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Vol. I. No. 18
PUNCHINELLO
SATURDAY, JULY 30, 1870.
PUBLISHED BY THE
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY,
83 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD,
By ORPHEUS C. KERR,
Continued in this Number.
[Sidenote: See 15th Page for Extra Premiums.]
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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by the
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY, in the Clerk's Office of the District
court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York.
* * * * *
THE
MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.
AN ADAPTATION,
BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.
CHAPTER XII.
A NIGHT OF IT WITH MCLAUGHLIN.
Judge SWEENEY, with a certain supercilious consciousness that he is
figuring in a novel, and that it will not do for him to thwart the
eccentricities of mysterious fiction by any commonplace deference to the
mere meteorological weaknesses of ordinary human nature, does not allow
the fact that late December is a rather bleak and cold time of year to
deter him from taking daily airings in the neighborhood of the
Ritualistic churchyard. Since the inscription of his epitaph on his late
wife upon her monument therein, the churchyard is to him a kind of
ponderous work of imagination with marble leaves, to which he has
contributed the most brilliant chapter; and when he sees any stranger
hovering about a part of the outer railings from whence the inscription
may be read, it is with all the swelling pride of an author who, having
procured the publication of some dreary article in a magazine, is thrown
into an ecstacy of vanity if he sees but one person glance at that
number of the periodical on a news-stand.
Since his first meeting with Mr. BUMSTEAD, on the evening of the
epitaph-reading, Judge SWEENEY has cultivated that gentleman's
acquaintance, and been received at his lodgings several times with
considerable cordiality and lemon-tea. On such occasions, Mr. BUMSTEAD,
in his musical capacity, has sung so closely in Judge SWEENEY'S ear as
to tickle him, a wild and slightly incoherent Ritualistic stave, to the
effect that Saint PETER'S of Rome, with pontifical dome, would by ballot
Infallible be; but for making Call sure, and Election secure, Saint
Repeater's of Rum beats the See. With finger in ear to allay the
tickling sensation, JUDGE SWEENEY declares that this young man smelling
of cloves is a person of great intellectual attainments, and understands
the political genius of his country well enough to make an excellent
Judge of Election.
Walking slowly near the churchyard on this particular freezing December
evening, with his hands behind his bank, and his eyes intent for any
envious husband who may be "with a rush retiring," monumentally
counselled, after reading the Epitaph, Judge SWEENEY suddenly comes upon
Father DEAN conversing with SMYTHE, the sexton, and Mr. BUMSTEAD. Bowing
to these three, who, like himself, seem to find real luxury in open-air
strolling on a bitter night in midwinter, he notices that his model, the
Ritual Rector, is wearing a new hat, like Cardinal's, only black, and is
immediately lost in wondering where he can obtain one like it short of
Rome.
"You look so much like an author, Mr. BUMSTEAD, in having no overcoat,
wearing your paper collar upside down, and carrying a pen behind your
ear," Father DEAN is saying, "that I can almost fancy you are about to
write a book about us. Well, Bumsteadville is just the place to furnish
a nice, dry, inoffensive domestic novel in the sedative vein."
After two or three ineffectual efforts to seize the end of it, which he
seems to think is an inch or two higher than its actual position, Mr.
BUMSTEAD finally withdraws from between his right ear and head a long
and neatly cut hollow straw.
"This is not a pen, Holy Father," he answers, after a momentary glance
of majestic severity at Mr. SMYTHE, who has laughed. "It is only a
simple instrument which I use, as a species of syphon, in certain
chemical experiments with sliced tropical fruit and glass-ware. In the
precipitation of lemon-slices into cut crystal, it is necessary for the
liquid medium to be exhausted gradually; and, after using this cylinder
of straw for the purpose about an hour ago, I must have placed it behind
my ear in a moment of absent-mindedness."
"Ah, I see," said Father DEAN, although he didn't. "But what is this,
Judge SWEENEY, respecting your introduction of MCLAUGHLIN to Mr.
BUMSTEAD, which I have heard about?"
"Why, your Reverence, I consider JOHN MCLAUGHLIN a Character," responds
the Judge, "and thought our young friend of the organ-loft might like to
study him."
"The truth is," explains Mr. BUMSTEAD, "that Judge SWEENEY put into my
head to do a few pauper graves with JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, some moonlight
night, for the mere oddity and dampness of the thing.--And I should
regret to believe," added Mr. BUMSTEAD, raising his voice as saw that
the judiciary was about to interrupt--"And I should really be loathe to
believe that Judge SWEENEY was not perfectly sober when he did so."
"Oh, yes--certainly--I remember--to be sure," exclaims the Judge, in
great haste; alarmed into speedy assent by the construction which he
perceives would be put upon a denial. "I remember it very distinctly. I
remember putting it into your head--by the tumblerful, if I remember
rightly."
"Profiting by your advice," continues Mr. BUMSTEAD, oblivious to the
last sentence, I am going out to-night, in search of the moist and
picturesque, with JOHN MCLAUGHLIN--"
"Who is here," says Father DEAN.
OLD MORTARITY, dinner-kettle in hand and more mortary than ever, indeed
seen approaching them with shuffling gait. Bowing to the Holy Father, he
is about to pass on, when Judge SWEENEY stops him with--
"You must be very careful with your friend, BUMSTEAD, this evening, JOHN
MCLAUGHLIN, and see that he don't fall and break his neck."
"Never you worry about Mr. BUMSTEAD, Judge," growls OLD MORTARITY. "He
can walk further off the perpendicklar without tumbling than any
gentleman I ever see."
"Of course I can, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN," says Mr. BUMSTEAD, checking another
unseemly laugh of Mr. SMYTHE'S with a dreadful frown. "I often practice
walking sideways, for the purpose of developing the muscles on that
side. The left side is always the weaker, and the hip a trifle lower, if
one does not counteract the difference by walking sideways
occasionally."
A great deal of unnecessary coughing, which follows this physiological
exposition, causes Mr. BUMSTEAD to breathe hard at them all for a
moment, and tread with great malignity upon Mr. SMYTHE'S nearest corn.
While yet the sexton is groaning, OLD MORTARITY whispers to the
Ritualistic organist that he will be ready for him at the appointed hour
to-night, and shuffles away. After which Mr. BUMSTEAD, with the I hollow
straw sticking out fiercely from his ear, privately offers to see Father
DEAN home if he feels at all dizzy; and, being courteously refused,
retires down the turnpike toward his own lodgings with military
precision of step.
When night falls upon the earth like a drop of ink upon the word Sun,
and the stars glitter like the points of so many poised gold pens all
ready to write the softer word Moon above the blot, the organist of St.
Cow's sits in his own room, where his fire keeps-up a kind of aspenish
twilight, and executes upon his accordeon a series of wild and mutilated
airs. The moistened towel which he often wears when at home is turbaned
upon his head, causing him to present a somewhat Turkish appearance; and
as, when turning a particularly complicated corner in an air, it is his
artistic habit to hold his tongue between his teeth, twist his head in
sympathy with the elaborate fingering, and involuntarily lift one foot
higher and higher from the floor as some skittish note frantically
dodges to evade him, his general musical aspect at his own hearth is
that of a partially Oriental gentleman, agonizingly laboring to cast
from him some furious animal full of strange sounds. Thus engaging in
desperate single combat with what, for making a ferocious fight before
any recognizable tune can he rescued from it, is, perhaps, the most
exhausting instrument known to evening amateurs and maddened
neighborhoods, Mr. BUMSTEAD passes three athletic hours. At the end of
that time, after repeatedly tripping-up its exasperated organist over
wrong keys in the last bar, the accordeon finally relinquishes the
concluding note with a dismal whine of despair, and retires in complete
collapse to its customary place of waiting. Then the conquering
performer changes his towel for a hat which would look better if it had
not been so often worn in bed, places an antique black bottle in one
pocket of his coat and a few cloves in the other; hangs an unlighted
lantern before him by a cord passing about his neck, and, with his
umbrella under his arm, goes softly down stairs and out of the house.
Repairing to the marble-yard and home of OLD MORTARITY, which are on the
outskirts of Bumsteadville, he wanders through mortar-heaps, monuments
brought for repair, and piles of bricks, toward a whitewashed residence
of small demensions with a light at the window.
"JOHN McLAUGHLIN, ahoy!"
In response, the master of the mansion promptly opens the door, and it
is then perceptible that his basement, parlor, spare-bedroom and attic
are all on one floor, and that a couple of pigs are spending the season
with him. Showing his visitor into this ingeniously condensed
establishment, he induces the pigs to retire to a corner, and then dons
his hat.
"Are you ready, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN?"
"Please the pigs, I am, Mr. BUMSTEAD," answers MCLAUGHLIN, taking down
from a hook a lantern, which, like his companion's, he hangs from his
neck by a cord. "My spirits is equal to any number of ghosts to-night,
sir, if we meet 'em."
"Spirits!" ejaculates the Ritualistic organist, shifting his umbrella
for a moment while he hurriedly draws the antique bottle from his
pocket. "You're nervous to-night, J. MCLAUGHLIN, and need a little of
the venerable JAMES AKER'S West Indian Restorative.--I'll try it first
to make sure that I haven't mistaken the phial."
He rests the elongated orifice of the diaphanous flask upon his lips for
a brief interval of critical inspection, and then applies it
thoughtfully to the mouth of OLD MORTARITY.
"Some more! Some more!" pleads the aged MCLAUGHLIN, when the Jamaican
nervine is abruptly jerked from his lips.
"Silence! Com on," is the stern response of the other, who, as he moves
from the house, and restores the crystal antiquity to its proper pocket,
eats a few cloves by stealth. His manner plainly shows that he is
offended at the quantity the old man has managed to swallow already.
Strange indeed is the ghastly expedition to the place of skulls, upon
which these two go thus by night. Not strange, perhaps, for Mr.
MCLAUGHLIN, whose very youth in New York, where he was an active
politician, found him a frequent nightly familiar of the Tombs; but
strange for the organist, who, although often grave in his manner,
sepulchral in his tones, and occasionally addicted to coughin', must be
curiously eccentric to wish to pass into concert that evening with the
dead heads.
Transfixed by his umbrella, which makes him look like a walking cross
between a pair of boots and a hat, Mr. BUMSTEAD leads the way athwart
the turnpike and several fields, until they have arrived at a low wall
skirting the foot of Gospeler's Gulch. Here they catch sight of the
Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON and MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON walking together,
near the former's house, in the moonlight, and, instantaneously, Mr.
BUMSTEAD opens his umbrella over the head of OLD MORTARITY, and drags
him down beside himself under it behind the wall.
"Hallo! What's all this?" gasps Mr. MCLAUGHLIN, struggling affrightedly
in his suffocating cage of whalebone and alpaca. "What's this here old
lady's hoop-skirt doing on me?"
"Peace, wriggling dotard!" hisses BUMSTEAD, jamming the umbrella tighter
over him. "If they see us they'll want some of the West Indian
Restorative."
Mr. SIMPSON and MONTGOMERY have already heard a sound; for they pause
abruptly in their conversation, and the latter asks: "Could it have been
a ghost?"
"Ask it if it's a ghost," whispers the Gospeler, involuntarily crossing
himself.
"Are you there, Mr. G.?" quavers the raised voice of the young
Southerner, respectfully addressing the inquiry to the stone wall.
No answer.
"Well," mutters the Gospeler, "it couldn't have been a ghost, after all;
but I certainly thought I saw an umbrella. To conclude what I was
saying, then,--I have the confidence in you, Mr. MONTGOMERY, to believe
that you will attend the dinner of Reconciliation on Christmas eve, as
you have promised."
"Depend on me, sir."
"I shall; and have become surety for your punctuality to that excellent
and unselfish healer of youthful wounds, Mr. BUMSTEAD."
More is said after this; but the speakers have strolled to the other
side of the Gospeler's house, and their words cannot be distinguished
Mr. BUMSTEAD closes his umbrella with such suddenness and violence as to
nearly pull off the head of MCLAUGHLIN; drives his own hat further upon
his nose with a sounding blow; takes several wild swallows from his
antique flask; eats two cloves, and chuckles hoarsely to himself for
some minutes. "Here, 'JOHN MCLAUGHLIN," he says, at last "try a little
more West Indian Restorative, and then we'll go and do a few skeletons."
(_To be Continued_.)
* * * * *
What is Likely to be Raised some day, regarding the Pneumatic
Tunnel.
TUBAL. CAIN.
* * * * *
[Illustration. PUNCHINELLO CORRESPONDENCE.]
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
In order to make this department of PUNCHINELLO as complete as possible,
we have secured the services of the most competent authorities in
literature, art, the sciences in general, history, biography, and the
vast vague unknown. The answers furnished by us to our correspondents
may therefore be relied upon as being strictly accurate.
_Scales_.--How old was DANIEL LAMBERT at the time of his death?
_Answer_.--736 lbs.
_Ignoramus_.--Why were the Roman _Saturnalia_ so called?
_Answer_.--The proper spelling of the word is _Sauternalia_. They were
wine feasts; and the vintage most in favor at them was Haut Sauterne.
_Chasseur_. Is the antelope to be classed among the goat family?
_Answer_.--No. MOORE calls it a "deer gazelle."
_Armiger_.--Is "arm's length" a recognized measure?
_Answer_.--Yes. It is a _Standard_ measure, as may be seen in the way
that journal is getting ahead of the _Sun_, which it keeps at arm's
length.
_Molar_.--Yes; burnt Cork is an excellent dentifrice. It should not
be applied to the teeth of children, however, as it is apt to impart an
Irish accent, or, in extreme cases, even a negro dialect.
_Bookworm_.--Do two negatives always constitute an affirmative?
_Answer_.--That depends upon the price charged by the photographer.
_Sunswick_--Is it true that JAMES FISK, Jr., has purchased Baden and
another German Duchy?
_Answer_.--No: but he could have both if he wanted two.
_Rockland_.--Who are the suffering persons represented in DORE'S
remarkable picture of DANTE and VIRGIL visiting the frozen ward of the
_Inferno_?
_Answer_.--The Knickerbocker Ice Company.
_Solitaire_.--On what day did the Fourth of July fall in the year 1788?
_Answer_.--On the Fourth.
_James Lobbs_.--How long ago is it since desiccated soup first came
into use?
_Answer_.--At least as long ago as the days of CROMWELL, whose advice to
his troops was "Put your trust in Providence, and keep your chowder
dry."
_Bach_.--Is the practice of divorce a mark of civilization?
_Answer_--It is. In the Gorilla family, (the nearest approach to the
human,) divorce is not practiced, but it is in Indiana, which is usually
considered to be a State of Civilization.
* * * * *
PAT TO THE QUESTION.
Our law-makers in Congress--or rather law-cobblers, for few of them have
risen to the dignity of makers--are asked to repeal the _per cap_. duty
imposed by California on all Chinamen imported there.
The Californians have the authority of Congress itself, for this duty.
By reference to "HEYL'S Rates of Duties on Imports," page 36, art. 691,
under head of "Act of June 30, 1864, chap. 171," "An act to increase
Duties on Imports," etc., we find "on paddy one cent and a half per
pound." Now if a good-sized Irishman pays $2.25, why shouldn't a
"Celestial" pay as much in proportion to the weight of his _corpus_?
* * * * *
Contradictory.
It appears that, by a joint resolution of Congress, the use of "that
first-class humbug and fraud, the whiskey meter," has been abolished.
Now there are dozens of members of Congress who are not only
"first-class humbugs and frauds," but whiskey meters, to whom whiskey is
both meat and drink, and yet who ever heard of their proposing to
abolish themselves?
* * * * *
[Illustration: STAY-AT-HOME PEOPLE
FOLKS MAY NOT BE ABLE TO GO TO NEWPORT OR LONG BRANCH, BUT THEY CAN
ALWAYS CREATE A LOCAL SENSATION BY TAKING A FOOT-BATH IN THE BACK-YARD.]
* * * * *
MURPHY THE CONQUEROR
BY CORPORAL QUINN.
Come tip us your fist, then, yer sowl you;
Since iver I come from the wars
The like wasn't heerd. Fill the bowl you
Bowld sons of MILESIUS and MARS;
And dhrink to ould Ireland the turfy
That's shmilin' out there in the say,
Wid three cheers for the conqueror MURPHY.
Whoo! America's ours from to-day.
Och! SAYZAR he walloped the Briton,
The Tarthars leap't China's big wall,
ALEXANDTHUR did half the wurld sit on,
But niver touched Ireland at all.
At Clontarf ould BOBU in the surf he
Sint tumblin' the murdtherin' Danes--
But, yer sowl, the brave conqueror MURPHY
Takes the shine out of all of their panes.
ULYSSES has made him Collecthor,
(Sich choppin' o' heads ne'er was seen;)
Sure the hayro will make me Inspecthor
Whin there's so many "wigs on the green."
And we'll be night-watchmen uproarious,
Wid big badges on our coats,
And we'll fight for TOM MURPHY the glorious,
Wid our fists, our guns, and our votes.
At the Custom House, Dutchman and Yankee
Are thryin' to talk wid a brogue,
They're all _Irish_, now--fat, lean, or lanky,
And green are the neckties in vogue.
They're thracin' themselves to some DURPHY,
O'NEILL, or McCANN, or O'TAAFFE,
I'll go bail the bowld conqueror MURPHY
'S too owld to be caught wid sich chaff.
Now Dutchmin may go to the divil,
And Yankees to Plymouth's ould rock,
We'll blast it, if they are not civil;
While boys of the raal ould stock
Will hurroo for ould Ireland the turfy.
Whoo! Jibralthar is taken to-day,
Our commandther's the conqueror MURPHY--
Now a tiger and nine times hoorray!
* * * * *
COMIC ZOOLOGY.
Genus Culex.--The American Mosquito
Few American birds are better known than the mosquito. In common with
the woodcock, snipe, and other winged succubi, it breeds in wet places,
yet is always dry. Like them it can sustain life on mud juleps, but
prefers "cluret." It is a familiar creature, seems to regard the human
family as its Blood relations, and is always ready to sucker them.
Being a bird of Nocturnal Habits, it is particularly attracted to human
beings in their Night-shirts. The swallow preys upon it, but it
generally eludes the Bat. Although it cannot be called Noctilucous, like
the lightning bug, it has no objection to alight in the darkness, and
you often knock till you cuss in your vain attempts to prevent its
taking a Shine to you.
The mosquito differs in most respects from all the larger varieties of
the winged tribes, and upon the whole takes after man more than any
other living thing. Nevertheless, it certainly bears a noticeable
resemblance to some of the feathered race. Like the Nightingale, it
"sings darkling," and like the woodpecker, is much addicted to tapping
the bark of Limbs and Trunks for the purpose of obtaining grub. It may
be mentioned as an amiable idiosyncracy of the mosquito, that it is fond
of babies. If there is a child in the house, it is sure to spot the
playful innocent; and by means of an ingenious contrivance combining the
principles of the gimlet and the air-pump, it soon relieves the little
human bud of its superfluous juices. It is, in fact, a born surgeon, a
Sangrado of the Air, and rivals that celebrated Spanish Leech in its
fondness for phlebotomy. Some infidels, who do not subscribe to the
doctrine that nothing was made in vain, consider it an unmitigated
nuisance, but the devout and thoughtful Christian recognizes it as
Nature's preventive of plethora, and as it alternately breathes a Vein
and a song, it may be said (though we never heard the remark,) to
combine the _utile_ with the _dulce_.
All the members of the genus are slender and graceful in their shape and
Gnatty in their general appearance. The common mosquito is remarkable
for its strong attachments. It follows man with more than canine
fidelity, and in some cases, the dog-like pertinacity of its affection
can only be restrained by Muslin. It is of a roving disposition, seldom
remaining settled long in one locality; and is Epicurean in its
tastes--always living, if possible, on the fat of the land. As the
mosquito produces no honey, mankind in general are not as sweet upon it
as they are upon that bigger hum-bug, the buzzy bee; yet it is so far
akin to the bee, that, wherever it forages, it produces something
closely resembling Hives.
Few varieties of game are hunted more industriously than this, yet such
is the fecundity of the species, that the Sportsman's Club has not as
yet thought it necessary to petition the legislature for its protection.
The New Jersey Mosquito is the largest known specimen of the genus,
except the Southern Gallinipper, which is only a few sizes smaller than
the Virginia Nightingale, and raises large speckles similar to those of
the Thrush. Ornithologists who wish to study the habits of the mosquito
in its undomesticated or nomad state, may find it in angry clouds on the
surface of the New Jersey salt marshes at this season, in company with
its teetering long-billed Congener, the Sandsnipe.
During the last month of summer it reigns supreme in the swamps west of
Hoboken, the August Emperor of all the Rushes, and persons of an
apoplectic turn, who wish to have their surplus blood determined to the
surface instead of to the head, will do well to seek the hygienic insect
there.
* * * * *
An Apt Quotation.
The name "Louvre" has now been adopted by several places of
entertainment in New York and its suburbs. A Boston gentleman, who
visited seven of them a night or two since, under the escort of a
policeman, declares that, by a slight alteration of a line of MOORE's,
New York may be well described as--
"A place for Louvres, and for Louvres only."
* * * * *
THE WATERING PLACES.
Punchinello's Vacations.
Mr. PUNCHINELLO puts up at the Atlantic Hotel when he goes to Cape May;
and if you were to ask him why, he would tell you that it was on account
of the admirable water-punches which JOHN McMAKIN serves up. To be sure
these mixtures do not agree with Mr. P., but he likes to see people
enjoying themselves, even if he can't do it himself. It is this
unselfish disposition, this love of his fellow-men, that enables him to
maintain that constant good humor so requisite to his calling. In fact,
though Mr. P. often says sharp things, he never gets angry. When, on
Thursday of last week, he was walking down the south side of Jackson
street, and a man asked him did he want to buy a bag, Mr. P. was not
enraged. He knew the man took him for a greenhorn, but then the man
himself was a Jerseyman. It is no shame to be a greenhorn to a
Jerseyman. Quite the reverse. Mr. P. would blush if he thought there
lived a "sand-Spaniard" who could not take advantage of him. So Mr. P.
bought the bag, and because it was made of very durable canvas, and
would last a great while, he paid a dollar for it.
He did not ask what it was for. He knew. It was to put Cape May Diamonds
in! He put the bag in his pocket and walked along the beach for three
miles. You can't walk more than three miles here, and if you hire a
carriage you will find that you can't ride less than that distance.
Which makes it bad, sometimes. However, when Mr. P. had finished his
three miles, he didn't want to go any further. He stopped, and gazing
carelessly around to see that no one noticed him, pulled out his canvas
bag and did shuffle a little in the sand with his feet. He might
find some diamonds, you know, just as likely as any of the hundreds of
other people, who, in other sequestered parts of the beach, were pulling
out other canvas bags, and shuffling in the sand with other feet. At
length Mr. P. shuffled himself into a very sequestered nook indeed, and
there he saw a man smoking. His melancholy little boy was sitting by his
side. Perceiving that it was only General GRANT, Mr. P. advanced with
his usual grace and suavity of manner.
"Why, Mr. President!" said he, "I thought you would be found at Long
Branch this season."
"Long--thunder!" ejaculated the General, his face as black as the ace of
spades, (which, by the way, is blue.) "I might go to Nova Zembla for a
quiet smoke, and some sneaking politician would crawl out from the ice
with a petition. I went fishing in Pennsylvania, and I found twenty of
those fellows to every trout. However, I don't mind you. Take a seat and
have a cigar."
[Illustration.]
Mr. P. took the seat, (which was nothing to brag of,) and a cigar,
(which would have been a great deal to brag of, if he had succeeded in
smoking it,) and, after a whiff or two, asked his companion how it was
that he came to send such a message to Congress about Cuba.
"What message?" said GRANT, absently.
Mr. P. explained.
"Oh," said GRANT, "that one! Didn't you like it? CALEB CUSHING wrote it
and brought it to me, and I signed it. If you had written one and
brought it to me, I would have signed that. 'Tisn't my fault if the
thing's wrong. What would you expect of a man?"
Mr. P. concluded that in this case it was ridiculous to expect anything
else, and so he changed the subject.
That afternoon Mr. P. bathed.
He went to SLOAN'S and fitted himself out in a bathing suit, and very
lovely he looked in it, when he emerged from the bathing house at
high tide. With a red tunic; green pants; and a very yellow hat, he
resembled a frog-legged Garibaldian, ready for the harvest.
When he hurried to the water's edge, he hesitated for a moment. The
roaring surf was so full of heads, legs, arms, back-hair, hats and feet,
that he feared there was no room for him. However, he espied a vacancy,
and plunged into the briny deep.
How delicious! How cool! How fresh! How salt! How splendid!
He struck out with his legs; he struck out with his arms; he dived with
his whole body. He skimmed beneath the green waters; he floated on the
rolling wave-tips; he trod water; he turned heels over head in the
emerald depths; and thus, gamboling like an Infant Triton, he passed out
beyond the breakers. It was very pleasant there. Being a little tired,
he found the change from the surging waves to the gentle chuck and flop
of the deep water, most delightful. Languidly, to rest himself, he threw
his arm over a rock just peeping above the water. But the rock gave a
start and a yawn.
It was a sleeping shark!
The startled fish opened his eyes to their roundest, and backed water.
So did Mr. P.
For an instant they gazed at each other in utter surprise. Then the
shark began slowly to sink. Mr. P. knew what that meant. The monster was
striving to get beneath him for the fatal snap!
Mr. P. sank with him!
With admirable presence of mind he kept exactly even with the fish.
[Illustration.]
At last they reached the bottom.
Mr. P. was nearly suffocated, but he determined that he would strangle
rather than rise first. The shark endeavored to crawl under him, but Mr.
P. clung to the bottom.
The fish then made a feint of rising, but, in an instant, Mr. P. had him
around the waist!
The affrighted shark darted to the surface, and Mr. P. inhaled at least
a gallon of fresh air. Never before had oxygen tasted so good!
On the surface the struggle was renewed, but Mr. P. always kept
undermost.
At last they rested from the contest, and lay panting on the surface of
the water, glaring at each other.
The shark, who was a master of _finesse_, swam out a little way, to
where the water was deeper, and then slowly sank, intending, if Mr. P.
followed him again to the bottom, to stay there long enough to drown the
unfortunate man. But Mr. P. knew a trick worth two of that.
_He didn't follow him at all_! He swam towards shore as fast as he
could, and when the shark looked around, to see if he was coming, he was
safe within the line of surf.
Need it be said that when he reached dry laud, Mr. P. became a hero with
the crowds who had witnessed this heroic struggle?
That evening, as Mr. P. sat upon the portico of his hotel, there came
unto him, in the moonlight, a maiden of the latest fashion.
"Sir," she softly murmured "are you the noble hero who overcame the
shark?"
Mr. P. looked up at her.
Her soft eyes were dimmed with irresponsible emotion.
"I am," said he.
The maiden stood motionless. Her whole frame was agitated by a secret
struggle.
At length she spoke.
"Is there a Mrs. P.?" she softly said.
Mr. P. arose. He grasped the back of his chair with trembling hand. His
manly form quivered with a secret struggle.
He looked upon her!
He gazed for a moment, with glowing, passionate eyes, upon that
matchless form--upon that angelic face, and then--he clasped his brows
in hopeless agony. Stepping back, he gave the maiden one glance of
wildest love, followed by another of bitterest despair; and sank
helpless into his chair.
[Illustration.]
The maiden leaned, pale and trembling, against a pillar; but hearing the
approach of intruders, she recovered herself with an effort.
"Farewell," she whispered. "I know! I know! There _is_ a Mrs. P.!"--and
she was gone.
Mr. P. arose and slipped out into the night, shaken by a secret
struggle. He laid upon the sand and kicked up his heels.
_There isn't any_ Mrs. P.!
Mr. P. does not wish to sweep his hand rudely o'er the tender chords of
any heart, but he wants it known that he is neither to be snapped up by
sharks in the sea, or by young women at watering places.
* * * * *
A DOG'S TALE.
Dogmatic.
I am only a dog, I admit; but do you suppose dogs have no feeling? I
guess if you were kicked out of every door-way you ran into, and driven
away from every meat stand or grocery you happened to smell around, you
would think you had feelings.
When I see some dogs riding in carriages, looking so grandly out of the
windows, or others walking along proudly by the side of their owners, I
have a feeling of dislike for the very thought of liberty!
I sometimes go with the crowd to a lecture-room, and listen to the
speeches about freedom and liberty, the hatred of bondage, and all that
sort of thing. I get my tail up, and wish I could tell them what liberty
really is. There is nothing worse in the world than this running around
loose, with no one to look after you, and no one for you to look after;
no one to notice you when you wag your tail, and to have no occasion for
so doing. You go out and you come in, and nobody cares. If you never
come back, no one troubles himself about you.
Every day I hear men reading in the papers about some lucky dogs having
strayed, or having been stolen, a large reward being offered for their
recovery: and I envy each lost dog! I wonder who would advertise for me
if I got lost! Alas! no one. They would not give me a bone to bring me
back, or to keep me from drowning myself. But every boy in the street
thinks he has a right to throw stones at me; and tie tin-kettles to my
tail; and chase me when I have had the good luck to find a bone; and to
set big dogs upon me to worry me when I am faint from hunger and haven't
much pluck; and worse than all, chase me and cry "Ki-yi," when I am
almost dying of thirst!
If you only knew how hard it is for a poor dog to make his way in the
world, with no one to help him to a mouthful of food, you would feel
sorry for us.
But I think we might get along better if it wasn't for the scarcity of
water. I hardly know a spot in the city where I can get a drink; and
many a time I have gone all day without a drop.
If I happen to hang out my tongue and droop my tail, my ears are saluted
with "Mad dog! Let's kill him!" You need not wonder I sometimes turn
round, and snap at my pursuers. I think you would snap, too, if you were
chased through street and lane and alley, till your blood was in a
perfect fever, and you hardly knew which way you were running! I have,
on many such occasions, actually run past a beautiful bone that lay
handy on the side-walk, and never stopped to smell it.
Oh! I wish some one would take me prisoner, and continue to own me, and
keep me in bondage as long as I lived! I should only be too happy to
give up my liberty, and settle down and be a respectable dog!
* * * * *
A Bute-Iful Idea.
The Marquis of Bute denies that he is going to return to the Protestant
fold. With reference to the rumor, the Pope stated in the Ecumenical
Council that "the Bute was on the right leg at last, and that he would
launch his thunder against him who should dare that Bute displace."
* * * * *
WHAT IS IT?
As the shades of night descend (in the neighborhood of Mecklenburg,
N.C.,) and harmless domestic animals begin to compose themselves to
sleep, suddenly the drowsy world is awakened by a roaring like that of a
lion! It proceeds from the forest, in whose bosky recesses (as the
Mecklenburgers suppose) some terrible creature proclaims his hunger and
his inclination to appease it with human flesh! All night long the
quaking denizens of that hamlet lie and listen to the roaring, which is
an effectual preventive of drowsiness, as the moment any one begins to
be seized with it he also begins to fancy he is about to be seized and
deglutinated by the horrid monster! Naturalists are positive it is not
the Gyascutis, but admit that a Megatherium may have lately awakened
from the magnetic sleep of ages, with the pangs of a mighty hunger
tearing his wasted viscera.
If our theory is correct, the good people of Mecklenburg (was it not in
Mecklenburg that the agitation for Independence began?) may be assured
that deliverance from this unreasonable Dragon is possible. We think it
more than likely that it is simply GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN practicing for
the next invasion of Great Britain. Nothing could be more harmless. One
Ku-Kluxian youth, armed with a double-barrelled shot-gun, four
bowie-knives, and a number of revolvers, could rout him instantly, and
even check the flow of his vociferous eloquence so suddenly as to put
him in imminent danger of asphyxia.
* * * * *
[Illustration: RETRIBUTION.
THE BOYS OF SAN FRANCISCO, EXASPERATED AT THE CONVERSION OF THEIR DOGS
INTO PIE, TIE KETTLES TO THE TAILS OF THE CHINAMEN.]
* * * * *
Giving the Cue.
"Is that one of your Chinese _belles_? asked Mr. PUNCHINELLO of Mr.
KOOPMAN-SCHOOP, as one of the newly-imported yallagals passed.
"Yes," replied Mr. K. "You can always tell a Chinese bell from a Chinese
gong by the bell-pull attached to it."
Mr. P. immediately presented his _chapeau_ to Mr. K.
* * * * *
HINTS FOR--THOSE WHO WILL TAKE THEM.
Mr. PUNCHINELLO: Your invaluable "Hints for the Family," published some
time since, seem destined to work a revolution in our domestic economy;
as the plans you propose must win the admiration of housekeepers by
their extreme simplicity, aside from any other motives to their
adoption. I have myself tested several of your methods, and find that
you speak from thorough and circumstantial knowledge of your subject In
bread-making, for instance, we find that when the cat reposes in the
dough, it (the dough) will not rise, though the cat does. But in the
clock manufacture, we fear you have divulged one of the secrets of the
trade.
Your little invention for carrying a thread should be recommended to
students and other isolated beings, notwithstanding their unaccountable
propensity to pierce other substances than the cloth. They would find
driving the needle through much facilitated by a skilful use of the
table formerly described.
Permit me to make a few additional suggestions.
Get some worsted and a pair of needles; set up from twenty to forty
stitches, more or less, and knit till you are tired. When finished--(the
knitting)--draw out the needles and bite off the thread. You will thus
have made an elegant lamp-mat, of the same color as the worsted, and the
very thing for a Christmas present to your grandmother.
This is a very graceful employment, and a great favorite with ladies; in
fact, some ladies seem so infatuated with work of that kind, that,
according to the new theory of the Future, a fruition of fancy-work will
be amongst their other blissful realizations. And so, after surveying
Deacon QUIRK'S spiritual potato fields, or perhaps some fresh
(spiritual) manifestation of Miss PHELPS'S piety and intelligence, we
may have the pleasure of seeing the sun and moon hung with tidies, and a
lamp-mat under each star.
Take your rejected sketches and compositions, cut them in strips two or
three inches wide, and as long as the paper will permit. Fold these
strips lengthwise as narrow as possible, and smooth the edges down flat
with your finger. When finished, or perhaps before, you will find you
have made a bunch of excellent lamp-lighters.
Get a suit of clothes--broadcloth is the best--and a pair of boots to
stand them in. Button the coat, and insert in the neck any vegetable you
choose, so that it be large enough, (one of the drum-head species is the
best,) and finish with a hat You will then find, doubtless to your
surprise and delight, that you have a man, or an excellent
substitute for one, equal, if not superior to the genuine article,
warranted to be always pleased with his dinner, and never, necessarily,
in the way. Some people may object to its lack of intelligence, as
compared with the original, but careful investigation has shown that the
difference is very slight; yet, admitting even this to be a positive
fault, it is amply counterbalanced by negative merits. Your
correspondent who writes about "The Real Estate of Woman," will be
relieved to find that the threatened dearth in husbands can be so
readily obviated.
Very truly,
ANN O. BLUE.
* * * * *
For Singers, Only.
What is the best wine for the voice?
Canary.
* * * * *
A Chop-House Aphorism.
Customers who fee waiters may always be sure of their Feed.
* * * * *
Washy.
The daily papers tell us that "Sixty-Eight Thousand persons visited the
public baths during last week."
They went in--a week lot--and came out sixty-eight thousand strong.
* * * * *
Constructive Genius.
"A poor woman in Utica, who owns three houses and is building another,
sends her children into the streets daily to beg."
Quite right. While the youngsters beg in the streets, let the
enterprising old lady go on and begin another house.
* * * * *
A Result of the Mongol.
Owing to the influx of Chinamen into this country, the edict against
allowing dogs to run at large during the Summer has been relaxed.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BOMBASTES BONAPARTE:
NOW PERFORMING AT THE THEATRE FRANCAIS.
"He who would these Boots displace
Must meet BOMBASTES face to face."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE NEW PANDORA'S BOX.
REPRESENTATIVE MANUFACTURER, (_springing open Chinese surprise
box_.)--"THERE!--WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT LITTLE JOKER?"
KNIGHT OF ST. CRISPIN.--"PSHAW! THAT'S A MEAN TRICK: WAIT TILL I OPEN
_MY_ BOX!"]
* * * * *
HIRAM GREEN ON THE CHINESE.
He write a letter to the North Adams Shoe Manufacturer.--New Occupation
for the "Coming Man."
NSBORO, NYE ONTO VARMONT, _July the 11th_, 18-_Seventy_.
MISTER SAMPSON:
Selestial sir:--I take my goose quil in hand to rite you a letter. I
like your stile--you soot me. I myself have been an old Statesman,
having served my country for 4 years as Gustise of the Peece, raisin'
sed offis to a higher standard than usual, as well as raisin' an
interestin' family of eleven healthy children. Upon the linements of
their countenance the features and stamp of GREEN stands out in bold
relief. They are all genuine Green-bax.
A little cloud no bigger than a man's hand made its appearance over the
golden streets of San Francisco.
It is growin' bigger, and afore we know it, will be bigger than a white
elefant.
You have ceased the dilemer by the horn which hangs suspended from the
dilemer's head, like the tail of a kite.
While you have set the Chinees peggin' away puttin' bottoms on shoes, a
great many are peggin' away "putin' a head onto you."
In the present statis of things you want to blow up your nerve, and
stand as firm as the rox of Jiberalter, and like BYRON exclaim:
"To be or not to be, there's the question;--
Whether a man feels better to pay big wages for shoemakers,
Or to suffer the slings and arrows of everybody,
By hirin' Pig-tails for 1/2 price?"
Poleticians of the different churches don't endorse our Selestial
brother. But, sir, I'll venter a few dollars, that if the children of
the son--and dorter--leaned towards either party, he would be gobled up
quicker'n scat, even if he come red hot from old LUCIFER, with a pocket
full of free passes, for the whole nashun, to the Infernal regions.
That's so. A vote's a vote, if it comes from Greenland's coral strand or
Afric's icy mountains. I feel a good deal towards you as a nabor of
mine, named JOE BELCHER, once did.
JOE likes his tod, and can punish as much gin and tansy as a New York
alderman can, when drinkin' at the sity's expense.
JOE went to camp meetin' last week, and, I am pained to say it, JOSEF
got drunker than a biled owl.
While one of the brethern was preachin', JOE sot on a pine log tryin' to
make out wether the preacher was a double-headed man, or whether 2 men
were holdin' forth.
"Who'll stand up for the carpenter's Son?" sed the preacher.
This made JOE look around.
The question was again repeated.
Again JOE looked around for an answer.
Again the preacher said: "Who'll stand up for Him?"
JOE by this time had got onto his feet, and was steadyin' himself by
holdin' onto a tree, while he sung out:
"I say (hic!) ole feller, Ile stand up (hic!) for him, or any 'orrer man
who hain't got any (hic!) more fren's than he has (hic!) in this 'ere
crowd."
I feel a good deal as JOE did. Anybody who hain't got any more frends
than you have, Mr. SAMPSON, has my sympathy.
For bringin' these _hily morril_ and _refined_ Monongohelians to
Massachusetts is a big feather in your cap, and you will receive your
reward bime-bye.
"The wages of sin is death."
But the wages of a Chinyman is money in a man's pocket. They work cheap.
I am trying to get the Chinese substituted for canal hosses.
A man here by the name of SNYDER, who runs a canal Hoss to our Co.,
talks of sendin' for a lot.
Won't they be bang up with their cues hitcht to a canal bote snakin' it
along at the rate of a mile inside of 2 hours. "G'lang! Tea leaf."
Then when they was restin' from their labors, by tyin' 2 of 'em together
by their cues, stand one opposite the other and hang close between 'em
to dry, on washin' day.
What an aristocratic thing Chiny close-line posts would be. The only
drawback that I know of is, that the confounded posts mite some day walk
off with all the close.
But, sir, if they served me in that manner, I would cover the ground
with broken crockery by smashin' their old Chiny mugs for 'em.
Since you've awoken to _notorosity_, I have been studdyin' out your
family pedigree.
I find your Antsisters are connected with long hair more or less, same
as you be with Chiny pig-tails.
Old SAMPSON the first's strength, like your'n of to-day, lade in his
long hair.
He could cut off more heads, and slay more Fillistians with the jaw bone
of a member of Congress than the President of these U.S. can by makin' a
new deal in the Custom house department.
And, sir, I reckon about these days, we are getting rather more of that
same kind of jaw bone than is healthy.
I am afrade not.
Mrs. SAMPSON worked like a kag of apple sass in hot weather, to find out
where her old man's strength was. When she found out, what did she do?
Why, she got a pair of sheep shears and cropped him closer'n a state
prison bird, and tryin' to lift a house full of fokes, it fell onto him
and smashed him.
Like LOT'S wife, she'd orter been turned into a pillow of salt, and then
the pillow had orter been sewed up and cast into the sea.
Another of the SAMPSONS wouldn't even chop off MARIAR ANTERNETTE'S head
until her hair had been cut off, so he could peel her top-knot off slick
and cleen.
Lookin' back at these cheerful antsisters of your'n, it's no wonder you
go in for long haired labor. It runs in the SAMPSON blood.
The public is cussin' you from DANIEL to BEEBSHEBER, because you've
brought a lot of modern Philistines to Massachusetts.
Let 'em cus.
That's their lay.
Your'n is, to bild up a fortin, if Poor-houses for white laborers to
live in is thicker in North Adams than goose pimples on a fever and ager
sufferer's form.
As old Grandma SAMPSON cut off her old man's long hair, so she could
handle him in one of them little fireside scrimmages which we married
fokes enjoy, so fokes would crop you, my hi toned old Joss stick.
But I've writ more'n I intended to. I would like to have you come and
make us a visit.
Bring along your wife, DELIAL. Tell her to bring her croshay work.
Mrs. GREEN is interestin' company among wimmen.
What MARIAR don't know about her nabors, don't happen.
Then her veel pot-pies and ingin puddins are just rats.
She can nock the spots off from any woman who wears a waterfall, gettin'
up a good square meal.
Anser soon, and don't forget to pay your own postige.
Hopin' you are sound on the goose and able to enjoy your _Swi lager und
Sweitzer_,
I am thine, old hoss,
HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,
Lait Gustise of the Peece.
* * * * *
TREATMENT FOR POTATO BUGS.
Mr. CLARK JOHNSON, of Pendleton, Indiana, not at all discouraged by the
signal failures of many previous campaigns against the Bug, has entered
the (potato) field with a new weapon, viz.: a mixture of Paris Green and
Ashes. Applied frequently, as a Top Dressing, this gentle stimulant
imparts a new energy to the vine, and also to the Bug, who thus becomes
so vigorous, and at the same time restless, that an uncontrollable
impulse seizes him to visit the home of his ancestors, (Colorado.) Here,
as is supposed by Mr. JOHNSON, the fictitious energy that had been
supplied by the Mixture deserts the immigrant, who now settles down
contentedly, nor ever roams again.
As (owing to the present facilities of freighting, etc.,) the Potatoes
of Pendleton may eventually find the New York market, which always
invites the superior esculent, we would like to suggest to Mr. JOHNSON
that this Mixture be administered to the Bug with a spoon, and not
sprinkled promiscuously on the ground. We have drank Tea with a "green
flavor," and found it comparatively innocuous; but Potatoes with a green
flavor, (especially if flavored by the JOHNSONIAN method,) we should
consider as doubtful, to say the least. It is the general impression
that there is nothing Green in Paris; but your house painter knows there
is such a thing as Paris Green, and that it is the oxyde of copper.
Therefore, should one eat many of the potatoes nourished as above, we
should expect to see him gradually turning into a Bronze Statue--a fate
which, unless he were particularly Greeky and nice-looking, we should
wish to anticipate, if possible, in the interests of art.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MR. SWACHENBACKER, OF THE AIRY 'UN SOCIETY, CREATES A
SENSATION AMONG THE LADY BATHERS AT "THE BRANCH," BY APPEARING AMONG
THEM AS A MERMAN, WITH A REAL LOOKING-GLASS AND A FALSE TAIL.]
* * * * *
Fashionable Intelligence.
Two colors that once were fashionable in the Parisian _toilette_, viz.:
BISMARCK brown and Prussian blue, are now excluded from court circles,
by command of the Empress.
* * * * *
Weather or No.
Most remarkable in the history of mathematics are the calculations
published by the weather-prophet of the _Express_. Arithmetic turns pale
when she glances at them, and, striking her multiplication table with
her algebraic knuckles, demands to know why the _Express_ does not add a
Cube-it to its THATCHER.
* * * * *
Comparative Industry.
It is reported that "the journeymen lathers demand four dollars per
day." As a question of comparative soap, the latherers will in due time
strike too. The ultimatum will be-"Raise our pay or we drop the Razor."
* * * * *
"Omnibus Hoc," etc.
What is the difference between theft in an omnibus and the second deal
at cards?
One is a Game of the Stage, and the other is a Stage of the Game.
* * * * *
OUR AGRICULTURAL COLUMN.
Memorabilia of "What I Know About Farming."
Profound subjects should be well meditated upon. A man may write about
"New America," or "Spiritual Wives," or any such light and airy subject,
without possessing much knowledge, or indulging in much thought, but he
can't play such tricks upon Agriculture. She is very much like a donkey:
unless you are thoroughly acquainted with her playful ways, she will
upset you in a quagmire. Perhaps it is due to my readers that I should
say here that I have read a great many valuable treatises upon this
subject, among which may be named, "Cometh up as a Flour," "Anatomy of
Melon-cholly," "Sowing and Reaping," one thousand or two volumes of
Patent Office Reports, and three or four bushels of "Proverbial
Philosophy." I would also add, that I invariably remain awake on clear
nights, and think out the ideas set down in this column. Probably you
may not be able to find traces of all that labor here, but I assure you
that those books are more familiar to me than is my catechism. However,
anybody who thinks he knows more about vegetables than I do, can send me
a letter containing his information, and, if I don't cabbage it, I will
plant it carefully in the bottom of the waste paper basket. We now
proceed to consider.
PAR'S NIPS.
This vegetable always flourishes in a moist soil, though it generally
has a holy horror of _aqua pura_. Some of them are of an immense size; I
have seen them fill a tumbler. Producers, however, generally charge more
for the large ones than for the small. The size of the nip usually
depends upon the par. It may be that your par's nip is extremely small,
while JOHN SMITH'S par's nip is very large. Four fingers is, I believe,
considered to be the regulation size.
This vegetable is served up in a variety of forms. Some pars like it
with milk; in that case it is generally "hung up." In the winter it is
often called a sling or a punch; in the summer it is denominated a
cobbler or a jew-lip. Perhaps it would be well for those who love it, to
indulge in par's nip now, for some people say, that in the days of the
"coming man" there will be no par's nips. It must be admitted that the
father of a family, who indulges too freely in par's nip, is very likely
to run to seed, and to plant himself in such unfruitful places as the
gutter. If he be a young par, he may become a rake, and fork over his
money, and then ho! for the alms-house.
Numerous efforts have been made to suppress this vegetable, among which
may be reckoned, "Father, dear Father, come home with me now," Brother
GOUGH'S circus, and the parades of the F.M.T.A.B. Societies. Maine and
Vermont Neal together in the front rank of its opponents. In Boston they
tried to suppress this vegetable, but, if you followed your par to a
store and heard him order a cracker, you could smell par's nip.
Among the mild varieties of this article may be mentioned benzine,
camphene and kerosene; the next strongest kind is called Jersey
lightning; but, if you desire par's nips in their most luxuriant form,
go to Water street and try the species known as "rot-gut."
* * * * *
OUR PORTFOLIO.
Poetry is the exclusive birthright of no age of people. The dirtiest
Hindoo sings to his _fetish_ the songs of the Brahmin muse, with as keen
a relish as the most devout Christian does the hymns of Dr. WATTS.
Melody comes of Heaven, and is a gift vouchsafed to all generations, and
all kinds of men. In proof of this, let us adduce a single extract from
the great epic of the Hawaiian poet, POPPOOFI, entitled "Ka Nani E!"
Ka nani e! ka nani e!
Alohi puni no
Mai luna, a mai lalo nei,
A ma na mea a pau.
We would call the attention of our readers particularly to the sublime
sentiment of the second line. "Alohi puni no," sings the peerless
POPPOOFI, and where, in the pages of that other Oriental HOMER, the
Persian HAFI, can be found anything half so magnificent? There may be
critics bigoted enough to think that the last line destroys the effect
of the other three; but _we_ don't. PUNCHINELLO would much rather
discover the good in a thing at any time, than go a-fishing on Sundays.
It is not in the nature of a properly constituted human being to lay his
hand upon his heart and chant:
"Ka nani e! Ka nani e!"
in the presence of his mother-in-law, without feeling that life is not
so miserable as some people would make it out. In the words of ALEXANDER
SELKIRK'S man FRIDAY: "_Palmam qui meruit ferat_."
* * * * *
THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.
Emmet is a name which has heretofore been associated in the public mind
with the Negro Minstrel business. Certain weird barbaric melodies, which
defy all laws of musical composition, but which haunt one like a dream
of a lonely night on some wild African river, are said to have been
written by "OLD EMMET." Is there any such person? Has any one actually
seen "OLD EMMET" in the flesh, and with--say a high hat and a cotton
umbrella? For my part I disbelieve in the popular theory of the origin
of these EMMETIC melodies which stir one so strangely. They are not the
work of any earthly song writer, but are born of some untuned Eolian
harp played upon by uncertain breezes, that murmur the memory of
tropical groves and sigh with the sadness of exile. There is no "OLD
EMMET." If there is, let him be brought forward--not to be chucked out
of the window, as Mrs. F.'s AUNT might suggest,--but to be thanked and
wondered at as an inchoate OFFENBACH, who might, under other
circumstances, have written an American opera-bouffe, or, better still,
as a possible CHOPIN, who might have written a second "March Fun├ębre" as
hopeless and desolate and fascinating as that of the despairing and
poetic Pole. (I am coming to "FRITZ" in a moment, but I won't be hurried
by any one.)
As for JOSEPH K. EMMET, he is an undoubted reality. If you don't believe
it, go to WALLACK'S and see him. Somebody discovered this EMMET in the
Pastoral privacy of the Bowery. Mr. GAYLER was made to write a play for
him, and EMMET, the Bowery Minstrel, straightway became Mr. JOSEPH K.
EMMET, the renowned impersonator of "FRITZ." He plays "FRITZ" at
WALLACK'S every evening, and the entertainment is something of this
nature.
ACT I.--_Scene, the outside of Castle Garden. Enter baggage-smashers,
emigrant-runners, aldermen, and other criminals_.
RUNNER. "There's a ship a' comin' up. I'll lay for the Dutchmen."
BOBBIT. (_A concert-saloon manager_.) "There's a ship coming up. I'll
lay for the Dutch girls."
DISSOLUTE COLONEL. "There's a ship coming up. I want you two fellows to
look out for a Dutchman named "FRITZ," who is onboard. He takes care of
a girl, KATRINA, whom I adore. Carry off FRITZ and I'll carry off the
girl."
(_Various emigrants enter and are hustled off by the runners_. FRITZ
_and_ KATRINA _finally appear_.)
FRITZ. "Ja. Das ist gut. Ach himmel; zwei bier und Limburger."
(_The runners seize his trunk and carry it off. The_ DISSOLUTE COLONEL
_hurries_ KATRINA _into a coach and carries her off_. FRITZ _is carried
away by his emotions. Curtain_.)