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[Illustration: Vol. I. No. 14.]
PUNCHINELLO
SATURDAY, JULY 2, 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.]
* * * * *
NOW READY.
The July Number of
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we recommend for Bank and Office use.
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* * * * *
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 Galion. 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,
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7:45 A.M., 3:15 and 4:15 P.M.)
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FOR PATERSON AND WAY, from Twenty-third Street Depot, at 6:45, 10:15 and
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205 Chambers Street.
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Depots, foot of Chambers Street and foot
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3 Exchange Place.
Long Dock Depot, Jersey City,
And of the Agents at the principal Hotels
WM. R. BARR,
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May 2D, 1870.
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at
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THE
MERCHANTS'
Life Insurance Company
OF NEW YORK,
Office, 257 BROADWAY
ORGANIZED UNDER THE LAWS OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK.
Issues all kinds of Life and Endowment Policies on the Mutual System,
free from restriction on travel and occupation, which permit residence
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Premiums may be paid annually, semi-annually, or quarterly in cash.
All Policies are non-forfeitable, and participate in the profits of the
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Dividends are made annually, on the Contribution plan.
Pamphlets containing Rates of Premium, and information on the subject of
Life Insurance, may be obtained at the office of the Company, or of any
of its Agents.
Parties desiring to represent this Company in the capacity of Agents
will please address the New York Office.
WILLIAM T. PHIPPS,
_President_.
A. D. HOLLY, _Secretary_.
O. S. PAINE, M. D. _Medical Examiner_.
HENRY HILTON, _Counsel_.
C. H. KING, M. D. _Asst-Med. Ex._
Each Agent in direct communication with the New York Office.
* * * * *
DICKENS
The homage of our world to thee,
O Matchless Scribe! when thou wert here,
Was all that's loving in a Laugh,
And all that's tender in a Tear.
So, if with quiv'ring lip we name
The fellow Mortal who Departs,
A Smile shall call him back again,
To live Immortal In our Hearts.
O. C. K.
* * * * *
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.
AN ADAPTATION.
BY ORPHEUS C. KERR,
CHAPTER VII.
MORE CONFIDENCES THAN ONE.
"You and your sister have been insured, of course," said the Gospeler to
MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON, as they returned from escorting Mr. SCHENCK.
"Of course," echoed MONTGOMERY, with a suppressed moan. "He is our
guardian, and has trampled us into a couple of policies. We had to
yield, or excess of Boreal conversation would have made us maniacs."
"You speak bitterly for one so young," observed the Reverend OCTAVIUS
SIMPSON. "Is it derangement of the stomach, or have you known sorrow?"
"Heaps of sorrow," answered the young man. "You may be aware, sir, that
my sister and I belong to a fine old heavily mortgaged Southern
family--the PENRUTHERSES and MUNCHAUSENS of Chipmunk Court House,
Virginia, are our relatives--and that SHERMAN marched through us during
the late southward projection of certain of your Northern military
scorpions. After our father's felo-desease, ensuing remotely from an
overstrain in attempting to lift a large mortgage, our mother gave us a
step-father of Northern birth, who tried to amend our constitutions and
reconstruct us."
"Dreadful!" murmured the Gospeler.
"We hated him! MAGNOLIA threw her scissors at him several times. My
sister, sir, does not know what fear is. She would fight a lion;
inheriting the spirit from our father, who, I have heard said,
frequently fought a tiger. She can fire a gun and pick off a State
Senator as well as any man in all the South. Our mother died. A few
mornings thereafter our step-father was found dead in his bed, and the
doctors said he died of a pair of scissors which he must have swallowed
accidentally in his youth, and which were found, after his death, to
have worked themselves several inches out of his side, near the heart."
"Swallowed a pair of scissors!" exclaimed the Reverend OCTAVIUS.
"He might have had a stitch in his side at the time, you know, and
wanted to cut it," explained MONTGOMERY. "At any rate, after that we
became wards of Mr. SCHENCK, up North here. And now let me ask you, sir,
is this Mr. EDWIN DROOD a student with you?"
"No. He is visiting his uncle, Mr. BUMSTEAD," answered the Gospeler, who
could not free his mind from the horrible thought that his young
companion's fearless sister might have been in some way acscissory to
the sudden cutting off of her step-father's career.
"Is Miss FLORA POTTS his sister?"
Mr. SIMPSON told the story of the betrothal of the young couple by their
respective departed parents.
"Oh, _that's_ the game, eh?" said MONTGOMERY. "I understand now his
whispering to me that he wished he was dead." In a moment afterwards
they re-entered the house in Gospeler's Gulch.
The air was slightly laden with the odor of cloves as they went into the
parlor, and Mr. BUMSTEAD was at the piano, accompanying the Flowerpot
while she sang. Executing without notes, and with his stony gaze fixed
intently between the nose and chin of the singer, Mr. BUMSTEAD had a
certain mesmeric appearance of controlling the words coming out of the
rosy mouth. Standing beside Miss POTTS was MAGNOLIA PENDRAGON, seemingly
fascinated, as it were, by the BUMSTEAD method of playing, in which the
performer's fingers performed almost as frequently upon the woodwork of
the instrument as upon the keys. Mr. PENDRAGON surveyed the group with
an arm resting on the mantel; Mr. SIMPSON took a chair by his maternal
nut-cracker, and Mr. DROOD stealthily practiced with his ball on a chair
behind the sofa.
The Flowerpot was singing a neat thing by LONGFELLOW about the Evening
Star, and seemed to experience the most remarkable psychological effects
from Mr. BUMSTEAD'S wooden variations and extraordinary stare at the
lower part of her countenance. Thus, she twitched her plump shoulders
strangely, and sang--
"Just a-bove yon sandy bar,
As the day grows faint--(te-hee-he-he!)
Lonely and lovely a single--(now do-o-n't!)
Lights the air with"--(sto-o-op! It tickles--)
Convulsively giggling and exclaiming, alternately, Miss POTTS abruptly
ended her beautiful bronchial noise with violent distortion of
countenance, as though there were a spider in her mouth, and sank upon a
chair in a condition almost hysterical.
"Your playing has made SISSY nervous, JACK," said EDWIN DROOD, hastily
concealing his ball and coming forward. "I noticed, myself, that you
played more than half the notes in the air, or on the music-rack,
without touching the keys at all."
"That is because I am not accustomed to playing upon two pianos at
once," answered BUMSTEAD, who, at that very moment, was industriously
playing the rest of the air some inches from the nearest key.
"He couldn't make _me_ nervous!" exclaimed Miss PENDRAGON, decidedly.
They bore the excited Flowerpot, (who still tittered a little, and was
nervously feeling her throat,) to the window, for air; and when they
came back Mr. BUMSTEAD was gone. "There, Sissy," said EDWIN DROOD,
"you've driven him away; and I'm half afraid he feels unpleasantly
confused about it; for he's got out of the rear door of the house by
mistake, and I can hear him trying to find his way home in the
back-yard."
The two young men escorted Miss CAROWTHERS and the two young ladies to
the door of the Alms-House, and there bade them good-night; but, at a
yet later hour, FLORA POTTS and the new pupil still conversed in the
chamber which they were to occupy conjointly.
After discussing the fashions with great excitement; asking each other
just exactly what each gave for every article she wore; and successively
practicing male-discouraging, male-encouraging, and chronically-in-different
expressions of face in the mirror (as all good young ladies always do
preparatory to their evening prayers,) the lovely twain made solemn
nightcap-oath of eternal friendship to each other, and then, of course,
began picking the men to pieces.
"Who is this Mr. BUMSTEAD?" asked MAGNOLIA, who was now looking much
like a ghost.
"He's that absurd EDDY'S ridiculous uncle, and my music-teacher,"
answered the Flowerpot, also presenting an emaciated appearance.
"You do not love him?" queried MAGNOLIA.
"Now go 'wa-a-ay! How perfectly disgusting!" protested FLORA.
"You know that he loves you!"
"Do-o-n't!" pleaded Miss POTTS, nervously. "You'll make me fidgetty
again, just thinking of to-night. It was too perfectly absurd."
"What was?"
"Why, _he_ was,--Mr. BUMSTEAD. It gave me the funniest feeling! It was
as though some one was trying to see through you, you know."
"My child!" exclaimed Miss PENDRAGON, dropping her cheek-distenders upon
the bureau, "you speak strangely. Has that man gained any power over
you?"
"No, dear," returned FLORA, wiping off a part of her left eyebrow with
cold cream. "But didn't you see? He was looking right down my throat all
the time I was singing, until it actually tickled me!"
"Does he always do so?"
"Oh, I don't know what he always does!" whimpered the nervous Flowerpot.
"Oh, he's such an utterly ridiculous creature! Sometimes when we're in
company together, and I smell cloves, and look at him, I think that I
see the lid of his right eye drop over the ball and tremble at me in the
strangest manner. And sometimes his eyes seem fixed motionless in his
head, as they did to-night, and he'll appear to wander off into a kind
of dream, and feel about in the air with his right arm as though he
wanted to hug somebody. Oh! my throat begins to tickle again! Oh, stay
with me, and be my absurdly ridiculous friend!"
The dark-featured Southern linen spectre leaned soothingly above the
other linen spectre, with a bottle of camphor in her hand, near the
bureau upon which the back-hair of both was piled; and in the flash of
her black eyes, and the defiant flirt of the kid-gloves dipped in
glycerine which she was drawing on her hands, lurked death by lightning
and other harsh usage for whomsoever of the male sex should ever be
caught looking down in the mouth again.
CHAPTER VIII.
A DAGGERY TYPE OF FORTALKRAPHY.
The two young gentlemen, having seen their blooming charges safely
within the door of the Alms-House, and vainly endeavored to look through
the keyhole at them going up-stairs, scuffle away together with that
sensation of blended imbecility and irascibility which is equally
characteristic of callow youth and inexperienced Thomas Cats when
retiring together from the society of female friends who seem to be
still on the fence as regards their ultimate preferences.
"Do you bore your friends here long, Mr. DROOD?" inquired MONTGOMERY; as
who should say: Maouiw-ow-ooo-sp't! sp't!
"Not this time, Secesh," is the answer; as though it were observed,
ooo-ooo-sp't! "I leave for New York again to-morrow; but shall be off
and on again in Bumsteadville until midsummer, when I go to Egypt,
Illinois, to be an engineer on a railroad. The stamps left me by my
father are all in the stock of that road, and the Mr. BUMSTEAD whom you
saw to-night is my uncle and guardian."
"Mr. SIMPSON informs me that you are destined to assume the expenses of
Miss POTTS, when you're old enough," remarks MONTGOMERY, his eyes
shining quite greenly in the moonlight.
"Well, perhaps you'd like to make something out of it," says EDWIN,
whose orbs have assumed a yellowish glitter. "Perhaps you Southern
Confederacies didn't get quite enough of it at Gettysburgh and Five
Forks."
"We had the exquisite pleasure of killing a few thousand Yankee
free-lovers," intimates MONTGOMERY, with a hollow laugh.
"Ah, yes, I remember--at Andersonville," suggests EDWIN DROOD, beginning
to roll back his sleeves.
"This is your magnanimity to the conquered, is it!" exclaims MONTGOMERY,
scornfully. "I don't pretend to have your advantages, Mr. DROOD, and
I've scarcely had any more education than an American Humorist; but
where I come from, if a carpet-bagger should talk as you do, the cost of
his funeral would be but a trifle."
"I can prepare you, at shortest notice, for something very neat and
tasteful in the silver-trimmed rosewood line, with plated handles,
dark-complexioned Ku-klux," returns Mr. DROOD, preparing to pull off his
coat.
"Who would have believed," soliloquizes MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON, "that even
a scalawag Northern spoon-thief, like our scurrilous contemporary, would
get so mad at being reminded that he must be married some day!"
"Whoever says that I'm mad," is the answer, "lies deliberately wilfully,
wickedly, with naked intent to defame and malign."
But here a heavy hand suddenly smites EDWIN in the back, almost snapping
his head off, and there stands spectrally between them Mr. BUMSTEAD, who
has but recently found his way out of the back-yard in Gospeler's Gulch,
by removing at least two yards of picket fence from the wrong place, and
wears upon his head a gingham sun-bonnet, which, in his hurried
departure through the hall of the Gospeler's house, he has mistaken for
his own hat. Sustaining himself against the fierce evening breeze by
holding firmly to both shoulders of his nephew, this striking apparition
regards the two young men with as much austerity as is consistent with
the flapping of the cape of his sun-bonnet.
"Gentlelemons," he says, with painful syllabic distinctness, "can I
believe my ears? Are you already making journalists of yourselves?"
They hang their heads in shame under the merciless but just accusation.
"Here you are," continues BUMSTEAD, "a quartette of young fellows who
should all be friends. NEDS, NEDS! I am ashamed of you! MONTGOMERIES,
you should not let your angry passions rise; for your little hands were
never made to bark and bite." After this, Mr. BUMSTEAD seems lost for a
moment, and reclines upon his nephew, with his eyes closed in
meditation. "But let's all five of us go up to my room," he finally
adds, "and restore friendship with lemon tea. It is time for the North
and South to be reconciled over something hot. Come."
Leaning upon both of them now, and pushing them into a walk, he
exquisitely turns the refrain of the rejected National Hymn--
"'Twas by a mistake that we lost Bull Bun,
When we all skedaddled to Washington,
And we'll all drink atone blind,
Johnny fill up the bowl?"
Thus he artfully employs music to soothe their sectional animosities,
and only skips into the air once as they walk, with a "Whoop! That was
something _like_ a snake!"
Arriving in his room, the door of which he has had some trouble in
opening, on account of the knob having wandered in his absence to the
wrong side, Mr. BUMSTEAD indicates a bottle of lemon tea, with some
glasses, on the table, accidentally places the lamp so that it shines
directly upon EDWIN'S triangular sketch of FLORA over the mantel, and,
taking his umbrella under his arm, smiles horribly at his young guests
from out his sun-bonnet.
"Do you recognize that picture, PENDRAGONS?" he asks, after the two have
drunk fierily at each other. "Do you notice its stereoscopic effect of
being double?"
"Ah," says MONTGOMERY, critically, "a good deal in the style of
HENNESSY, or WINSLOW HOMER, I should say. Something in the school-slate
method."
"It's by EDWINS, there!" explains Mr. BUMSTEAD, triumphantly. "Just look
at him as he sits there both together, with all his happiness cut out
for him, and his dislike of Southerners his only fault."
"If I could only draw Miss PENDRAGON, now," says EDWIN DROOD, rather
flattered, "I might do better. A good sharp nose and Southern complexion
help wonderfully in the expression of a picture."
"Perhaps my sister would prefer to choose her own artist," remarks
MONTGOMERY, to whom Mr. BUMSTEAD has just poured out some more lemon
tea.
"Say a Southern one, for instance, who might use some of the flying
colors that were always warranted to run when our boys got after yours
in the late war," responds EDWIN, to whom his attentive uncle has also
poured out some more lemon tea for his cold.
"For instance--at Fredericksburgh," observes MONTGOMERY.
"I was thinking of Fort Donelson," returns EDWIN.
The conservative BUMSTEAD strives anxiously to allay the irritation of
his young guests by prodding first one and then the other with his
umbrella; and, in an attempt to hold both of them and the picture behind
him in one commanding glance under his sun-bonnet, presents a phase of
strabismus seldom attained by human eyes.
"If I only had you down where I come from, Mr. DROOD," cries MONTGOMERY,
tickled into ungovernable wrath by the ferule of the umbrella, I'd tar
and feather you like a Yankee teacher, and then burn you like a
freedman's church."
"Oh!--if you only had me _there_, you'd do so," cries EDWIN DROOD,
springing to his feet as the umbrella tortures his ribs. "_If_, eh?
Pooh, pooh, my young fellow, I perceive that you are a mere Cincinnati
Editor."
The degrading epithet goads PENDRAGON to fury, and, after throwing his
remaining lemon tea about equally upon EDWIN and the sun-bonnet, he
extracts the sugar from the bottom of the glass with his fingers, and
uses the goblet to ward off a last approach of the umbrella.
"EDWINS! MONTGOMERIES!" exclaims Mr. BUMSTEAD, opening the umbrella
between them so suddenly that each is grazed on the nose by a whalebone
rib, "I command you to end this Congressional debate at once. I never
saw four such young men before! MONTGOMERIES, put up your penknife
thizinstant!"
Pushing aside the barrier of alpaca and whalebone from under his chin,
MONTGOMERY dashes wildly from the house, tears madly back to Gospeler's
Gulch, and astounds the Gospeler by his appearance.
"Oh, Mr. SIMPSON," he cries, as he is conducted to the door of his own
room, "I believe that I, too, inherit some tigerish qualities from that
tiger my father is said to have fought so often. I've had a political
discussion with Mr. DROOD in Mr. BUMSTEAD'S apartments, and, if I'd
stayed there a moment longer, I reckon I should have murdered somebody
in a moment of Emotional Insanity."
The Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON makes him unclose his clenched fist, in
which there appears to be one or two cloves, and then says: "I am
shocked to hear this, Mr. PENDRAGON. As you have no political influence,
and have never shot a _Tribune_ man, neither New York law nor society
would allow you to commit murder with impunity. I regret, too, to see
that you have been drinking, and would advise you to try a chapter from
one of Professor DE MILLE'S novels, as a mild emetic, before retiring.
After that, two or three sentences from one of Mr. RICHARD GRANT WHITE'S
essays--will ensure sleep to you for the remainder of the night."
Returning the unspeakably thankful pressure of the grateful young man's
hand, the Gospeler goes thoughtfully down stairs, where he is just in
time to answer the excited ring of Mr. BUMSTEAD.
"Dear me, Mr. BUMSTEAD!" is his first exclamation, "what's that you've
got on your head?"
"Perspiration, sir," cries BUMSTEAD, who, in his agitation, is still
ringing the bell. "We've nearly had a murder to-night, and I've come
around to offer you my umbrella for your own protection."
"Umbrella!" echoes Mr. SIMPSON, "why, really, I don't see how--"
"Open it on him suddenly when he makes a pass at you," interrupts Mr.
BUMSTEAD, thrusting the alpaca weapon upon him. "I'll send for it in the
morning."
The Gospeler stands confounded in his own doorway, with the defence thus
strangely secured in his hand; and, looking up the moon-lighted road,
sees Mr. BUMSTEAD, in the sun-bonnet, leaping high, at short intervals,
over the numerous adders and cobras on his homeward way, like a
thoroughbred hurdle-racer.
(_To be Continued_.)
* * * * *
THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.
[Illustration: 'M']
Many plays of various sorts have been explained and commented upon in
this column. Now for the first time a show claims attention. The
BEETHOVEN Centennial Festival has just ceased its multitudinous noise,
and the several shows connected with it--such as GROVER'S blue coat,
GILMORE'S light gymnastics on the conductor's stand, the electric
artillery and the plenteous PAREPA, have vanished away. Time and space
and patience would fail to tell the story of the ten successive showers
of noise that inundated the Rink during last week. Let us then content
ourselves with a reminiscence of the opening night.
As the sun was understood to be descending the Western horizon (in some
rural locality that possesses a horizon,) last Monday afternoon, three
horsemen--who had doubtless left their horses at a convenient
stable,--might have been seen descending from a Third Avenue car. Before
them stood the Rink, glittering with rows of lamps--the last rows--not
of summer--but of the American Institute Fair. Passing these lines of
Rinkéd brightness long drawn out, (SHAKESPEARE) the three dismounted
horsemen entered the building and seated themselves. A mighty murmur of
applause rose from the chorus, as BERGMANN stepped to the front and
ordered his orchestral army to advance upon BEETHOVEN'S Sympony in C.
This what they heard and saw:
FIRST HORSEMAN. "What a noise they make tuning their fiddles When's this
thing going to begin?"
SECOND HORSEMAN. "Begin! Why, it has begun. This is BEETHOVEN'S Symphony
in C."
THIRD HOUSEMAN. "Don't you know the Symphony at Sea? It represents a
storm, you know."
YOUNG LADY FROM BOSTON. "How divinely beautiful! It ought to be played,
however, by GILMORE'S Band. They do not understand classical music in
New York."
ACCOMPANYING FRIEND. "Hush. PAREPA is going to sing."
There is a tremulous motion felt throughout the vast building. It is the
approach of PAREPA, who skips lightly--like the little hills mentioned
by the Psalmist--across the stage. She curtseys, and her skirts expand
in vast ripples like the waves of a placid sea when some huge
line-of-battle ship sinks suddenly from sight. She smiles a sweet and
ample smile. She flirts her elegant fan, and gallant little CARL
ROSA--who can lead an orchestra better than the weightiest German of
them all--is swept swiftly away, whirling like a rose-leaf before the
breath of the gentle zephyr. Then she sings.
What is the grand orchestra compared with the exhaustless volume of her
matchless voice! What the chorus of three thousand singers or the
multitudinous pipes of the great organ! Far above chorus or orchestra or
organ soar her clear notes, full, rich, ringing. Her voice, like her
majestic presence, was made expressly for Boston Jubilees and BEETHOVEN
Centennials. The former can fill the largest building the continent has
ever seen; the latter--well, the latter is perceptible at quite a
distance.
The "_Inflammatus_" is sung, and sung again, and then the programmes
rustle, as the audience looks to see who has the rashness to follow
PAREPA the peerless.
RURAL PERSON. "Now we're goin' to hear somethin' like. The New Jersey
Harmonic Society is agoin' to sing 'When first I saw her face in 1616.'
I don't like none of your operas. That 'inflammation' may be a big
thing,' but give me some old-fashioned toon."
Accordingly the New Jersey Society sings, and sings extremely well. The
simple melody sung by these gentle rustics pleases the people. They
demand its repetition, and it is generally conceded that the native
Jerseyman has more music in what he regards as his soul, than the wilder
aborigines who follow SPOTTED TAIL and SWIFT BEAR.
YOUNG LADY FROM BOSTON.--"How sweet these old madrigals are. That piece,
however, ought to have been played by GILMORE'S Band. These New Jersey
people know nothing about any music that is above OFFENBACH'S melodies."
And then everybody is seized with an impulse to whisper to everybody
else, "Now we are to have the Star Spangled Banner."
It is evident that the American nation hungers and thirsts after
something over which it may wax patriotic and loyal. It has no monarch,
and the absurdity of becoming enthusiastic over GRANT'S cigar is only
too manifest. It is therefore obliged to content itself with simulating
a frantic admiration of the Flag.
Now the flag is rather a pretty one, and to people north of MASON and
DIXON'S line, possesses many interesting associations. But the doggerel
which the late Mr. KEY attempted to celebrate it, is not altogether
above reproach. Beginning with the Bowery interrogative "Sa-ay," and
ending with a reference to the "land of the free and the home of the
brave," which the late ELIJAH POGRAM, or the present NATHANIEL BANKS
might have written, it is simply the weakest of rhymed buncombe wedded
to the cheapest of pinchbeck music. And yet we fancy ourselves inspired
when we hear it.
Fortunately, as sung at the BEETHOVEN festival, the words are drowned by
the music, and the music by the artillery. It thus becomes an
inarticulate patriotic "yawp," of tremendous ear-splitting power. But
the public likes it.
They greet it with tremendous roars of applause. The artillery,
discharged with uniform promptness several seconds in advance of time,
renders them wild with delight. PAREPA'S voice, rising at intervals
above even the combined din of instruments, voices, and cannon, is
hardly heeded by them. Noise is what they want, and they have a surfeit
of it. It is only after the performance is ended that the vision of
GILMORE'S ecstatic coat-tails, as they danced to the wild whirling of
his maniacal baton, comes back to their memory. Then they smile and say,
"Curious fellow that GILMORE. Knows how to make himself a pleasing and
prominent feature."
But the Boston young lady says in a serious tone, "GILMORE'S band should
have played that piece without any assistance. These New York people do
not understand the potentialities of brass."
Perhaps we don't. And then again perhaps we do.--Boston may have a
monopoly of virtue, but it has hardly a monopoly of brass.
After the patriotic noise comes the _Oberon_ overture, led by CARL ROSA
so daintily that it is the best performance of the evening. By and by
everybody attempts to leave in advance of everybody else, with a view to
a seat in the cars; and the first night of the Centennial is over.
And nine-tenths of the people remark that it is "bully."
And several of the remainder speak patronizingly of it.
And the critics go up to the "Press Room" for another glass of--in
short, for a sandwich:
And the Boston young lady expresses her firm conviction, that GILMORE
should have managed the whole affair, without the interference of those
uncultivated New-Yorkers.
And the fat lady from the Fifth Avenue remarks that "nothing has
occurred to mar the misanthropy of the occasion."
And a wretch who does not consider Miss KELLOGG the "Nightingale of
America," smiles a fiendish smile as he thinks that her pretty little
voice is to be heard by the conductor and the nearest chorus singers on
the following day.
And the undersigned goes home to calm his mind by an hour's perusal of
Dr. WATTS, and then to dream of star-spangled GILMORES and electric
PAREPA batteries until morning.
MATADOR.
* * * * *
[Illustration: GETTING--A FOOTHOLD IN CANADA.]
JOTTINGS FROM WASHINGTON.
WASHINGTON CITY, June 4, 1870.
DEAR PUNCHINELLO: I have noticed with pleasure your bold and generous
championship of Philadelphia. I have witnessed, with genuine delight,
your expose of the designs of the Iron Legislature upon that most
unhappy of rectangular cities; and I have been emboldened thereby to
hazard a petition to you to fly still higher in your philanthropic
endeavors to do and dare still more for the oppressed of your
race--to--to--in short, to attempt the defence of Washington and the
Washingtonians!!
There! it is out! But that I know you of old; but that, knowing you, I
regretted with a great regret your former withdrawal from affairs of
State; but that I welcomed your return to the arena of which, in former
years, you were the acknowledged victor; but that I knew your unlimited
compassion, I would not, though a bold man, have dared to ask so much.
Yet, I have reason for my request. For, if Philadelphia be rectangular,
Washington has greater claims, seeing that she is scalene, crooked,
trapezoidal, and, in general terms, catacornered. If Philadelphia be
legislature-ridden, Washington is Congress-burdened. It Philadelphia
suffers under an infliction of horse-railroads and white wooden
shutters, Washington groans under the pangs and pains of unmitigated
CHRONICLE!
This last is our greatest grievance. Fortunately for you, dear P., you
know not what it is to be Congress-burdened, _but we do._ Alas! too
well. It means mud and dust; it means unpaved streets pervaded by
perambulating pigs and contemplative cows, and rendered still more rural
in its aspect by the gambolings of frolicsome kids around grave goats.
It means an empty treasury, high rents, extraordinary taxes, and poor
grub. In short, it means WRETCHEDNESS. But to be "Chronicled"--
"----_That_ way Madness lies"
In this connection, dear PUNCHINELLO, let me hasten to disclaim any
intention of abusing or "pitching into" the renowned "Editor of Two
Newspapers, Both Daily." Everybody has been doing that for the past five
or six years, and I do not wish to be vulgar. Besides, to do the
gentleman justice, we do not think he is to blame for much of our
misery; as he confines his editorial connection with our incubus to
writing a weekly letter to the Press, and publishing it in both dailies.
At the same time we do wish that he would, out of compassion for our
suffering souls, exercise a little supervision over the small boys whom
he employs to write the _Chronicle_, and thus spare us something of what
we are now obliged to stand.
Let me give you one or two instances of the course pursued by this
tyrannous newspaper.
It frightens timid citizens by its narratives of horrible outrages in
the South, especially in Georgia and Tennessee; and my wife, who has
relatives in the former place, was in chronic hysterics until it was
discovered that the "outrages" were, to use a vulgar expression, "all in
my eye." To this day she trembles at the word "loil," (I believe I spell
it correctly,) knowing, as she does, that the dreaded and mysterious
syllables, Ku-Klux, will most assuredly follow it.
Why, did we not have a great scare here a week or two ago, when it was
announced that the mysterious chalk-marks on the pavements were
significant of the presence of the awful K.K. in our midst--at our very
doors? Did we not sleep with revolvers under our pillows, and dream of
cross-bones and coffins? Did not Mayor BOWEN receive a dread missive
warning him to evacuate Washington, lest he be made a corpse of in less
than no time? Had not several colored gentlemen and white men received
similar missives? And does it repay us for our fright and alarm, when it
is discovered that the mysterious marks are cunning devices of a
gentleman engaged in the oyster trade? By no means. We have suffered our
terrors, and no amount of oysters can alleviate them. To such straits
has the _Chronicle_ reduced the citizens of Washington.
But we have other causes of complaint against this extraordinary
newspaper. Here is one:
It may not be unknown to you that the _Chronicle_ has a habit of
identifying itself with the people and subjects which it discusses. Does
it put forth an article on naval matters--straightway it becomes salter
than Turk's Island, and talks of bobstays and main-top-bowlines and
poop-down-hauls in a manner that, to put it mildly, is confusing, and
would, if you read it, make you jump as if all your strings were pulled
at once! Are financial matters under discussion--behold even JAMES FISK,
Jr., is not so keen and shrewd, nor Commodore VANDERBILT so full of
"corners." And only the other day, it discussed the Medical Convention
which lately met here, and lo! we are amazed by the amount of knowledge
displayed by the omniscient journal! In a long article, after mildly
remonstrating with the doctors for refusing to admit their colored
brethren of the District of Columbia to a share in their deliberations,
it closes with this obscurely terrible remark:
"Better die of nostalgia in exile abroad, than remain at home to suffer
from ossification of the pericardium--"
or words to that effect, as the lawyers say.
On reading this, with what strength I had left I secured a dictionary,
and found that "nostalgia" means homesickness;--a disease not known to
Washingtonian exiles--but what "ossification of the pericardium" means I
cannot discover. Not only have I searched every dictionary in the
Congressional Library, but I have pervaded all the bookstores, and made
myself a nuisance to every medical man of my acquaintance--in vain!
Nobody ever heard of such a disease, if disease it be. It may be
something more dreadful! And not only I, but those whom I have
persecuted with my inquiries, are on the verge of insanity; and for all
this the _Chronicle_ is responsible.
Now, this can't be endured; and I have come to you for help. Either tell
us what is the meaning of this terrible phrase, or else open your
batteries on the malicious genius who pens those _Chronicle_ papers,
and--squelch him!
As yet,
"I am _not_ mad--but soon shall be!"
if you don't answer.
Yours, in tribulation,
ALONZO TARBOX.
P. S.--Be sure and see that the printer spells my name rightly, and
don't transmogrify it into "TREEBOX," as a beast of a Treasury Clerk did
the other day. "There _are_ chords--" you know.
A. T.
* * * * *
THE EASTERN QUESTION.
Egypt and Turkey--the Nile and the Bosphorus--seem coming to blows. But
if hostilities are happily averted, with what propriety can it be said
that _Nihil fit_?
* * * * *
THE EARTHLY PARADISE.
I wish the Editor would put a little note in large letters right here,
requesting readers not to run off and read Mr. MORRIS'S poem, after
gazing on the above title. My very respectable reader, you're smart,
very smart indeed, but let me assure you that you haven't discovered
from the float which I have placed on the surface, which way my string
is drifting, so, if you get on a string don't complain.
As, at this season of the year, everybody who is anybody either goes
into the country or else shuts up his front windows and lives in the
back area, in order to create the impression that he is to be found in
the rural districts, PUNCHINELLO must of course follow the universal
example. His front windows, however, must never be shut, so he must fall
to packing his trunks at once. But where shall he go? List! oh, list! I
will give a list of spots present.
They say the seas-on has commenced at Long Branch. This place is peopled
by the foolish men of whom we have heard, who built their houses on the
sand. The chief amusement of visitors is thus: you put on some old
clothes, which have evidently just retired from the coal-heaving
business, stand in the water up to your ankles, and grasp manfully, with
both hands, a rope; then a watery creature, named Surf, climbs upon you
and gets down on the other side; you rush to a neighboring shanty, put
on your store clothes, and feel twice as warm as you would have felt if
you hadn't wrestled with Surf. The reports from Boston are that the
Pilgrim Fathers have ceased to enjoy their coffins and shrouds, since
Jubilee JIM has commenced to carry pleasure-seekers to the seaside on
Plymouth Rock.
Saratoga is still the place for SARA to patronize. The chief objection
to that place is that the water is so muddy that they call it Congress
Water. However, you soon become infatuated with it. I once saw a very
stout lady imbibe sixteen glasses of the water, and as I left the scene
of dissipation she was screaming for more. I concluded that she was a
sister-in-law to BOREAS. A young and tender Sixteenth Amendment, who was
a three-quarter orphan, (she had only a step-father,) has been known to
drink, unaided, thirty glasses of Saratoga water in twenty-four hours.
Can Mr. WESTON beat that? I forgot to say that she survived. The
difference between Long Branch and Saratoga is, that at the former you
take salt water externally, while at the latter you take salt and water
internally.
Newport is still appropriately situated on Rowed Island. None but the
select deserve Newport. However, they say Old Gin is the next best
thing. You can rent a cottage by the sea and see what you can. (I may
add that you can also rent a cottage by the year, though I believe the
view is not any finer on that account.) Beware of the tow! This is not a
warning against _blondes_, but against rolls.
The proper thing to do at Newport is thus: A scented youth, with a
perfumed damsel resting on his arm, wanders at eventide down to the sea
to hear the majestic waves roll upon the beach. Having selected a
suitable spot, the pair sit down and then make night hideous with "What
are the wild waves saying?"
Niagara is perched upon its Erie. To a man of a reflective mind this is
an unpleasant place. As he gazes on the rushing flood he thinks of the
waste of raw material. Water being thrown away and no tax being
collected. As a rule in this place cheat your carriage-driver, for if
you don't, he'll cheat you for your negligence.
Of course, as it is now June, no one will visit Cape May. The White
Mountains, having received a new coat of paint, are ready for summer
visitors. A few stock quotations, such as, "cloud-capped towers," "peak
of Teneriffe," &c., are very useful here. Also a large supply of breath.
Lake Mahopac may be packed, of course, but any one of a romantic turn of
mind, who loves to float with fair women idly upon a summer sea, (in a
boat, of course,) 'mid crocuses and lilies, while the air is filled with
the melodious sounds from a bass-drum and that sort of thing, and is
redolent with the perfume of a thousand flowers, will find solace here.
(I flatter myself that period is well turned.)
All over the land you may find choice little spots, farm-houses, over
which the woodbine and the honeysuckle clamber, while the surrounding
wheat fields--(I have lost my volume of WHITMAN, and forget what the
wheat fields do, poetically.) Perhaps it is my duty to here introduce
some remarks about farming, but, as the Self-made Man is struggling with
that subject, and as a certain innocent, who has been abroad, proposes
to handle it, I refrain.
I very nearly forgot Coney Island. This is the favorite resort of clams
and little jokers. Here you may daily fill your bread-basket with
bivalves, and then observe the mysteries of that mystic game, now you
see it, now you don't.
Of course I don't propose to state which of these places is the Earthly
Paradise. You pays your money and you takes your choice. What hurts my
feelings is, that any one should have supposed that I intended to write
a criticism of Mr. MORRIS'S poem. Do people imagine that my time is
entirely valueless, and that I can afford to waste it in criticising
poetry?
LOT.
* * * * *
PLUCKILY PATRIOTIC, STILL.
A few years since the City of Portland, upon a certain Fourth of July,
was nearly consumed by fire, the origin of which was the well-known
Cracker. But Portland is undaunted, and proposes this year to have a
finer Independence Day than ever. If Mr. PUNCHINELLO might advise, he
would recommend to the Portlanders, festivities of a decidedly aquatic
character--swimming-matches, going down in diving bells, the playing of
fountains, battles between little boys with squirt-guns, regattas, and
floating batteries. Mr. P. himself intends to celebrate the coming
Fourth upon water--with something in it, of course, to kill the insects.
The Maine Liquor Law being in full force in Portland, there will be no
difficulty in obtaining ardent spirits on the Fourth; and Mr.
PUNCHINELLO therefore the more confidently recommends a full aqueous
infusion of the Down East toddies.
* * * * *
SHOCKING
In Tipton, Indiana, has originated the secret order, with rituals, signs
and grips, called the "Earthquake." Were its object not altogether
earthly, we might regard it as merely a new set of underground Quakers.
The remarkable quiet of Friends' Burying-grounds is a guarantee against
all possible disturbance from Earth-Quakers, now that the Underground
Railroad has ceased to run.
* * * * *
A TRIUMPH OF HOUSEKEEPING.
All honor to the gentlewoman in Aroostook, Maine, who put out a fire the
other day, first by pouring water on it, then all her milk and cream,
and finally all the pickle in her meat-barrels. 'Twas only applying
wholesale an old woman's cure for burns; but the point of the matter was
that she pickled a fire, and preserved her life.
* * * * *
COMPLICATIONS AHEAD.
WHAT OUR CRIMINAL COURTS ARE COMING TO.
_Extract from Speech of Counsel for Defence_.
"Ladies of the Jury, I appeal to you; _should_ such whiskers be hung?
True, he killed his wife; but, as you know, she was a horrid jealous
thing, and led her poor husband _such_ a life. In _my_ opinion, killing
was too good for her. Ladies, be merciful; the prisoner hangs upon your
lips. Consider his eyes; consider his nose. Were I married to a woman
who called me an unprincipled wretch, wouldn't I kill her? Wouldn't I?
Ladies, be generous." And so forth. (Jury retire, but return immediately
with a verdict of _Not Guilty_; Judge, Jury, Counsel, and all shed tears
and kiss indiscriminately. They take up a collection for the prisoner,
who, next day, marries the Forewoman of the Jury, out of gratitude.)
[Illustration: PRISONER.]
[Illustration: PRISONER'S COUNSEL.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE NEW PARASOL.
A PROSPECTIVE GLIMPSE OF THE PLEASURES OF PROMENADING WHEN THE PARASOL
SHALL HAVE ATTAINED TO A SIZE JUST A TRIFLE LARGER THAN IT NOW IS.]
* * * * *
A LETTER OF ADVICE.
STANDISH FOUR CORNERS, June --, 18--
EDITOR OF PUNCHINELLO:
SIR: I wish to call your attention to certain defects in the journal
conducted by you, and to make a few suggestions, which, if followed,
will greatly improve it. I have talked with several eminent gentlemen on
the subject, among whom are the Rev. EZEKIEL DODGE, pastor of the
Sandemanian Church in our town, and also the Hon. PELEG SMITH, our
Representative in Congress. Both fully agree with me in the ideas which
I am about to lay before you.
In the first place, I object to the name PUNCHINELLO. It is too
frivolous, and suggests no food to the thoughtful mind. You should have
called your paper the _Banner of Progress_. This would have at once
enlisted the sympathy of all earnest men in your enterprise. Rev. Mr.
DODGE says that he wrote to you some weeks ago, proposing that you
change the name to that of the _Friend of Truth,_ while Mr. SMITH thinks
that the _Pig Iron Review_ would be the best possible name. He is,
however, a high tariff man, and his judgment may be influenced by that
fact. Either of these latter names would unquestionably be preferable to
PUNCHINELLO, but the name which I have suggested is the one which you
ought to adopt.