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PUNCHINELLO
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1870.
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THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD,
By ORPHEUS C. KERR,
Continued in this Number.
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THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.
AN ADAPTATION.
BY ORFHEUS C. KERR
CHAPTER XIX.
THE H. AND H. OF J. BUMSTEAD.
The exquisitely sweet month of the perfectly delicious summer-vacation
having come, Miss CAROWTHERS' Young Ladies have returned again, for a
time, to their respective homes, MAGNOLIA PENDRAGON has gone to the city
and her brother, and FLORA POTTS is ridiculously and absurdly alone.
Under the ardent sun of August, Bumsteadville slowly bakes, like an
ogre's family-dish of stuffed cottages and greens, with here and there
some slowly moving object, like a loose vegetable on a sluggish current
of tidal gravy, and the spire of the Ritualistic church shooting-up at
one end like an incorrigibly perpendicular leg of magnified mutton.
Hotter and hotter comes the breath fiery of nature's cookery, until some
of the stuffing boils out of one cottage, in the shape of the Oldest
Inhabitant, who makes his usual annual remark, that this is the Warmest
Day in ninety-eight years, and then simmers away to some cooler nook
amongst the greens. More and more intolerably quivers the atmosphere of
the sylvan oven with stifling fervency, until there oozes from beneath
the shingled crust of a vegetarian country-boarding-house a parboiled
guest from the City, who, believing himself almost ready to turn, drifts
feebly to where the roads fork and there is a shade more dun; while, to
the speculative mind, each glowing field of corn, or buckwheat, is an
incipient Meal, and each chimney, or barn, a mere temptation to guess
how many Swallows there may be in it.
Upon the afternoon of such a day as this, Miss POTTS is informed, by a
servant, that Mr. BUMSTEAD has arrived, and, sending her his love, would
be pleased to have her come down stairs to him and bring him a fan.
"Why didn't you tell him I wasn't at home, you absurd thing?" cries the
young girl, hurriedly practicing a series of agitated looks and pensive
smiles before her mirror.
"So I did, Miss," answers the attached menial, "but he'd seen you
looking at him with an opera-glass as he came up the path, and said that
he could hear you taking a clean handkerchief out of tho drawer, on
purpose to receive him with, before he'd got to the door."
"Oh, what shall I do? My hands are so red to-day!" sighs FLCKA, holding
her arms above her head, that the blood may retire from the too pinkish
members.
After a pause, and an adjustment of a curl over her right eye and the
scarf at her waist, to make them look innocent, she yields to the
meteorological mania so strikingly prevalent amongst all the other
characters of this narrative, and says that she will receive the visitor
in the yard, near the pump. Then, casting carelessly over her shoulder
that web-like shawl without which no woman nor spider is complete, she
arranges her lips in the glass for the last time, and, with a garden-hat
hanging from the elbow latest singed, goes down, humming
un-suspiciously, into the open-air, with the guileless bearing of one
wholly unprepared for company.
Resting an elbow upon a low iron patent-pump, near a rustic seat, the
Ritualistic organist, in his vast linen coat and imposing straw hat,
looks not unlike an eccentric garden statue, upon which some prudish
slave of modern conventionalities has placed the summer attire of a
western editor. The great heat of the sun upon his back makes him
irritable, and when Miss POTTS sharply smites with her fan the knuckles
of the hand which he has affably extended to take her by the chin, more
than the usual symptoms of acute inflammation appear at the end of his
nose, and he blows hurriedly upon his wounded digits.
"That hurt like the mischief!" he remarks, in some anger. "I don't know
when I've felt anything smart so."
"Then don't be so horrid," returns the pensive girl, taking a seat
before him upon the rustic settee, and abstractedly arranging her dress
so that only two-thirds of a gaiter-boot can be seen.
Munching cloves, the aroma of which ladens the air all around him, Mr.
BUMSTEAD contemplates her with a calmness which would be enthralling,
but for the nervous twisting of his features under the torments of a
singularly adhesive fly.
"I have come, dear," he observes, slowly, "to know how soon you will be
ready for me to give you your next music-lesson?"
"I prefer that you would not call me your 'dear,'" was the chilling
answer.
The organist thinks for a moment, and then nods his head intelligently.
"You are right," he says, gravely, "--there _might_ be somebody
listening who could not enter into our real feelings. And now, how about
those music-lessons?"
"I don't want any more, thank you," says FLORA, coldly. "While we are
all in mourning for our poor, dear absurd EDDY, it seems like a
perfectly ridiculous mockery to be practicing the scales."
Fanning himself with his straw hat, Mr. BUMSTEAD shakes his bushy head
several times. "You do not discriminate sufficiently," he replies.
"There are kinds of music which, when performed rapidly upon the violin,
fife, or kettle-drum, certainly fill the mind with sentiments
unfavorable to the deeper anguish of human sorrow. Of such, however, is
not the kind made by young girls, which is at all times a help to the
intensity of judicious grief. Let me assure you, with the candor of an
idolized friend, that some of the saddest hours of my life have been
spent in teaching you to try to sing a humorous aria from DONIZETTI; and
the moments in which I have most sincerely regretted ever having been
born were those in which you have played, in my hearing, the
Drinking-song from _La Traviata_. Believe me, then, my devoted pupil,
there can be nothing at all inconsistent with a prevalence of profound
melancholy in your continued piano-playing; whereas, on the contrary,
your sudden and permanent cessation might at least surprise your friends
and the neighborhood into a light-heartedness temporarily oblivious of
the memory of that dear, missing boy, to whom you could not, I hear,
give the love already bestowed upon me."
"I loved him ridiculously, absurdly, with my whole heart," cries FLORA,
not altogether liking what she has heard. "I'm real sorry, too, that
they think somebody has killed him."
Mr, BUMSTEAD folds his brown linen arms as he towers before her, and the
dark circles around his eyes appear to shrink with the intensify of his
gaze.
"There are occasions in life," he remarks, "when to acknowledge that our
last meeting with a friend, who has since mysteriously disappeared, was
to reject him and imply a preference for his uncle, may be calculated to
associate us unpleasantly with that disappearance, in the minds of the
censorious, and invite suspicions tending to our early cross-examination
by our Irish local magistrate. I do not say, of course, that you
actually destroyed my nephew for fear he should try to prejudice me
against you; but I cannot withhold my earnest approval of your judicious
pretence of a sentiment palpably incompatible with the shedding of the
blood of its departed object. If you will move your dress a little, so
that I can sit beside you and allow your head to rest upon my shoulder,
that fan will do for both of us, and we may converse in whispers."
"My head upon _your_ shoulder!" exclaims Miss POTTS, staring swiftly
about to see if anybody is looking. "I prefer to keep my head upon my
own shoulders, sir."
"Two heads are better than one," the Ritualistic organist reminds her.
"If a little hair-oil and powder _does_ come off upon my coat, the
latter will wash, I suppose. Come, dearest, if it is our fate to never
get through this hot day alive, let us be sunstruck together."
She shrinks timidly from the brown linen arm which he begins insinuating
along the back of the rustic settee, and tells him that she couldn't
have believed that he could be so absurd. He draws back his arm, and
seems hurt.
"FLORA," he says, tenderly, "how beautiful you are, especially when
fixed up. The more I see of yon, the less sorry I am that I have
concluded to be yours. All the time that my dear boy was trying to
induce you to relase him from his engagement, I was thinking how much
better you might do; yet, beyond an occasional encouraging wink, I never
gave the least sign of reciprocating your attachment. I did not think it
would be right"
The assertion, though superficially true, is so imperfect in its
delineation of habitual conduct liable to another construction, that the
agitated Flowerpot returns, with quick indignation, "your arm was always
reaching out whenever you sat in a chair anywhere near me, and whenever
I sang you always kept looking straight into my mouth until it tickled
me. You know you did, you hateful thing! Besides, it wasn't you that I
preferred, at all; it was--oh, it's too ridiculous to tell!"
In her bashful confusion she is about to arise and trip shyly away from
him into the house, when he speaks again.
"Miss POTTS, is your friendship for Miss PENDRAGON and her brother such,
that their execution upon some Friday of next month would be a spectacle
to which you could give no pleased attention?"
"What do you mean, you absurd creature?"
"I mean," continues Mr. BUMSTEAD, "simply this: you know my double loss.
You know that, upon the person of the male PENDRAGON was found an apple
looking and tasting like one which my nephew once had. You know, that
when Miss PENDRAGON went from here she wore an alpaca waist which looked
as though it had been exposed more than once to the rain.--See the
point?"
FLORA gives a startled look, and says: "I don't see it."
"Suppose," he goes on--"suppose that I go to a magistrate, and say:
'Judge, I voted for you, and can influence a large foreign vote for you
again. I have lost a nephew who was very fond of apples, and a black
alpaca umbrella of great value. A young Southerner, who has not lived in
this State long enough to vote, has been found in possession of an apple
singularly like the kind generally eaten by my missing relative, and his
sister has come out in a waist made of second-hand alpaca?'--See the
point now?"
"Mr. BUMSTEAD," exclaims FLORA, affrighted by the terrible menace of his
manner, "I don't any more believe that Mr. PENDRAGON is guilty than I,
myself, am; and as for your old umbrella--"
"Stop, woman!" interrupted the bereaved organist, imperiously. "Not even
your lips shall speak disrespectfully of my lost bone-handled friend. By
a chain of unanswerable argument, I have shown you that I hold the fate
of your southern acquaintances in my hands, and shall be particularly
sorry if you force me to hang Mr. PENDRAGON as a rival."
FLORA puts her hands to her temples, to soothe her throbbing head and
display a bracelet.
"Oh, what shall I do! I don't want anybody to be hung! It must be so
perfectly awful!"
Her touching display of generous feeling does not soften him. On the
contrary, he stands more erect, and smiles rather triumphantly under his
straw hat.
"Beloved one," he murmurs, in a rich voice, "I find that I cannot induce
you to make the first advance toward the mutual avowal we are both
longing for, and must therefore precipitate our happiness myself. My
poor boy would not have given you perfect satisfaction, and your
momentary liking for the male PENDRAGON was but the effect of a
temporary despair undoubtedly produced by my seeming coldness. That
coldness had nothing to do with my heart, but resulted partially from my
habit of wearing a wet towel on my head. I now propose to you--"
"Propose to me?" ejaculates Miss POTTS, with heightened color.
"--That you pick out a worthy man belonging to your own section of the
Union," he continues hastily. "Here's my Heart," he adds, going through
the motions of taking something from a pocket and placing it in his
outstretched palm, "and here's my Hand,"--placing therein an equally
imaginary object from another pocket.--"Try the H. and H. of J.
BUMSTEAD."
His manner is as though he were commending some patent article of
unquestionable utility.
"But I can't bear the sight of you!" she cries, pushing away the brown
linen arm coming after her again.
Taking away her fan, he pats her on the head with it, and seems
momentarily surprised at the hollow sound.
"Future Mrs. BUMSTEAD," he cheerfully replies, at last, "my observation
and knowledge of the women of America teach me that there never was a
wife going to Indiana for a divorce, who had not at first sworn to love,
as well as honor and obey, her husband. Such is woman that if she had
felt and said at the altar that she couldn't bear the sight of him, it
wouldn't have been in the power of masculine brutality and dissipated
habits to drive her from his side through all their lives. There can be
no better sign of our future happiness, than for you to say, beforehand,
that you utterly detest the man of your choice."
There is something terrible to the young girl in the original turn of
thought of this fascinating man. Say what she may, he at once turns it
into virtual devotion to himself. He appears to have a perfectly
dreadful power to hang everybody; he considers her strongest avowal of
present personal dislike the most promising indication she can give of
eternal future infatuation with him, and his powerful mode of reasoning
is more profound and composing than an article in a New York newspaper
on a War in Europe. Rendered dizzy by his metaphysical conversation, she
arises from the rustic seat, and is flying giddily into the house, when
he leaps athletically after her, and catches her in the doorway.
"I merely wish to request," he says, quietly, "that you place sufficient
restraint upon your naturally happy feelings to keep our engagement a
secret from the public at present, as I can't bear to have boys calling
out after me, 'There's the feller that's goin' to get married! There's
the feller that's goin' to get married!' When a man is about to make a
fool of himself, it is not for children to remind him of it."
The door being opened before she can answer, FLORA receives a parting
bow of Grandisonian elegance from Mr. BUMSTEAD, and hastens up stairs to
her room in a distraction of mind not uncommon to those having
conversational relations with the Ritualistic organist.
_(To be Continued.)_
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
A GOOD FIGHT.
We presume that all the Boston people "lecture" at times; at any rate
they could, if they wanted to. No one doubts their ability.
But, let the number of these imparters of information be ever so great,
we have reason to doubt whether any other of these accomplished parties
has grappled with so formidable, so tremendous a subject, as that which
is now exciting the powerful mind of Miss LILLIAN EDGARTON.
She is going to do it, though! If her life is spared, and her
constitution remains free from blight, (both of which felicities we
trust will be hers,) that subject has got to come under.
That all may know how great is the task, and the confidence required to
pitch into it, we announce, with a flourish, that Miss L. E. is about to
attack that well-known Saurian Monster, termed GOSSIP! Considered as a
Disease, she proposes to find the Cause and the Cure. Considered as a
living and gigantic Nuisance (by far surpassing any Dragon described by
SPENSER,) she designs to hunt him out and slay him incontinently.
Courage, fair Knight! Our eldest Son is kept in reserve for some such
Heroine! If you would be famous, if you would make a perfect thing of
this Crusade, if you would render the lives of your fellow mortals
longer and happier, if you would win that noble and ingenuous youth, our
son, go in vehemently!
And, while you are about it, LILLIAN, would you object to giving your
attention to certain relations of the monster which you propose to slay?
We name them, Detraction and Calumny. They are tough old Dragons, now,
we tell you; perhaps it were best to fight shy of them.
We have it, LILLIAN! Leave 'em to us! Us, with a big U! You kill little
Gossip, and see how quick his brothers and sisters will fall, before our
mighty battle-axe!
(And so they will fall, sure enough, but it will be simply because when
our dear young knight, L.E., has killed _her_ Dragon, she will have
wiped out the whole brood! They can't live without their sweet and
attractive little sister. And so, like many a bigger humbug, we shall
take great credit, that belongs to somebody else, and assume to have
done big things, at enormous expense of blood and money. Trust us, for
that!)
* * * * *
NAPOLEON III AT SEDAN.
September, 1870.
I _was_ an Emperor. _Voilà c'est bon!_
BAZAINE, MACMAHON, fought--'twas my affair.
Only, to please my doctor, NELATON,
I left the throne, to take a Sedan chair.
* * * * *
Unlimited Lie-Ability.
_Veritas_ writes to say that as he was crossing the ferry from Wall
Street to Brooklyn, yesterday afternoon, he counted 117 persons reading
PUNCHINELLO. He did not observe a single copy of the _Sun_ on board,
until the boat neared Brooklyn, when a man of squalid appearance
produced from a dirty newspaper some soiled articles, all of which
seemed to have been steeped in Lye, from contact with the sheet, which
proved to be the _Sun._
* * * * *
A Con for the "Ninth."
What is there in common between Colonel FISK'S war-horse and a New York
Ice Company?
Both are tremendous Chargers.
* * * * *
THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.
Here I am again, back from the seashore, to find the theatres opening,
the war closing, and GREELEY burning to imitate the late French Emperor,
by leading the Republican hosts to defeat in the Fall campaign, so as to
be in a position to write to the Germanically named HOFFMAN--"As I
cannot fall, ballot in hand, at the head of my repeaters, I surrender to
your victorious Excellency."
Being back, I went to see _Julius Cæsar_ at NIBLO'S Garden. It was the
day when the French CAESER fell, and the impertinent soothsayer,
ROCHEFORT, who had so often advised him to beware, not of the Ides of
March, but of the _Idées Napoléoniennes,_ (there is a feeble attempt at
a pun here) obtained his liberty, and the right to assail in his
newspaper, the virtue of every female relative of the Imperial family.
Of course I know that JULIUS CÆSAR was not a Frenchman--for the modesty
of his "Commentaries" is proverbial--and that SHAKESPEARE never so much
as heard of the Man of December. Nevertheless the two CÆSARS were
inextricably mixed up in my mind. I know that two or three editorial
persons who sat close by me, were continually talking of NAPOLEON, and I
may possibly have confounded their remarks with those of the actors.
Still I could not divest myself of the impression that I was sometimes
in Paris and sometimes in Rome, and that the sepulchral voice of Mr.
THEODORE HAMILTON, was more often that of NAPOLEON than that of JULIUS.
The play presents itself to my recollection in the following shape. As I
said before, it was represented at the very moment that the French
republicans, being satisfied with the bees in their respective bonnets,
were obliterating the imperial bees from the doors of the Tuileries, and
being anxious to take arms against a sea of Prussians, were taking down
the imperial arms wherever they could find them. Remembering this, the
reader will be able to account for any slight difference in text between
my _Julius Cæsar,_ and that of the respectable and able Mr. SHAKESPEARE.
ACT I.--_Enter various Irish Roman Citizens, flourishing the shillelahs
of the period._
1ST. CITIZEN. "Here's a row. Great CÆSAR is going to march to Berlin.
Hooray for the Hemperor."
1ST EDITORIAL PERSON. "I grant you he was popular when the war began,
but to-day the people despise him."
CASSIUS. "I hate this CÆSAR. Once he tried to swim across the British
Channel with a tame eagle on his shoulder, and couldn't do it. When he
is sick he takes anti-bilious pills, like any other man. Obviously he
don't deserve to live."
CASCA. (_Who is fat enough to know better, and not pretend to be
discontented_.) "Let's kill him and break all the glass in the windows
of Paris."
BRUTUS. "My friend, those who live in stone houses should never throw
glass about. I don't mean anything by this, but it sounds oracular, and
will make people think I am a profound philosopher."
EDITORIAL PERSON. "What I say is this. He, CÆSAR, governed the Roman
rabble vastly better than they deserved. His only mistakes were, in not
sending CASSIUS, who was a sort of ROCHEFORT, without ROCHEFORT'S
cowardice, to the galleys, and in not sending BRUTUS as Minister to some
capital so dreary that he would have shot himself as soon as he reached
his destination."