to suppose that their business with it is simply to bury
it.
Discounting a Bill. The Germans are disposed to glorify their king, and look upon
him as the Great WILLIAM; but when they commence to calculate the cost
of his glory, in men slaughtered, homes desolated, women beggared,
industries destroyed, taxes increased, and liberty chained, it is more
than probable that they will become disgusted with their Little BILL.
Query Can Russia’s designs upon Turkey, at this season of the year,
be attributed to her admiration and imitation of New England
Thanksgiving customs?
A Maniac’s Mutterings. PUNCHINELLO’S special Lunatic gives it as his opinion, that a
continuance of a horse-flesh diet in Paris must go far towards
disturbing the Parisian Equine-imity.
An Old Saw Sharpened. Some one has applied the old Latin motto, “Horas non
numero nisi serenas,” to Mr. GREELEY, by making it read, “HORACE is
of no account except when serene,” which, by the by, he never is.
Query for Naturalists. How can a person who stands four feet in his boots be called
biped?
DENTS-LY FILLED.
Government offices.
 KING WILLIAM OF PRUSSIA WAITING FOR
HIS ALLY.
HIRAM GREEN ON MARK TWAIN’S BABY. The “Lait Gustice” congratulates the newly organized Papa. SKEENSBORO, NYE ONTO VARMONT. Friend TWAIN—Allow an old statesman, which has served his
country for 4 yeers as Gustise of the Peece, rite a congratulotery
letter to you on your success as a boy raisest. Altho your name is MARK
TWAIN, I notiss that on this occashon you dident Mark but One. I am a little older in years and Parentelism than you
are, and am able to call myself the seenyer pardner in a firm who are
the sole proprieters of eleven offspring and 2 grand-children. Raisin children is a bizziniss which haint every mans best
holt, and as long as you’ve got into the bizziness, excoose me for
givin you a little wisdom, which you as a parent must swaller without
makin up a face. If your child, in its infantile days, is given to squallin
nites, obtain a beverige, called soothin sirup, and just before you
pull off your butes nites, give the little cuss about 3 tablespoons
full, and he will sleep so sound that you can use him for a piller.
Should he kick & squall, and refuse to take it, lay him down onto
the floor, set on him, then takin hold of his nose, pour the stuff down
his throte, and you’ve got him, ekal to Jo JEFFERSON’S Rip Van Winkle
20 yeers snooze. To amoose him—If your wife is too bizzy durin the day, doin
the cookin, washin, &c. 4th, to amoose the child, give him an ink
bottle, and set him down on the parler carpet. If he has any idee of
geografy, when you come home nites you will find a good helthy map of
the black sea, which Rooshy will insist on bein added to your war map. Another way of amusin him, is to give him a raiser, and let
him play learn to shave. If he should cut his nose off, it would make
the little shaver smart. If you expect to bring your boy up to hold offis,’ let him
cultivate cheek. This is done by tyin his grandmother in her rockin
cheer, and lettin him pelt the old lady with snow balls in the winter
time. In the summer time get him a bow and arrer, and let him see how
neer he come to the venerable lady’s nose without breakin her
spectorcals. If this don’t make him cheeky enuff to hold offis, let him
pour a lot of benzine onto his little cuzzin, then push her onto a red
hot cole stove. If he can do this and think it a joak, he will do for a
cabinet offiser. If he tries to jump over parental authority, fill him with
shot, same as your man did his jumpin frog, only pour it into
him with a mustick. If you’ve got any regard for our nashnal caracter, don’t let
your son rite comic copy for the noosepapers, after which, be so rash
as to rite a book, and have English crickets set up their darn singin,
when they catch your little innocent abroad. JOHN BULL don’t tickle easy, remember that. I actually believe
you couldent stir him with a hul bag full of laffin gas. As your boy has entered the Lecture field, I shouldent be
surprised if he got up quite a breeze on the roast-rum. In
fact, when he opens his mouth before an audience, look out for squalls. When your offspring is big enuff to enjoy chastisin, remember
the “good little boy,” and examine your son’s garments to see if the
lad has been roostin onto any nitro-gleserine cans, lest the parental
hand, when brought in contact with the youth’s habeas corpus, mite
necessitate the sweepin up of father and son’s scattered remnants. Let your son reed the works on good morril men’s lives. By the time he gets old enuff to read, I will have my life out
in pamphlet form, and you can draw onto me for a copy. Beware of works
of fiction. Don’t let your boy have a great deal to do with such readin
as HOYLE on Games, TOM PAINE on Infidelity, nor HORRIS GREELY on
farmin. Such works are bringin more ruin onto the country, than the
numerous jewrys of twelve talented men, who allow murderers to come the
loonatic dodge over ’em. I don’t believe in spoilin the rod and sparin the child, but I
think it is well enuff to keep a rod hung up in the barn, where your
child can occasionally look at it, to see what he will come to, if he
undertakes to kick over the traces. Children are a good deal like wimmen. If you don’t set your
foot down when you first get married your wimmen will raise their
foot up, and afore you realize any pain, your gentle form will be
histed out into the street. With boys you must begin talkin turkey, when they are
young goblins, ef you don’t, when they get old enuff, they will
“strike for their sires,” and gobble up the old man’s scalp. Teach your son to honor his pa and ma, and decline the English
mission, when it comes his turn. Between you and I, aspirants for the honor of bordin with St.
JIMMY are on the decline, Pitty it haint a gin-cocktail. I
shouldent be surprised, if some big criminal was sentenced to go there
yet, which minds me of a konundrum. Why is the English mission like
lager beer? Give ‘er up? Because it ruins any minister’s reputation, who goes
for it. Hopin that when you shovel off your mortil coil, that your
mantle may not pass out of the family, and as time flies on with
greased wings, you may make the family name sound by bein able
to Mark Twain in your family record, I drop the goose feather. Ewers, parentally, HIRAM GREEN, ESQ., Lait Gustise of the Peece.
A SURE WAY OF DOING IT. Seekers after notoriety must often be at their wits’ end for
some new sensation with which to advertise themselves. Mr. TWAIN, for
instance, having gone through Fenianism and France, seems to have
collapsed for the present; and here now comes Mr. WEMYSS JOBSON, who
subsided into oblivion years ago, but has just emerged again into the
light of The Sun. The efforts of both these gentlemen to keep
themselves prominently before the public, however, are very inadequate
and feeble. They should suffer more and be stronger. Let TRAIN do a
bold stroke of business by declaring himself the perpetrator of the
latest mysterious murder, and it might be the making of the exhumed
JOBSON to revive a fossilized memory, and confess himself to be the
criminal who delivered the fatal blow to the late Mr. WILLIAM PATTERSON.
True to his Colors. A Bostonian visiting New York, not long since, and reading in
the papers that there was to be a celebration of Mass in an up-town
church, decided to remain over Sunday for it, thinking, Bostonially,
that Mass meant Massachusetts and nothing else.
SUITABLE INSCRIPTION FOR A BOATMAN’S RACE-PRIZE. “The
noblest Row-man of them all.”
 A NEW LEAF IN THE FAMILY HISTORY. Jack. “NOW, I’LL BE PAPA, GOING TO FIX THE FURNACE.” Sallie. “OH, YES!—AND I’LL BE THE NEW NURSE, AND YOU
MUST KISS ME BEHIND THE CELLAR DOOR!”
 BEHIND THE TIMES. EXPLANATORY OF MR. JOHN BULL’S VIEWS.
POEMS OF THE CRADLE. CANTO XIII. When
I was a bachelor I lived by myself;
All the bread and cheese I had, I
laid upon the shelf.
But the rats and the mice they
made such a strife,
I was forced to go to London to
buy myself a wife.
The roads were so bad, and the
lanes were so narrow,
I had to bring my wife home in a
wheelbarrow.
The wheelbarrow broke. My wife
had a fall;
Deuce take the wheelbarrow, my
wife, and all. The above lines were written when the author was quite
advanced in years; when he had solved, in his humble way, the great
problem of life, and discovered the futility of mundane things
generally, and t undesirableness of an unsuccessful or unfortunate
existence; when he could look back through a long vista of years, and
see the follies of his youth and the mistakes of his manhood. It should
have been placed at the end of his book, with only the word Finis after
it; but somehow, either by mistake of the author or of the publisher,
it was placed among the records of the simple events of the village,
and thus loses half its force. However, let the history, placed as it
is, be a warning to rash young men who contemplate matrimony; and let
them give heed to it, lest they also have cause to repent of their
doings and exclaim with the poet:— “The
deuce take it.” Observe how pathetic and touching his reminiscence of his lost
youth and the priceless boon of liberty. He commences in a quiet
descriptive way, leaving one at a loss to know whether it is to be a
joyful lyric a dirge he intends singing. “When
I was a bachelor I lived by myself;
All the bread and cheese I had I
laid upon the shelf.” Here we have him alone, at peace with himself and the world;
happy in the contemplation of his beloved muse; jotting down, now and
then, the brilliant ideas that flash through his teeming brain; and
munching in solitude his homely meal of bread and cheese. In telling us
he laid his bread and cheese upon the shelf, he at once shows he had
left his parental abode, and the ministering and watchful care of his
maternal parent. There must, of course, have been a cause for such a step. Some
reason why the gentle being should have been wrought up to that pitch,
when he daringly throws off all restraint, and steps into the world to
act and think for himself. It may have been the want of sympathy that
drove him to the act. They were plain folks, and didn’t appreciate his
peculiar turn of mind, and so only laughed at him, and ridiculed his
pretensions. That there was a quarrel there is no manner of doubt, and
it was probably caused by the mortifying act of his mother in fainting
when he read her the poetry he had written at her request. That, in
itself, was enough to break all ties between them. She was horrified
and overwhelmed with dismay that a child of hers could be guilty of
such atrocious rhymes; and he, in turn, was disgusted that a mother of
his should be so unappreciative and earthly. And so, by mutual consent,
they separated. That accounts for his bachelor habit of laying his bread and
cheese on the shelf that he might have it handy, and not forget where
he had placed it. But as “The
rats and mice made such a strife,” he found that would never do. Something else must be thought
of; and being an inventive genius, he tried putting it in his trunk,
but it scented his Sunday jacket and trousers, and the girls all turned
up their noses at the odd perfume. So, driven to extremity, he in an
evil hour decided, as many another has since done, that the remedy for
his ills was matrimony, and that it was not well for man to live alone. A Prophet is without honor in his own country, and so ofttimes
is a Poet. To his bashful supplication of “Wilt thou?” the young
maidens if his village unhesitatingly refused to wilt, and thus it was
that circumstances forced him “To
go to London to buy himself a wife.” How fortunate that he should give us, inadvertently as it
were, the information so necessary to the unlucky young men of this
later day, the best place to go shopping for wives! No man after
reading the above need say “he doesn’t marry because he cannot, as no
one will have him.” He need not stop for that hereafter, but just go to
London, pick out one to suit, pay the price, and bag the article. It
can all be done in a day, and save time wonderfully. He bought his wife—a cheap one undoubtedly—and gave his
promise to pay; then started homeward, feeling his importance as a
married man, and chuckling over the idea of the astonishment and dismay
of the rats and mice when he should set his wife after them, and
thereby deprive them of their daily rations. But while musing thus, he
discovers his wile shows signs of fatigue, as “The
roads were bad, and the lanes were narrow,” and not wishing to have her exhausted before commencing
business, he gallantly determined to give her a ride, well knowing she
would need all her strength for the battle he intended she should win. So borrowing a wheelbarrow of a trusting neighbor, he seated
her therein, and amid great rejoicing at his extraordinary “luck” he
set forward. But now comes the sad part of the story: “The
wheelbarrow broke—my wife had a fall.” And what a fall was there, my countrymen! Words are
inadequate. The scene was indescribable, and we leave a blank that each
may picture it to suit themselves. After the excitement occasioned by the catastrophe was
somewhat abated, he picked up the pieces and tried to put the
wheelbarrow together again. But it was too far gone; it was
un-put-togetherable, and so he, more in sorrow than anger, stood gazing
at the wreck, while his wife, being a woman, could not resist the
impulse to cry exultingly, “I told you so; I knew it.” That on top of
all the rest of his trouble was a little too much; and after fumbling
over the pieces a while, “I told you so” ringing in his ears, he
completely lost his temper, and vented his passion in the words:— “The
deuce take the wheelbarrow.”—- and then in a low voice, cautiously turning his head aside, he
added:— “My
wife and all.” Together they trudged homeward. Fearful misgivings as to the
wisdom of his step came swooping down upon him, and he almost wished he
had not tried to mend matters, but had patiently borne with the rats,
when suddenly—the vision of a cat swept athwart his mind, and
he groaned aloud in bitterness of spirit. Not even the ever after clean hearth-stone, with the dead
bodies of his enemies, the rats, piled thereon, could make him forget
that one moment of agonizing consciousness, when he realized for the
first time that he had burdened himself with a wife when a cat would
have answered as well.
HURLY-BURLY. No wonder that the folks turn pale
And preachers talk of doom,
Since by each telegram and mail
Come words of awful gloom:
Explosions of N. glycerine;
Expulsion of the Pope;
Earthquakes along the Eastern line
And
 THE PACIFIC SLOPE.
Surely the world is upside down,
Its framework out of joint;
At coming change all things of town
And country seem to point:
The very sea some day may try
To climb the mountain side,
And hill-folks yet be staggered by  THE MOANING OF THE TIED.
OUR PORTFOLIO. By Diligence from Paris to Versailles—Fastest Time on
Record—Happy Travelling Companions—Mud, Misery, and Malignity—Life on
the Road. NEAR ST. CLOUD, NINTH WEEK OF THE REPUBLIC, 1870. It would have done you good to see us getting over that muddy,
jagged, rutty old turnpike that leads off from the south of the Bois de
Boulogne toward St. Cloud and Versailles. Since writing my last, I had
been to Paris par ballon monté, and was now returning in
the diligence that took five American ladies and a couple of
war correspondents, all friends of WASHBURNE, away from the temptation
of eating horse-flesh in the beleaguered city, to such edibles as the
rapacity of the German appetite had left undevoured in the neighborhood
of the old “stamping grounds” of Louis XVI. We were not a jolly party.
It rained in torrents, and our little driver perched upon the box in
front smoked the most infernal tobacco I ever smelt. Moreover, the
horses were not lively steeds. They were rather safe than otherwise,
and not given to running away. Although the driver addressed himself to
their flanks, between each puff of smoke, with a pointed stick, they
didn’t rear and plunge so as to frighten the ladies, and that was a
point gained, albeit we had leisure to count the pickets in the fences
as we dragged toward our destination. One of our lady passengers came
from Connecticut, and she talked with a nutmeg dialect that made her
garrulity oftentimes quite spicy. We two sat back to back, and when the
vehicle lurched heavily her chignon took me “amidships” (if I may be
permitted the expression) with a concussion that felt like the impact
of a muffled ball from a six-pound field howitzer. “Goodness gracious,
dew git eout of the way and give me some room, man!” she would exclaim
as our wagon plunged into a three-foot “gore” and the coachee plied his
pointed ramrod with increased vigor to the attenuated haunches of the
insensible beasts. “My dear madam, you will perceive that I cannot ‘git’ any
further without climbing upon the back of my companion in front.” Lord
knows I would have given a hundred francs to be out of her reach; but
we had been all ticketed and labelled through under the same “pass,”
and there was no such thing as dissolving partnership now. “Ugh!” she muttered, putting her handkerchief to her nose,
“and that horrid smoke too!” But the imperturbable director of our
flight took no heed, and drew away at his clay idol with unabated
satisfaction. ‘Twas thus we jogged on for five weary hours, “OLD
CONNECTICUT” charging head foremost at my spinal column with a
frequency and momentum that made me believe, finally, she did it on
purpose. Three miles out from St. Cloud we found the road completely
blocked up with artillery wagons, and saw large masses of troops moving
through the fields on either side. It still rained incessantly, and the
forlornness of the situation was no wise relieved by the distant
booming of guns, and the sucking sound of the wheels in the mud. “Oh, my!” sail a thin, squeaky voice on the back seat. “I
believe they are coming this way. Do let us get out, SARAH. I would
rather die on the road than be murdered in such a sepulchre as this.” She referred to a battalion of the Landwehr that had just
denied into the road, not a hundred yards in front of us. “Stop your sniffling back there!” peevishly exclaimed “OLD
CONNECTICUT.” “It would serve you right if they bayonetted you;” and
she added emphasis to her expostulation by planting her chignon between
my shoulder-blades with terrific force. I felt at once that either my back or my gallantry would have
to give way; so I took a bond of fate, and sacrificed the latter on the
spot. “That’ll do—that’ll do,” I remonstrated. “No more of that; if
you want to knock the brains out of that haystack on the back of your
head, why, knock away; but spare my bones, if you please.” I looked around, and she looked around with such suddenness as
to bring her nose in contact with the brim of my hat, and force the
tears from her eyes. She started to her feet, and I verily believe
would not have postponed hostilities a moment, had not the door of the diligence
just then been opened, and a Prussian officer demanded to see our
papers. I paraded the “documents,” and he said they were “good;” but he
also said that we must make up our minds to halt here until the
following morning, as there was a movement of the troops, and no
vehicles would be permitted to pass this point. Gaudeamus! I could have sworn, but my wrath sailed away
when I saw what a volcano was working in the bosom of “OLD
CONNECTICUT.” She didn’t strike the officer, or utter a single
complaint in his hearing, but sat down as if she had been a spile
driven through the top of the coach, and let the vinegar run out of her
eyes in pure impotency of speechless rage. “SARAH’S” companion on the back seat broke forth afresh, and
again wanted to know as to the probability of our being charged upon
and put to the sword. I couldn’t hear “SARAH’S” answers to these
harrowing questions, but it seemed to me as if she were trying to
throttle her timid friend into a perfect sense of security. Whatever
she did had the desired effect, and I heard no more from the “back
seat.” It was nightfall ere the several members of our little colony
composed themselves to await in such tranquillity as they could
command, the ordeal of sleeping, sitting bolt upright in a French diligence,
upon a dark, tempestuous night, and surrounded on all sides by the
dreadful presence of “red-handed war.” The last thing I remember ere
the drowsy god “MURPHY” sent his fairies to weave their cobwebs about
my eyelids, was “OLD CONNECTICUT.” She didn’t look like the
battering-ram that she was. She had taken that chignon for a pillow,
and fastened it to the back of the seat. Her head was thrown back; her
chin had fallen, and at the extreme tip of her thin red nose a solitary
tear glistened like a dew-drop on a beet. Once, about midnight, she
awoke me by her snoring, but I gave the old gal’s chignon a hitch, and
it was all right again. Yours, somniferously, DICK TINTO.
 THOSE COUNTRY COUSINS AGAIN. Celia (just arrived from the country). “JUST THINK,
JANE, COUSIN JOHN IS TO BE MY ESCORT TO THE FRENCH BAZAAR AND THE
NILSSON CONCERTS, AND BOOTH’S AND WALLACE’S, AND THE OPERA
BOUFFÉ, AND LOTS OF OTHER FIRST-CLASS SHOWS!”
FACTS ABOUT THE ENGLISH MISSION. It is not true that I ever accepted the English Mission; and
if any man says I did, I now deliberately brand him as a Liar and
Villain. I am not going to deny that the place was offered me, but I do
unhesitatingly, say that I never absolutely consented to take it. Gen. GRANT may have construed my note on the subject as an
unqualified acceptance, but that was owing entirely to his devouring
desire to get the thing off his hands, and not to any ambiguity in my
language. “No, Mr. PRESIDENT,” I said in the note, “far be it from me to
stand between my friend, Mr. GREELEY, and the gratification of his
noble desire to wear military things at receptions abroad. Moreover
your Excellency, I would not for the world deprive our cousins and
other relations in England of an opportunity to cultivate the grand old
art of swearing under the instruction of so eminent a professor as
HORACE.” This is the sort of language I used, and I don’t see how any
man except Gen. GRANT could get hold of it the wrong way. Of course I had some reasons besides those stated in my note
for declining the Mission, but I did not want to hurt the President’s
feelings by going over the whole ground. It was not unknown to me that the situation had been offered
to about five thousand persons before it came round to my turn, or that
the English Mission had fallen into a general decline. I knew all about
that just as well as Gen. GRANT, but it would not have done any good to
parade my knowledge on the subject. There was the Hon. THOS. JENKINS who refused to take it,
because his wife had a prejudice against Bulls ever since she was
scared by one that chased her five miles for no other reason than that
she was what might be called a red woman—well-read in the exciting
house-wife literature of the day. JENKINS positively declined. Then it was offered to Col. CANNONAYDE, who declined it
because his mother-in-law declared that she would go along too, if he
went, and he thought it would be better not to let her have a change of
air, as she was in a fair way to wind up pretty soon by remaining near
those swamps. CANNONAYDE wanted the place kept open till after the
funeral, but this was not granted. The next offer was made to Gen. BRAYLEIGH; but he
refused it on the ground that he had made arrangements for going into
the coal trade, and he could not be sure of holding the place more than
a few weeks. Anyway, he thought it would not pay to give up the
coalition he had entered into with another party. In fact, old
BRAYLEIGH treated the whole matter very coldly. It was next tendered to the Hon. THEOPHILUS SKINNER, but
peremptorily declined because SKINNER’S district had become Democratic
since he was elected, and he knew that if he resigned an infamous
cannibal copperhead would be sent to Congress in his stead. SKINNER
consulted all the leaders of his party, and they unanimously agreed
that it would be better to let every court in Europe be without an
American representative than risk the loss of that district. Everybody knows why the Rev. Dr. BANGWELL, of Chicago, did not
accept it. The Doctor expected his divorce case to come on in a few
days, and could not neglect that; and besides, he had made all the
arrangements for his other marriage, and sent out the invitations. If
the President had just made some inquiries before appointing Dr.
BANGWELL, he could have found out that the Doctor’s engagements would
not permit him to leave Chicago on any account. The offer that was made to Col. KAMPSTUHL was declined solely
because the Colonel had an old score to settle with Gen. GRANT for
something in the way of a court-martial that happened near Tricksburg.
He swore that he would get square with the author of that business
sometime, and when the mission was offered to him (by accident, for Gen
GRANT had forgotten all about the court-martial), he got up a
sepulchral voice, and said, “Ha, ha! R-e-e-e-vendge at last!” and then
wrote a bitter letter to Washington on the subject. After that it was peddled all round the country in a
promiscuous way, and offered in succession to a blacksmith who used to
shoe horses for Gen. GRANT, a conductor who refused to take fare from a
well-known Presidential excursion party, a dealer in hides who had
conferred some high obligations when a certain official was in the
tanning business, a grocery-keeper, a family shoemaker, a manufacturer
of matches, and such a multitude of people, in fact, that it finally
got to be looked upon as the greatest missionary undertaking of modern
times. The only really prominent man that the place was not tendered
to is GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN; but I wouldn’t say that it won’t get around
to him somewhere in Asia before the circle is completed. All these things were very well known to me before the office
was placed at my disposal, but I did not care to wound the fine
sensibilities of the President by saying anything about them in my note. My reason for declining in favor of Mr. GREELEY has been
stated—I put the whole matter frankly to Gen. GRANT—but I can’t say
whether the suggestion I offered has been acted upon or not. The only
thing I am certain about on this point is, that if the offer should be
made to HORACE, it won’t get around to GEORGE FRANCIS afterwards. There has been so much talk about this business, that I have
considered it a sacred duty to state the facts and let some floods of
light shine upon the whole thing. The duty is now conscientiously,
discharged. DARBY DODD.
The Truth In a Nut-shell CHANCELLOR CROSBY, in his inaugural address, has, we may say,
bored right to the root of the whole vexed question of education, and
extracted it, as will be seen from this extract: “It need hardly be
urged,” says the new Chancellor, and we hope, all the discontented will
take the full force of the remark, “It need hardly be urged that the
didaskalos should be didaktitos, and yet perhaps emphasis on so plain a
truth may be sometimes necessary.” Let us thank the Chancellor for
forever removing this necessity.
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