_D_. OH, FATHER, what funny things are caused by the revolution of a
planet!
_F_. Well, revolutions are not _always_ such funny things, as those
wretched creatures on the earth up there must have found out by this
time.
_D_. How dry you are, pa! I didn't mean the revolutions _on_ a planet,
but the revolutions _of_ a planet.
_F_. Well, a distinction, I admit. But what are you driving at?
_D_. Several things. For instance, seven revolutions of the planet Earth
produce a new number of PUNCHINELLO--a funny thing, as you often say
yourself.
_F_. Well put, truly.
_D_. And seven revolutions also give rise to the _Revolution_ itself,
which (being a woman all Right in head and heart) I regard as about the
funniest thing going.
_F_. "Funny," child? Why, I never saw any thing less so. It is
_dreadfully_ serious. It is even sanguinary; sadder still, abusive and
vulgar. What is there comical about coarseness?
_D_. You don't take my idea, father. It is funny, because it assumes so
much. It does not realize that womanly modesty is the great obstacle to
its success, and that if it was as well endowed with that quality as the
average of American women, it would promptly cease to revolve.
_F_. Why, HELENE! what has set you off? Where did you pick up this
nonsense? What can you possibly know of Women's Rights, as I believe
they call the new Movement?
_D_. Why _shouldn't_ I know something about it, when it has been in your
mouth for months? And ain't _I_ a woman? Besides, don't we women know
some things by _instinct_?
_F_. Well, well, child! I wish you could know Astronomy by instinct; for
I begin to see I've a job before me, if only to keep you to the point.
_D_. The Compass-point, do you mean, father?
_F_. No; the Study-point. Do you call this studying Astronomy?
_D_. I think, pa, I like the _practical_ part best.
_F_. Ah, that which allows you to study the Fashions in Broadway! Well,
woman is woman, I believe, the Universe over! But, come; a short lesson,
to begin with. Here is a fine view of Saturn, with his Rings.
_D_. "Rings?" Are they anything like the New-York Rings you have read
about?
_F_. Well, yes; no, not exactly; but a Ring within a Ring, is a phrase
that applies to both subjects, just now.
_D_. Oh, pshaw! I thought you meant finger-rings! What does Saturn want
of Rings?
_F_. And what does New-York want of 'em. They are _there_, and
there they'll stay!
_D_. But _I_ mean, what does a _gentleman_ want of rings?
_F_. Don't we find, every where, that the most Saturnine, the dullest,
and stupidest, and lowest, are generally the fondest of this sort of
ornament?
_D_. Oh, dear! Father, how you _do_ try me! (Do see him, gazing away,
when he _knows_ I'm dying to get a squint! He pays me no more attention
than though I was a mere ANTHONY! Why, what ails him?) Father! Father,
dear! what--what's the matter? Why are you crying?
_F_. Come here, and look; quick! Oh, HELENE; isn't it horrible?
_D_. Why--what is it, father? Console yourself; it is a good way off to
say the least! [Looks a moment.] Why, it's those savage Freedmen, I do
declare! about to sacrifice that amiable-looking white! A tender-looking
man; is he what they call a Ku--Ku--
_F_. Klux? Oh, no. That is a Missionary; and the blacks are not
Freedmen, as you suppose, but Cannibals. They are about to roast him.
You see the fire?
_D_. Oh, quite distinctly! look, father!--he is making a sign to them.
What does it mean?
_F_. [Looking.] It means that he has lost the use of his
tongue--probably from fright--but would like to write something.
_D_. Like so many other tongue-tied scribblers! Do they let him?
_F_. Oh, yes; they bring a board, and a piece of chalk.
_D_. How large is the piece?
_F_. The usual size. He is writing.
_D_. What does the poor fellow say?
_F_. He is laconic. He merely writes--