[Illustration: Vol. I No. 13.]
PUNCHINELLO
SATURDAY, JUNE 25, 1870.
PUBLISHED BY THE
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY,
83 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD,
By ORPHEUS C. KERR,
In this Number and will be continued Weekly
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The most effective Soothing and Stimulating Compounds
ever offered to the public for the
Removal of Scurf, Dandruff, &c.
For consultation, apply at
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854 BROADWAY, N. Y. City.
* * * * *
FURNITURE
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Manufacturers of
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AND DECORATIONS.
Nos. 99 and 101 Fourth Avenue,
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Where a general assortment can be had at moderate prices.
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NEW YORK CITIZEN
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with the best writers in each department. Published every
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PRICE, TEN CENTS.
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EMBOSSERS, ENGRAVERS, AND LABEL
MANUFACTURERS.
Sketches and Estimates furnished upon application
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[P.O. Box 2845.]
NEW YORK.
* * * * *
ERIE RAILWAY.
TRAINS LEAVE DEPOTS
Foot of Chambers Street
and
Foot of Twenty-Third Street,
AS FOLLOWS:
Through Express Trains leave Chambers Street at 8 A.M., 10 A.M., 5:30 P.M.,
and 7:00 P.M., (daily); leave 23d Street at 7:45 A.M., 9:45 A.M., and 5:15
and 6:45 P.M. (daily.) New and improved Drawing-Room Coaches will accompany
the 10:00 A.M. train through to Buffalo, connecting at Hornellsville with
magnificent Sleeping Coaches running through to Cleveland and Galien.
Sleeping Coaches will accompany the 8:00 A.M. train from Susquehanna to
Buffalo, the 5:30 P.M. train from New York to Buffalo, and the 7:00 P.M.
train from New York to Rochester, Buffalo and Cincinnati. An Emigrant train
leaves daily at 7:30 P.M.
FOR PORT JERVIS AND WAY, *11:30 A.M., and 4:30 P.M., (Twenty-third Street,
*11:15 A.M. and 4:15 P.M.)
FOR MIDDLETOWN AND WAY, at 3:30 P.M.,(Twenty-third Street, 3:15 P.M.); and,
Sundays only, 8:30 A.M. (Twenty-third Street, 8:15 P.M.)
FOR GREYCOURT AND WAY, at *8:30 A.M., (Twenty-third Street, 8:15 A.M.)
FOR NEWBURGH AND WAY, at 8:00 A.M., 3:30 and 4:30 P.M. (Twenty-third Street
7:45 A.M., 3:15 and 4:15 P.M.)
FOR SUFFERN AND WAY, 5:00 P.M. and 6:00 P.M. (Twenty-third Street, 4:45 and
5:45 P.M.) Theatre Train, *11:30 P.M. (Twenty-third Street, *11 P.M.)
FOR PATERSON AND WAY, from Twenty-third Street Depot, at 6:45, 10:15 and
11:45 A.M.; *1:45 3:45, 5:15 and 6:45 P.M. From Chambers Street Depot at
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FOR HACKENSACK AND HILLSDALE, from Twenty-third Street Depot, at 8:45 and
11:45 A.M.; $7:15 3:45, $5:15, 5:45, and $6:45 P.M. From Chambers Street
Depot, at 9:00 A.M.; 12:00 M.; $2:15, 4:00 $5:15, 6:00, and $6:45 P.M.
FOR PIERMONT, MONSEY AND WAY, from Twenty-third Street Depot, at
8:45 A.M.; 12:45, {3:15 4:15, 4:46 and {6:15 P.M., and, Saturdays only,
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Tickets for passage and for apartments in Drawing-Room and Sleeping
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Baggage may be left at the
COMPANY'S OFFICES:
241, 529, and 957 Broadway.
205 Chambers Street.
Cor. 125th Street & Third Ave., Harlem.
338 Fulton Street, Brooklyn.
Depots, foot of Chambers Street and foot
of Twenty-third Street, New York.
3 Exchange Place.
Long Dock Depot, Jersey City,
And of the Agents at the principal Hotels
WM. R. BARR,
_General Passenger Agent._
L. D. RUCKER,
_General Superintendent._
Daily. $For Hackensack only, {For Piermont only.
May 2D, 1870.
* * * * *
MERCANTILE LIBRARY
Clinton Hall, Astor Place,
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This is now the largest Circulating Library in America, the number of
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BRANCH OFFICES
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and at
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"PUNCHINELLO,"
residing in the country, that, for their convenience, he has
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ANY STANDARD BOOK PUBLISHED,
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OFFICE OF
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING CO.
83 Nassau Street.
[P.O. Box 2783.]
* * * * *
$2 to ALBANY and
TROY.
The Day Line Steamboats C. Vibbard and Daniel Drew, commencing May 31,
will leave Vestry st. Pier at 8:45, and Thirty-fourth st. at 9 a.m.,
landing at Yonkers, (Nyack, and Tarrytown by ferry-boat), Cozzens, West
Point, Cornwall, Newburgh, Poughkeepsie, Rhinebeek, Bristol, Catskill,
Hudson, and New-Baltimore. A special train of broad-gauge cars in
connection with the day boats will leave on arrival at Albany
(commencing June 20) for Sharon Springs. Fare $4.25 from New York and
for Cherry Valley. The Steamboat Seneca will transfer passengers from
Albany to Troy.
* * * * *
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.
AN ADAPTATION.
BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.
CHAPTER V.
MR. MCLAUGHLIN AND FRIEND.
JOHN BUMSTEAD, on his way home along the unsteady turnpike--upon which
he is sure there will be a dreadful accident some day, for want of
railings--is suddenly brought to an unsettled pause in his career by the
spectacle of Old Mortarity leaning against the low fence of the pauper
burial-ground, with a shapeless boy throwing stones at him in the
moonlight. The stones seem never to hit the venerable JOHN MCLAUGHLIN,
and at each miss the spry monkey of the moonlight sings "Sold again,"
and casts another missile still further from the mark. One of these goes
violently to the nose of Mr. BUMSTEAD, who, after a momentary enjoyment
of the evening fireworks thus lighted off, makes a wrathful rush at the
playful child, and lifts him from the ground by his ragged collar, like
a diminished suit of Mr. GREELEY'S customary habiliments.
"Miserable snipe," demands BUMSTEAD, eyeing his trophy gloomily, and
giving him a turn or two as though he were a mackerel under inspection,
"what are you doing to that gooroleman?"
"Oh, come now!" says the lad, sparring at him in the air, "you just
lemme be, or I'll fetch you a wipe in the jaw. I ain't doing nothink;
and he's werry good to me, he is."
Mr. BUMSTEAD drops the presumptuous viper, but immediately seizes him by
an ear and leads him to MCLAUGHLIN, whom he asks: "Do you know this
insect?"
"SMALLEY," says MCLAUGHLIN, with a nod.
"Is that the name of the sardine?"
"Blagyerboots," adds MCLAUGHLIN.
"Shine 'em up, red hot," explains the boy. "I'm one of them fellers."
Here he breaks away and hops out again into the road, singing:
"Áina, maina, mona, Mike,
Bassalona, bona, strike!
Hay, way, crown, rack,
Hallico, ballico, we--wo--wack!"
--which he evidently intends as a kind of Hitalian; for, simultaneously,
he aims a stone at JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, grazes Mr. BUMSTEAD'S whiskers
instead, and in another instant a sound of breaking glass is heard in
the distance.
"Peace, young scorpion!" says Mr. BUMSTEAD, with a commanding gesture.
"JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, let me see you home. The road is too unsteady to-night
for an old man like you. Let me see you home, far as my house, at
least."
"Thank you, sir, I'd make better time alone. When you came up, sir, Old
Mortarity was meditating on this bone-farm," says Mr. MCLAUGHLIN,
pointing with a trowel, which he had drawn from his pocket, into the
pauper burial-ground. "He was thinking of the many laid here when the
Alms-House over yonder used to be open _as_ a Alms-House. I've patched
up all these graves, as well as them in the Ritual churchyard, and know
'em all, sir. Over there, Editor of Country Journal; next, Stockholder
in Erie; next, Gentleman who Undertook to be Guided in His Agriculture
by Mr. GREELEY'S 'What I Know about Farming;' next, Original Projector
of American Punch; next, Proprietor of Rural Newspaper; next, another
Projector of American Punch--indeed, all the rest of that row is
American _Punches_; next, Conductor of Rustic Daily; next, Manager of
Italian Opera; next, Stockholder in Morris and Essex; next, American
Novelist; next, Husband of Literary Woman; next, Pastor of Southern
Church; next, Conductor of Provincial Press.--I know 'em ALL sir," says
Old Mortarity, with exquisite pathos, "and if a flower could spring up
for every tear a friendless old man has dropped upon their neglected
graves, you couldn't see the wooden head-boards for the roses."
"Tharsverytrue," says Mr. BUMSTEAD, much affected--"Not see 'em for your
noses--beaut'ful idea! You're a gooroleman, sir. Here comes SMALLEY
again."
"I ain't doing nothink, and you're all the time wanting me to move on,
and he's werry good to me, he is," whimpers SMALLEY, throwing a stone at
Mr. BUMSTEAD and hitting Old Mortarity.
"Didn't I tell you to always aim at _me_?" cries the latter, angrily
rubbing the place. "Don't I give you a penny a night to aim right at
me?"
"I only chucked once at him," says the youth, penitently.
"You see, Mr. BUMSTEAD," explains JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, "I give him an Object
in life. I am that Object, and it pays me. If you've ever noticed these
boys, sir, they never hit what they aim at. If they throw at a pigeon or
a tree, the stone goes through a garret window. If they throw at a dog,
it hits some passer-by on the leg. If they throw at each other, it takes
you in the back as you're turnin' a corner. I used to be getting hit all
over every night from SMALLEY'S aiming at dogs, and pigeons, and boys
like himself; but now I hire him to aim at me, exclusively, and I'm all
safe.--There he goes, now, misses me, and breaks another winder."
"Here, SMALLEY," says Mr. BUMSTEAD, as another stone, aimed at
MCLAUGHLIN, strikes himself, "take this other penny, and aim at _both_
of us."
Thus perfectly protected from painful contusion, although the air
continues full of stones, Mr. BUMSTEAD takes JOHN MCLAUGHLIN'S arm, as
they move onward, to protect the old man from harm, and is so careful to
pick out the choice parts of the road for him that their progress is
digressive in the extreme.
"I have heard," says Mr. BUMSTEAD, "that at one end of the pauper
burial-ground there still remains the cellar of a former chapel to the
Alms-House, and that you have broken through into it, and got a
stepladder to go down. Isthashso?"
"Yes; and there's coffins down there."
"Yours is a hic-stremely strange life, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN."
"It's certainly a very damp one," says MCLAUGHLIN, silently urging his
strange companion to support a little more of his own weight in
walking. "But it has its science. Over in the Ritualistic burial-yard, I
tap the wall of a vault with my trowel-handle, and if the sound is
hollow I say to myself: 'Not full yet.' Say it's the First of May, and I
tap a coffin, and don't hear anything more in it, I say: 'Either you're
not a woman in there, or, if you are, you never kept house.'--Because,
you see, if it was a woman that ever kept house, it would take but the
least thing in the world to make her insist upon 'moving' on the First
of May."
"Won'rful!" says Mr. BUMSTEAD. "Sometime when you're sober, JOHN
MCLAUGHLIN, I'll do a grave or two with you."
On their way they reach a bar-room, into which Mr. BUMSTEAD is anxious
to take Old Mortarity, for the purpose of getting something to make the
latter stronger for his remaining walk. Failing in his ardent entreaties
to this end--even after desperately offering to eat a few cloves himself
for the sake of company--he coldly bids the stone-cutter good-night, and
starts haughtily in a series of spirals for his own home. Suddenly
catching sight of SMALLEY in the distance, he furiously grasps a stone
to throw at him; but, allowing his arm to describe too much of a circle
before parting with the stone, the latter strikes the back of his own
head, and he goes on, much confused.
Arriving in his own room, and arising from the all-fours attitude in
which, from eccentricity, he has ascended the stairs, Mr. BUMSTEAD takes
from a cupboard a curious, antique flask, and nearly fills a tumbler
from its amber-hued contents. He drinks the potion with something like
frenzy; then softly steals to the door of a room opening into his own,
and looks in upon EDWIN DROOD. Calm and untroubled lies his nephew
there, in pleasant dreams. "They are both asleep," whispers Mr. BUMSTEAD
to himself. He goes back to his own bed, accompanied unconsciously by a
chair caught in his coat-tail; puts on his hat, opens an umbrella over
his head, and lies down to dread serpentine visions.
CHAPTER VI.
INSURANCE IN GOSPELER's GULCH.
The Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON (OCTAVIUS, because there had been seven
other little SIMPSONS, who all took after their father when he died of
mumps, like seven kittens after the parental tail,) having thrown
himself all over the room with a pair of dumb-bells much too strong for
him, and taken a seidlitz powder to oblige his dyspepsia, was now
parting his back hair before a looking-glass. An unimpeachably
consumptive style of clerical beauty did the mirror reflect; the
countenance contracting to an expression of almost malevolent piety when
the comb went over a bump, and relaxing to an open-mouthed charity for
all mankind, amounting nearly to imbecility, when the more complex
requirements of the parting process compelled twists of the head
scarcely compatible with even so much as a squint at the glass.
It being breakfast time, Mrs. SIMPSON--mother of OCTAVIUS--was just down
for the meal, and surveyed the operation with a look of undisguised
anxiety.
"You'll break one of them yet, some morning, OCTAVE," said the old lady.
"Do what, OLDY?" asked the writhing Gospeler, apparently speaking out of
his right ear.
"You'll break either the comb, or your neck, some morning."
Rendered momentarily irritable by this aggravating remark, the Reverend
OCTAVIUS made a jab with the comb at the old lady's false-front, pulling
it down quite askew over her left eye; but, upon the sudden entrance of
a servant with the tea-pot, he made precipitate pretence that his hand
was upon his mother's head to give her a morning blessing.
They were a striking pair to sit at breakfast together in Gospeler's
Gulch, Bumsteadville: she with her superb old nut-cracker countenance,
and he with the dyspepsia of more than thirty summers causing him to
deal gently with the fish-balls. They sat within sound of the bell of
the Ritualistic Church, the ringing of which was forever deluding the
peasantry of the surrounding country into the idea that they could
certainly hear their missing cows at last (hence the name of the
church--Saint Cow's); while the sonorous hee-hawing of an occasional
Nature's Congressman in some distant field reminded them of the outer
political world.
"Here is Mr. SCHENCK'S letter," said Mrs. SIMPSON, handing an open
epistle across the table, as she spoke to her son, "and you might read
it aloud, my OCTAVE."
Taking the tea-cup off his face, the Reverend OCTAVIUS accepted the
missive, which was written from "A Perfect Stranger's Parlor, New York,"
and began reading thus: "Dear Ma-a-dam--
I wri-i-te in the-e
Chai-ai-ai-air-"
--"Dear me, OCTAVE," interrupted the old lady, "can't you read even a
letter without Intoning--and to the tone of 'Old Hundredth,' too?"
"I'm afraid not, dear OLDY," responded the Gospeler. "I'm so much in the
habit of it. You're not so ritualistic yourself, and may be able to do
better."
"Give it back to me, my sing-sing-sonny," said the old lady; who at once
read as follows: "DEAR MADAM, I write from the chair which I have now
occupied for six hours, in the house of a man whom I never saw before in
my life, but who comes next in the Directory to the obstinate but
finally conquered being under whose roof I resolutely passed the greater
part of yesterday. He sits near me in another chair, so much weakened
that he can just reply to me in whispers, and I believe that a few hours
more of my talk will leave him no choice between dying of exhaustion at
my feet and taking a Policy in the Boreal Life Insurance Company, of
which I am Agent. I have spoken to my wards, MONTGOMERY and MAGNOLIA
PENDRAGON, concerning MAGNOLIA'S being placed at school in the Macassar,
and MONTGOMERY'S acceptance of your son, OCTAVIUS, as his tutor, and
shall take them with me to Bumsteadville to-morrow, for such
disposition. Hoping, Madam, that neither you nor your son will much
longer fly into the face of Providence by declining to insure your
lives, through me, in the Boreal, I have the honor to be Yours, for two
Premiums, MELANCTHON SCHENCK."
"Well, OLDY," said OCTAVIUS, with dismal countenance, "do you think
we'll have to do it?"
"Do what?" asked the old lady.
"Let him Insure us."
"I'm afraid it will come to that yet, OCTAVE. I've known persons to die
under him."
"Well, well, Heaven's will be done," muttered the patient Gospeler. "And
now, mother, we must do something to make the first coming of these
young strangers seem cheerful to them. We must give a little
dinner-party here, and invite Miss CAROWTHERS, and BUMSTEAD and his
nephew, and the Flowerpot. Don't you think the codfish will go round?"
"Yes, dear: that is, if you and I take the spine," replied the old lady.
So the party of reception was arranged, and the invitations hurried out.
At about half an hour before dinner there was a sound in the air of
Bumsteadville as of a powerful stump-speaker addressing a mass-meeting
in the distance; rapidly intensifying to stentorian phrases, such
as--"provide for your miserable surviving offspring"--"lower rates than
any other company"--"full amount cheerfully paid upon hearing of your
death"--until a hack appeared coming down the crossroad descending into
Gospeler's Gulch, and stopped at the Gospeler's door. As the faint
driver, trembling with nervous debility from great excess of deathly
admonition addressed to him, through the front window of his hack, all
the way from the ferry, checked his horses in one feeble gasp of
remaining strength, the Reverend OCTAVIUS stepped forth from the doorway
to greet Mr. SCHENCK and the dark-complexioned, sharp-eyed young brother
and sister who came with him.
"Now remember, fellow," said Mr. SCHENCK to the driver, after he had
come out of the vehicle, shaking his cane menacingly at him as he spoke,
"I've warned you, in time, to prepare for death, and given you a
Schedule of our rates to read to your family. If you should die of
apoplexy in a week, as you probably will, your wife must pick rags, and
your children play a harp and fiddle. Dream of it, think of it,
dissolute man, and take a Policy in the Boreal."
As the worn-out hackman, too despondent at thought of his impending
decease and family-bankruptcy to make any other answer than a groan,
drove wretchedly away, the genial Mr. SCHENCK hoarsely introduced the
young PENDRAGONS to the Gospeler, and went with them after the latter
into the house.
The Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON, with dire forebodings of the discomfiture
of his dear old nut-cracker of a mother, did the honors of a general
introduction with a perfect failure of a smile; and, thenceforth, until
dinner was over, Mr. SCHENCK was the Egyptian festal skeleton that
continually reminded the banqueters of their latter ends.
"Great Heavens! what signs of the seeds of the tomb do I not see all
around me here," observed Mr. SCHENCK, in a deep base voice, as he
helped himself to more codfish. "Here is my friend, Mr. SIMPSON,
withering under our very eyes with Dyspepsia. In Mr. BUMSTEAD'S manly
eye you can perceive Congestion of the Brain. General Debility marked
the venerable Mrs. SIMPSON for its own. Miss POTTS and MAGNOLIA can
bloom and eat caramels now; but what will be their anguish when
malignant Small Pox rages, as it surely must, next month! Mr. DROOD and
MONTGOMERY are rejoicing in the health and thin legs of youth; but how
many lobster salads are there between them and fatal Cholera Morbus? As
for Miss ELIZABETH CADY CAROWTHERS, there, her Skeleton is already
coming through at the shoulders."--"Oh, my friends!" exclaimed the
ghastly Mr. SCHENCK, with beautiful enthusiasm, "Insure while yet, there
is time; that the kindred, or friends, whom you will all leave behind,
probably within the next three months, may have something to keep them
from the Poor-House, or, its dread alternative--Crime!" He considerately
paused until the shuddering was over, and then added, with melting
softness--"I'll leave a few of our Schedules with you."
When, at last, this boon-companion said that he must go, it was
surprising to see with what passionate cordiality everybody helped him
off. Mr. BUMSTEAD frenziedly crammed his hat upon his beaming head, and,
with one eager blow on the top, drove it far down over his ears; FLORA
POTTS and MAGNOLIA thrust each a buckskin glove far up either sleeve;
Miss CAROWTHERS frantically stuck one of his overshoes under each arm;
Mr. DROOD wildly dragged his coat over his form, without troubling him
at all about the sleeves, and breathlessly buttoned it to the neck; and
the Reverend OCTAVIUS and MONTGOMERY hurried him forth by the shoulders,
as though the house were on fire and he the very last to be snatched
from the falling beams.
These latter two then almost ran with him to the livery stable where he
was to obtain a hack for the ferry; leaving him in charge of the livery
man--who, by the way, he at once frightened into a Boreal Policy, by a
few felicitous remarks (while the hack was preparing) upon the curious
recent fatality of Heart-Disease amongst middle-aged podgy men with
bulbous noses.
(_To be Continued._)
* * * * *
THE FEROCITY OF FAILURE.
It is not, everybody knows, pleasant to fail; and of all failures, it is
the most aggravating to an editor to have the juvenile newspaper of his
own begetting expire at an early age. Such has been the melancholy fate
of _The Hancock_ (Ky.) _Messenger_. "Ah!" says the wretched editor in
his farewell address, "if I could but write the obituary of several of
the miserable skinflints of this town." Such being his passionate
emotions, and such the wild bitterness of his revengeful spirit, it is
greatly to be wondered at that with rifle, bowie-knife or pistol, he did
not rush into the streets of Hancock, and, having run a muck through
those thoroughfares, and having slaughtered quite a large number of the
"miserable skin-flints," that he did not then retire to his den, there
and then to compose the obituaries aforesaid. It must be confessed that
this gentleman appears to be more bilious than brave.
* * * * *
[Illustration: AS TIBBS HAS OFTEN REMARKED TO MRS. T.: "IT ISN'T HIS
DISPOSITION TO SHIRK ANY LITTLE DOMESTIC DUTY, BUT HOW ABOUT MEETING
ONE'S BACHELOR ACQUAINTANCES, YOU KNOW?"]
SONG OF THE CHICAGO LAWYER.
Divorces, Ho! Divorces!
Ye sorry lords, come one and all!
Afflicted wives, come at my call!
I have a balm for all the smarts
And pains of unrequited hearts;
I have a cure for every ill
That matrimonial feuds instil--
Come ye unto my call!
Here, pretty one!
I know your lord refused to buy
That velvet dress, no reason why--
He is a brute! There, do not cry,
I'll drive the tear-drop from your eye,
And you again, fair one, shall be
From such a selfish thraldom free--
Take courage, then--look up!
This way, good sir--
Is raging, wild insanity;
Ha! ha! my friend, is that the plea?
Oh, well, we've doctors by the score
Will prove it twenty times, or more,
Or, if it may His Honor please,
Will swear the moon is made of cheese--
Come on, good sir, come on!
Good morning, pious friend!
You wish for ministerial aid
To prove the flaws? Be not afraid--
The ministerial conscience leads
Sometimes to proving of misdeeds,
Which less exalted minds would hold
It nobler to have left untold;
But duty, sir, is stern.
Divorces, Ho! Divorces!
We'll put them through at Dexter speed,
And, this late day, there is no need
Of flying off to Indiana
In such a helter-skelter manner;
We're going to have a train, you know,
'Twill stop, (with patients passing through,)
Five minutes for divorces.
* * * * *
INTERESTING TO ITINERANT CIRCUS COMPANIES.
You can make your tents waterproof by Pitching them.
* * * * *
MORE MYTHOLOGY.
APOLLO. This gentlemanly deity was the manager of the Sun. By this
statement we do not mean to imply that he had any connection with the
_Sun_ of the present day over which Mr. DANA presides, although his
fondness for a good lyre has led many to suppose that he was the patron
of the classic journalists. The Sun which was in APOLLO'S charge was the
same respectable luminary which has been seen at London no less than
three different times during the present century, and which daily shines
upon this free and happy republic. What APOLLO'S duties as keeper of the
Sun were, is not precisely known. Probably he was required to
superintend the scouring and brightening of the solar disk. At any rate,
since he gave up his office, the Sun has become freckled over with ugly
spots, the cause of which no modern astronomer has yet discerned;--the
scientific chaps, with their customary want of common sense, having
never once surmised that these spots were simply rust occasioned by a
lack of proper scouring. The theory that APOLLO really did scour the Sun
is substantiated by the ancient legend that he used to scour the heavens
in a swift chariot drawn by several coursers. The greater is universally
admitted to contain the less--except in the solitary instance of the
nutmeg grater, which generally contains nothing but dust.--Hence the
deity who scoured the entire Heavens would unquestionably scour that
small portion which we call the Sun. This is an argument which will
convince any one but a strong-minded woman or a Protectionist.
APOLLO, as we have already said, was very fond of the lyre. He was also
an archer--not the one who shot at a crow, although his name does begin
with "A," but an archer who was addicted to drawing a very long and
ornamental bow. This is doubtless another reason why he is believed to
have been the guide, counsellor, and friend of the journalists of the
period. Indeed, so firm is the belief, even at the present day, in his
honorary connection with journalism, that one of our best known editors,
whose personal appearance strikingly resembles that of the best statues
of APOLLO, is frequently called, by way of compliment, "the APOLLO of
the press." Need we say that we refer to Mr. HORACE GREELEY, who
receives this title quite as much on account of his professional
eminence, as because of his resemblance to the APOLLO BELVIDERE?
APOLLO was the first individual, mortal or immortal, who became a public
lecturer, and--after the manner of our most popular lyceum
lecturers--propounded unintelligible conundrums to the confiding
public. He had a Hall at Delphi, where he used to speak upon "The Lesson
of the Hour," and his oracular sayings were every bit as valuable as
those of RALPH WALDO EMERSON himself. People used to ask him all manner
of questions, precisely as they now ask questions of the editors of
newspapers. Now-a-days if a girl wants to know what she shall do to
change the color of her hair, she writes to the editor of PUNCHINELLO,
and receives a satisfactory answer. Had she lived two thousand years
ago, however, she would have gone to Delphi and asked APOLLO, who would
have oracularly answered, "Dye." As APOLLO never wrote his
prescriptions, the girl would have been uncertain whether he meant to
say "Dye" or "Die," and after the manner of her sex, would, of course,
have chosen the wrong interpretation, and have immediately drowned
herself. By such responses as these, APOLLO sometimes accomplished much
good, though usually his oracular sayings were as useless as those of
the Veteran Observer.
* * * * *
THE CROWING HENS.
The ladies, bless 'em! are disgusted with man management, and seek to
inaugurate a season of Miss management.
* * * * *
RICHES HAVE WINGS.
Gen. BUTLER'S failure to profit by his investment in the Lynn
shoe-manufacture, may at this time be justly regarded as another proof
that wealth has wings and "shoe-flies" away.
* * * * *
THE HOLY GRAIL AND OTHER POEMS.
(This is one of the other Poems.)
BY A HALF-RED DENIZEN OF THE WEST.
PART III.
PELLEAS, when he left ETTARRE'S gate,
Through all the lonely woods went groaning great;
And there, while driv'ling round in doleful plight,
He met monk PERCEVALE, reformed knight;
A wise old fox. You'd never catch him in
A tavern, Sundays, drinking milky gin!
PELLEAS button-holed him, and said he,
"As good as GUINEVERE I thought my she!"
Then PERCEVALE, pure soul! did laugh serene.
"My friend," said he, "you must be precious green.
As good as our queen, you thought your she!
I'll bet she's all of that, whoe'er she be."
PELLEAS dropped his jaw and clenched his fist,
Then through his white calcaveous teeth he hissed:
"She'll die, she'll go to burning flame!
She'll mix her ancient blood with shame!
The wind is howling in turret and tree."
"That's so," said PERCEVALE, "but you or I
Can't help all that, you know. So friend, good bye."
In darkest woods--down in a lonely dell,
A peanut woman sat--her wares to sell.
But brave PELLEAS, turning not aside,
O'er that poor woman and her stall did ride.
And as he wildly dashed along, pell-mell,
To all the night-bugs thusly he did yell:
Rosy is the West!
Rosy is the South,
Hard enough her cheek,
False enough her mouth.
When the happy Yes
Comes from lips and eyes,
Pass and blush the news
That the lady lies.
While thus PELLEAS kept his crazy course,
And tried his best to founder his poor horse
Out from the city came brave LANCELOT,
His steed just on a comfortable trot.
And as he rode thus gaily, all alone,
He loudly sang, in his fine baritone,
"There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as
mine.
There's GALAHAD and ARTHUR; GERAINT and old MERLINE,
But none so gay as LANCELOT, in all the land, they say;
For I'm with the Queen all day, Mother! I'm with the Queen all day."
But when PELLEAS, riding wild, he heard,
To stop his song the thought to him occurred;
And shouting loud, he cried, "Who's there? Hello!
What now? Hold up! Look out! Hi-yi! Ho, Ho!
Pull up, young man, and tell me who you be."
PELLEAS stopped, and thus gave answer he:
"I'm just exactly what my fancy suits;
I'm FECHTER'S Hamlet, and I'm CLARKE'S De Boots;
I'm Champagne CHARLEY, and I'm SUSAN ANTHONY, you know--or any other
man."
"If that's the case," said LANCELOT, "we'll fight."
"Well," said PELLEAS, "that suits me, all right."
Said LANCELOT, "As anxious you appear,
Just make a ring out in this meadow here.
I'm somewhat drowsy, and to sleep I'll go.
Just wake me when you're ready, friend, and so,
Comrade, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn.
Leave ms here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn."
PELLEAS now worked hard, marked out a ring,
And made it smooth and nice as anything;
He dug and sodded it, and after that
He got a roller and he rolled it flat.
When all was done, he blew a warlike catch,
And LANCELOT skipped up, and toed the scratch.
Down went their visors--each fell back a space,
And on they came at a tremendous pace.
They met! A crash! And LANCELOT, proud knight,
He knocked PELLEAS higher than a kite!
The mighty din of battle scarce did cease,
When came old PERCEVALE, who yelled, "Police!"
He might have yelled forever; they came not.
The victor sneered, "My name is LANCELOT."
Then said PELLEAS, "Well, suppose it be,
It makes no earthly difference to me."
As glum PELLEAS on the ground did sit,
Said PERCEVALE, "Young man, git up and git!"
Then cried the other, "Easy 'tis to talk--
I'd like to know how ever I can walk.
Broke, broke, broke!
Are three of my bones, oh see!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me."
Then PERCEVALE, he took him on his back,
And in the Queen's wide hall, down dumped him,--smack!
"Hello!" cried GUINEVERE, "here's been a fight!
And I not there! Young man, it serves you right!"
PELLEAS got upon his pins once more,
And thus he sang, while hobbling to the door:
"O ho! good Lady GUINEVERE
From yon blue heavens above us bent,
The grand old gardener and his wife
Smile, though they never saved a cent.
Remember that, and should you find
Time on your hands too heavy go,
Oh! teach the orphan girl to read,
Oh! teach the orphan boy to sew!"
(THE END.)
* * * * *
WAT CUM SNECST?
OR
The Oriental Mule.
A SKELETON DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS, BY D. BOSSYCOW, ESQ.
[Managers who purchase this great sensation have the right to substitute
any other title, to suit their special tastes, abilities or otherwise.
Also to fill up the list of characters, ditto, ditto, ditto.]
CHARACTERS (absolutely necessary.)
CLEONI _A Young Man in Love._
LUCY _A do. Woman do, do._
GIMFRISKY _Prince of Eareigh._
* * * * *
ACT I.
_Room in a Cottage._
CLEONI. Ah! Oh! my beloved, 'tis well!
LUCY. Hush! no more. I see it all.
CLEONI. Cans't thou see my mother?
LUCY. I cannest.
(_They suddenly rush into each other's arms, where they remain in two
swoons; in the meanwhile the cottage is burned to the ground. Curtain
falls for two minutes, and upon its rising the Ninth Regiment is
discovered en bivouac on the ruins, its commander, the_ PRINCE,
_reclining gracefully on the ground._)
(_Background, river Amazin, mouth wide open._) _Solo on the banjo,
"Rest, Traveller, Rest_," by PAREPA ROSA.
* * * * *