by simply mentioning the fact. I love the daughter of the Comic Villain,
and will marry her."
_Unprincipled Clerk_. "All is lost except WALTER CORAM, who ought to
be. I will go to Australia, at once." (_He goes_.)
_Comic Villain_, (_smashes his hat over his eyes and swears_).
_Virtuous Banker_. "Bless you, my children. I forgive you all the
injuries I have done you." (_Curtain_.)
* * * * *
_Every body in the audience_. "How do you like--Real fire; STODDAHT'S
faces are--Real fire; EFFIE GERMON is--Real fire; Come and take--Real fire;
JIM WALLACK is always at home in--Real fire; There is nothing in the play
but--Real fire."
_Misanthropic Critic, to gentlemanly Treasurer_. "Can I have two seats
for to-morrow night?"
_Treasurer_. "All sold, sir. Play draws better than _Ours_!"
_Misanthropic Critic_. Well! no matter. I only wanted to send my
mother-in-law, knowing that the house must take fire some night. However,
I'll read the play to her instead; if she survives that, she isn't mortal.
* * * * *
_Suggestion kindly made to Manager Moss_.--Have the fire scene take
place in the first act, and let all the _dramatis personae_ perish in
the flames. Thus shall the audience be spared the vulgar profanity of
STODDART'S "Comic Villain," the absurdity of WALLACK'S "Coram," the twaddle
of HIELD'S "Virtuous Banker," and the impossible imbecility of FISHER'S
"Unprincipled Clerk." Miss GERMON in trowsers, and Miss HENRIQUES in tears,
are very nice; but they do not quite redeem the wretchedness of the play.
The sooner Mr. Moss gives up his present flame and returns to his early
love--legitimate comedy--the better.
MATADOR.
* * * * *
HOW TO BEHAVE AT A THEATRE.
MR. PUNCHINELLO: I take it you are willing to receive useful information.
Of course you are--Why? Because, while you may be humorous, you intend also
to be sensible. I have in my day been to the theatre not a little. I have
seen many plays and many audiences. I know--or, at least, think I do--what
is good acting, and--what good manners. Suffer me, then, briefly to give
you a few hints as to how an audience should behave. I shall charge nothing
for the information, though I am frank to insinuate that it is worth a
deal--of the value, perhaps, of a great deal table.
First. Always take a lady with you to the play. It will please her,
whatever the bother to you. Besides, you will then be talked to. If you
make a mess of it in trying to unravel the plot, she will essentially aid
you in that direction. Nothing like a woman for a plot--especially if you
desire to plunge head foremost into one.
Second. If you have any loud conversation to indulge in, do it while the
play is going on. Possibly it may disturb your neighbors; but you do not
ask them to hear it. Hail Columbia! isn't this a free country? If you have
any private and confidential affairs to talk over, the theatre is the place
in which to do it. Possibly strangers may not comprehend all the bearings;
but that is not your fault. You do your best--who can do better?
Third. If you have an overcoat or any other garment, throw it across the
adjoining or front seat. Never mind any protests of frown or word. Should
not people be willing to accommodate? Of course they should. Prove it by
putting your dripping umbrella against the lady with the nice moire antique
silk. It may ruffle her temper; but that's her business, not yours; she
shouldn't be ridiculous because well dressed.
Fourth. Try and drop your opera-glass half a dozen times of an evening. If
it makes a great racket--as of course it will--and rolls a score of seats
off, hasten at once to obtain possession of the frisky instrument. Let
these little episodes be done at a crisis in the play where the finest
points are being evolved.
Fifth. Of course you carry a cane--a very ponderous cane. What for? To use
it, obviously. Contrive to do so when every body is silent. What's the use
in being demonstrative in a crowd? It don't pay. Besides, you dog, you know
your _forte_ is in being odd. Odd fellow-you. See it in your
brain--only half of one. Make a point to bring down your cane when there is
none, (point, not cane,) and shout out "Good!" or "Bravo!" when you have
reason to believe other people are going to be quiet.
Sixth. Never go in till after a play begins, and invariably leave in the
middle of an act, and in the most engaging scene.
These are but a few hints. However, I trust they are good as far as they
go. I may send you a half-dozen more. In the mean time I remain
Yours, truly,
O. FOGY.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
PROSPECTUS,
It shall be our highest ambition to realize our own wishes and to fulfil
our own predictions.
Our principles are moral to--the last degree.
Our politics defy competition; and it shall be our constant endeavor to
make them more so.
Our literary and scientific articles are our own, and consequently above
criticism.
OUR ILLUSTRATIONS
Will include drawings on wood by our most
PROMISING YOUNG ARTISTS.
Besides the usual agricultural, shipping, and market reports, we shall
publish
THE BEST BON MOTS OF THE PULPIT.
[Illustration]
* * * * *
Soon to appear in our columns,
A SERIAL, ENTITLED, "IMPRESSIONS OF MODERN TRAVEL."
Also,
ILLUSTRATIONS OF ART-ANATOMY;
Exclusively for beginners.
Together with
"RESEARCHES IN THE POCKETS OF OUR SUBSCRIBERS;"
With appropriate-(ing) views.
[Illustration: (_Faithful Preceptress_) "Now you know where the
gluteal muscle is?"]
In order to insure the widest possible influence, and consequently
usefulness, we are prepared to offer the most
LIBERAL TERMS.
Any one sending us full subscription price, and ten dollars additional,
will be entitled to
ONE OF OUR AUTOGRAPH ESSAYS.
Any one sending us the names of thirty new subscribers will receive by
mail, post-paid,
OUR PHOTOGRAPH;
Or, if preferred, Luther's wedding-ring and mug; or, our own wedding-ring,
with the mugs of our wife and children.
For _Club Rates_, refer to a Justice of the Peace.
_Answer to Correspondents_: Sketch not available.
* * * * *
V. H. to Punchinello.
The following letter, received by the French cable, explains itself. After
the perusal of it, America warms toward France:
HAUTEVILLE PARK, March 25,1870.
To THE EDITOR OF THE PUNCHINELLO:
MONSIEUR: The advance copy of your journal has stormed my heart. I owe it
one happy day.
Europe trembles. They light their torches sinister, those trans-alpine
vacillationists. The church, already less tranquil, dis-segregates itself.
We laugh.
To your journal there is a future, and there will be a past.
The age has its pulsations, and it never forgets.
I, too, remember.
There is also blood. Upon it already glitters the dust of glory.
Monsieur! I salute you and your _confreres_!
Accept my homage and my emotion.
VICTOR HUGO.
THE HABITS OF GREAT MEN.
"Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time."
Almost since the world began, people have been interested in and
entertained by gossip respecting the personal habits and individual
idiosyncrasies of popular writers and orators. It is a universal and
undying characteristic of human nature. No age has been exempt from it from
PLINY'S time down to BEECHER'S. It may suitably be called the scarlet-fever
of curiosity, and rash indeed must be the writer who refuses or neglects to
furnish any food for the scandal-monger's maw. While we deprecate in the
strongest terms the custom which persists in lifting the veil of
personality from the forehead of the great, respect for traditional usages
and obligation to the present, as well as veneration for the future, impels
us to reveal some things that are not generally known concerning the men
who are playing "leading business" on the world's great stage of to-day.
For instance, mankind is generally ignorant of the fact that Mr. SUMNER
bathes twice a day in a compound, two thirds of which is water and one
third milk, and that he dictates most of his speeches to a stenographer
while reclining in the bath-tub. WENDELL PHILLIPS is said to have written
the greater portion of his famous lecture on "The Lost Arts" on the backs
of old envelopes while waiting for a train in the Boston depot. Mr. GEORGE
W. CURTIS prepares his mind for writing by sleeping with his head encased
in a nightcap lined with leaves of lavender and rose. GRANT, it is said,
accomplishes most of his writing while under the influence of either opium
or chloroform, which will account for the soothing character of his state
papers. WALT WHITMAN writes most of his poetry in the dissecting-room of
the Medical College, where he has a desk fitted up in close proximity to
the operating table. Mr. DANA is said to write most of his editorials in
one of the parlors of the Manhattan Club, arrayed in black broadcloth from
the sole of his head to the crown of his foot, his hands encased in corn-
colored kids, a piece of chewing-gum in his mouth, and a bottle of Cherry
Pectoral by his side. The report that he eats fish every morning for his
breakfast is untrue: he rejects FISH. COLFAX writes all his speeches and
lectures with his feet in hot water, and his head wrapped in a moist towel.
His greatest vice, next to being Vice-President, is to insist upon having
his writing desk in front of a mirror. BUTLER accomplishes most of his
literary labor over a dish of soup, which he absorbs through the medium of
two of his favorite weapons, thus keeping both his hands employed, and
dictating to an amanuensis every time his mouth enjoys a vacation. BEECHER
has several methods by which he prepares his mind to write a sermon: By
riding up and down Broadway on the top of a stage; visiting the Academy of
Anatomy, or spending a few hours at the Bloomingdale Retreat. Neither
HOLMES nor WHITTIER are able to write a line of poetry until they are
brought in contact with the blood of freshly-slain animals; while, on the
other hand, LONGFELLOW'S only dissipation previous to poetic effort, is a
dish of baked beans. FORNEY vexes his gigantic intellect with iced water
and tobacco, (of the latter, "two papers, both daily.") Mr. TILTON composes
as he reposes in his night-dress, with his hair powdered and "a strawberry
mark upon his left arm." Mr. PARTON writes with his toes, his hands being
employed meanwhile knitting hoods for the destitute children of Alaska. Mr.
P. is a philanthropist. BAYARD TAYLOR writes only in his sleep or while in
a trance state--notwithstanding the fact that he lives in the State of
Pennsylvania. He will then dictate enough to require the services of three
or four stenographers, and in the morning is ready to attend to the
laborious and exacting duties attached to the position of stockholder in
the New-York _Tribune_. Mr. GREELEY conceives some of his most
brilliant editorial articles while churning the mercurial milk of the
Chappaqua farm into butter; or vexing the gracious grain with the flying
flail; or listening to the pensive murmurings of the plaintive pigs, and
the whispered cadences of the kindly cattle. RICHARD GRANT WHITE can't
write, it is said, until a towel moistened with Cologne water is applied to
his nostrils. Sometimes, however, he varies the monotony of this method by
riding several miles in a Third Avenue car, which produces a similar
effect. OAKEY HALL writes his best things while riding on horseback in
Central Park; his saddle being arranged with a writing-desk accompaniment;
and while OAKEY dashes off the sentences, his horse furnishes the Stops.
And just here we propose to stop furnishing further revelations concerning
the men whose deeds have made their names famous in current national and
local history.
* * * * *
[Illustration: GOSSIP IN A SCHOOL-HOUSE.
_Teacher_. "WELL, MINNIE, HAVE YOU ANY THING NEW AT HOME?"
_Interesting Scholar_. "OH! YES; WE'VE SMALL-POX, AND 'LAPSING FEVER,
AN MEASLES, AND WHOOPING-COUGH."
(_Tableau expressive of consternation_.)]
* * * * *
Taking the Cue.
There is a strong disposition among those of our diplomats who may be able
to talk a little "pigeon English," to obtain the Chinese position left
vacant by Mr. BURLINGAME. Most of these gentlemen can point the Moral of
the matter--the sixty thousand dollars a year--but whether any of them
would adorn the Tail, is quite another affair.
* * * * *
Questions for H.G.
Is not the _Tribune_ influenced by its negrophilism in denouncing
PIERRE BONAPARTE as an assassin? Had the victim been a BLANC instead of a
NOIR, would Mr. GREELEY have felt quite as much sympathy for him?
* * * * *
APROPOS OF THE "ONEIDA."--The windiest excuses of the day are those of
EYRE.
* * * * *
ARRAH WHAT DOES HE MANE AT ALL?
_Scene. The White House_.
ULYSSES ASLEEP. CUBA, ROONEY, AND FISH OUTSIDE ON THE LOBBY.
ROONEY _Loquitur_.
ULYSSES asthore! Good lord, don't he snore!
ULYSSES! ULYSSES, my boy!
There's company here, must see you, me dear,
In spite of this Spanish kill-joy.
This Minister FISH, who, had he his wish,
Wud put your ould ROONEY down-stairs.
Ay, faith if he dar, but betther by far
The sinner was sayin' his pray'rs.
Arrah what does he mane at all?
Now, ULICK S. GRANT, it's your own self I want,
To patiently listen, mavrone,
To what I've to say, in a fatherly way,
As if you wor child ov my own.
For shure is it time, in prose or in rhyme,
That somebody spoke up, who dar'.
ULYSSES awake! for Liberty's sake,
It's braykin our hearts you are.
Arrah what do you mane at all?
Och, wirrasthrue vo! it's bitther to know
The work that goes an in your name;
The murdher an' ruin, that others are doin'
Whilst you have to showlder the shame!
The grief that is ours, whin you, by the Pow'rs,
Seem traytin it all like a joke,
Like NAYRO, the thief, whin Room was in grief,
That fiddled away in the smoke!
Arrah what do you mane at all?
Och, wake up, ochone! Your innimies groan
The words that cut deep as a sword:
"He's greedy for goold, an by its slaves rooled
ULYSSES is false to his word.
See poor Cuba there, all tatthered and bare;
For months at his doore she has stud;
Not a word he replies to her sobs or her sighs,
Nor cares for her tears or her blood!
Arrah what does he mane at all?"
Musha, what's that you say? "Sind the ould fool away."
I'm disturbin' your rest wid my prate;
There's Minister FISH, to consult if I wish,
Who attinds to all matthers of state.
An' Cuba, she too, wid her hulabaloo,
May just as well bundle an' go;
You won't hear us now, wid our murtherin row,
You'll sleep it out whether or no!
Arrah what do we mane at all?
Ah! then, by my sowl, this thratemint is foul--
To put your best frinds to the blush;
An' wor you sinsare, in what you sed there
We'd tie up your whistle, my thrush!
But ULICK, machree, you can't desave me,
By sayin' the word you don't mane;
Or make her beleeve who stands at me sleeve,
In FISH an' his Castles in Spane.
Arrah what do you mane at all?
'Tis late in the day to talk in that way;
We've had ministhers dishes galore,
An' laste to my taste, at the blundherin faste,
The sauce ov that fish one, asthore.
No, ULICK, alan! the work that's in han'
Must be done by yourself, if at all.
Your cooks, by my troth, are burnin' the broth,
We smell it out here in the hall!
Arrah what do you mane at all?
No, ULICK, my boy, rise up to our joy,
An' make a clane sweep ov the crowd
Of tinkerin tools, an' blundherin fools,
That put your wits undher a cloud.
Rise up in your might, an' sthrike for the right!
Let England an' Spain hear us talk;
Give FISH his conjay, an' ROONEY will stay;
You'll then see who's cock ov the walk!
Arrah what do you mane at all?
Lave Britain alone; if she won't pay, mavrone,
She's puttin' her head into debt.
If I know the books, the way the thing looks,
She'll pay us, wid intherest, yet!
Ay, faith he did say, so wise in his day--
That noble ould Graycian, PHILANDER--
That sauce for the goose, if well kept for use,
Was just as good sauce for the gandher!
Arrah what did he mane at all?
But Spain, the ould wulf, for her tricks in the Gulf,
Her robbery, murdher, and worse,
_Her_ debt, she must see, is put down C.O.D.,
Wid Cuba relaysed from her curse.
Ay, FISH, you may sweat, an' SUMNER may threat,
An' burst his crack'd head in the row;
The People have spoke, that's fire an' not smoke!
An' this must be finished, an' now.
Arrah what do you mane at all?
Och! ULICK, awake, for Liberty's sake!
If not for your ROONEY, asthore;
The Godiss is here, but thrimbles wid fear
Ov the cowld-blooded Thing at the doore.
She sez that your name a by-word of shame
Will be to the nations onborn,
If you lie there anmov'd whilst the flag that you lov'd
Is flouted by Spaniards wid scorn.
Arrah what do you mane at all?
She sez, an' wid grief, her love for the chief,
That fought neath her bannir so long,
Will turn into hate, that will cling to the fate
Ov him who now sides wid the wrong.
She sez ov all woes that misery knows,
The grief ov the wronger's the worst
Who houlds back his ban' from a sufferin' lan'
An' laves her to tyrants accurs'd!
Arrah what do you mane at all?
Ah! _that_ stirs your blood; I thought that it wud.
Your rizin', me bouchal; it's done!
Go on wid your pray'rs! I'm kickin' down-stairs
This ould Spanish mack'rel, for fun.
Sweet Liberty here, and Cuba, my dear!
You'll stay for the bite an' the sup?
An' pardon my joy; since I've woke up the boy
I don't know what ind ov me's up!
Arrah what did he mane at all?
* * * * *
Travellers' Tales.
No one now believes that DR. LIVINGSTONE was burnt for sorcery. The
originator of the report could have made a more plausible story by
asserting that LIVINGSTONE refused to marry the daughter of an African
chief, and was consequently put to death. This would have been strictly in
accordance with the customs of the African aristocracy, and would also have
called forth general admiration for the man who preferred to burn rather
than to marry.
* * * * *
City Hamlets vs. Rural Ditto.
The leading cities of late have grown almost wild with excitement over
their HAMLETS; but in country localities, the hamlets are marked for
quietude, and a refreshing freedom from all that is stagey, except,
perhaps, stage-coaches.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE NEW-YORK ANTI-ORANGE-PEEL AND BANANA-SKIN ASSOCIATION,
AS THEY APPEAR IN THEIR GREAT HUMANITARIAN FEAT OF CLEARING THE
SIDE-WALKS.]
ORANGE-PEEL, ET. CETERA.
PUNCHINELLO, ever ready to hail with acclamation all that is for the
welfare of his fellow-men, is delighted to learn that an
"Anti-Orange-peel-and-Banana-skin Association" has been organized in the
city of New-York. The great number of severe accidents annually caused by
the idiotic custom of casting orange-peel and such other lubricious
integuments recklessly about the side-walks, has long furnished a topic for
public animadversion. Some of our leading citizens have taken the matter in
hand--or, to speak more correctly, on foot. The picture at the top of this
page gives a life-like representation of the Association referred to,
engaged in their benevolent work of removing from the side-walk with their
Boots all such fragments as might tend to the development of Slippers. The
Association has PUNCHINELLO'S best wishes. The Orange-Outangs who render
the side-walks dangerous have his worst.
* * * * *
HAMLET FROM A RURAL POINT.
The Great FECHTER as HAMLET has given us another proof of the brilliant
imagination of Mr. DICKENS. The play is so well known that a synopsis of it
is unnecessary. Yet a few words on the subject.
An economical mother in high society permits baked meats left from a
funeral festival to be served at a subsequent entertainment. Her son takes
umbrage at this; becomes morose and sullen; affects spiritualism and
private theatricals. This leads to serious family difficulties, culminating
in a domestic broil of unusual violence. The intellectual aim of the piece
is to show the extraordinary loquacity of a Danish Prince. The moral
inculcated by it is, "Spare the rod and spoil the child." It is replete
with quotations from the best authors, and contains many passages of marked
ability. Its literary merit is unquestionable, though it lacks the vivacity
of BOUCICAULT, and possesses no situation of such intense interest as the
scene in ROSINA MEADOWS where the heroine starts for Boston.
Mr. FECHTER presents HAMLET as a perfect "flaxy;" partly in deference to
the present popularity of the tint, and partly to show a marked contrast
with his OTHELLO, which character he always makes up as a male brunette.
His countenance is of great breadth and flexibility, ranging in its full
compass from the Placid Babe to the Outraged Congressman. His voice extends
from B flat _profundo_ to the _ut de poitrine piccolo_. The
emotional nature of HAMLET gives him opportunity to exhibit both of these
wonderful organs, and in _tutta forza_ passages, where he forces them
to their utmost power, the effect is exhilarating.
Mr. FECHTER is polished. He does not hesitate to correct the sometimes rude
and occasionally offensive remarks of HAMLET. Mr. FECHTER is refined. He
permits "no maggots in a dead dog." He substitutes "trichinae in
prospective pork." Fashionable patrons will appreciate this. They cherish
poodles, particularly post-mortem; they disdain swine. Mr. FECHTER is
polite. He excludes "the insolence of office," and "the cutpurse of the
empire and the rule." Collector BAILEY'S "fetch" sits in front. Mr. FECHTER
is fastidious. He omits the prefatory remarks to "assume a virtue," but
urges his mother to seek relief in Chicago. Considering her frivolous
conduct and the acrid colloquy consequent upon the comparison of
photographs, this is filial as well as affectionate.
Minor actors must, of course, be precluded from liberties with the text;
but presuming the alterations in question to be the result of a
consultation with Mr. DICKENS, we must rejoice that SHAKESPEARE is being
toned to good society. We commend the improved readings to the delicate
susceptibilities of the community.
Mr. FECHTER is a great genius. Distinguished talent is occasionally needed
to elevate the national taste. How we have outraged theatrical proprieties
by applauding WALLACK and BOOTH and DAVENPORT! FORREST, forget us. FECHTER,
forgive us.
* * * * *
Epitaph on a Defunct Boarding-House.
Peace to its Hashes!
* * * * *
Apropos of Small-salaried Husbands, who have Extravagant Wives.
"A little earning is a dangerous thing."
* * * * *
The Mormon's Motto
Bring 'em Young.
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR EFFICIENT NAVY DEPARTMENT.
_Admiral Porter_. The Queen has taken your Jack. You never
_could_ protect your Jack, Mr. Secretary.
(And they go on with their little game, never heeding the signal of
distress from the Oneida.)]
* * * * *
[blank page]
JUMBLES.
[Illustration]
Truth to tell, I _don't_ like neighbors. I _do_ like
civilization. The trouble is, neighbors are not always civilized.
PUNCHINELLO will be impressed with the fact before becoming a single
weekling. The first floor may be ever so nice, quiet, well-dressed, proper
folks--but those dreadful musical people in the attic! I hate musical
people; that is, when in the chrysalis state of learning. Practice makes
perfect, indeed; but practice also makes a great deal of noise. Noise is
another of my constitutional dislikes. If these matters must be divided,
give me the melody, and whoever else will, may take the noise. The truth
is, my dear PUNCHINELLO--and I may as well begin calling you what the
public will do one of these early days--there is nothing like notes. But
bank-notes are my weakness. My weakness in that direction is, I may
confidently state, very strong. The ladies are not the only greenbacks that
are accepted at sight; and acceptable to it. The bank on which I should
like to dwell--do you not guess it?--is the auriferous National. Those
musical neighbors-how they do play, though! But, to borrow from Mr. SLANG,
my queer neighbor opposite, they have about played out. Our gentlemanly
landlord--all landlords are so very gentlemanly, kind, good, and
considerate--Mr. GRABB, says it don't pay to keep such tenants.
"Mr. GRABB, pay--pray, why don't it pay?"
"Why, Mr. TODD, why, sir--because _they_ don't pay. D'ye see it, Mr.
TODD?"
Mr. TODD did see it.
"Music hath charms," and all that fine thing; but it can't evidently charm
a landlord, as at present constructed, into the faith that the notes of a
fiddle, a clarionet, a bugle, or a trombone are negotiable at the corner
grocery, or in Wall and State streets.
Going from bars to banks is a distance. But when I go anywhere, I like to
have it distant. The enjoyment is invariably greater. It saves my tailors,
hatters, restaurant keepers, and some others, the expense and trouble of
too much correspondence. Such isn't good for the brain--especially where it
is small, and easily overtaxed. "Distance lends enchantment to the view."
May I ask, is or was distance in the brokerage line that it lent
enchantment to the view? and what might possibly have been the conditions
on which the loan was made? The man who leaves his country for its (and
his) good has an especial fondness for the distant. The further off the
nearer he feels like home. Australia is an El Dorado--the antipodes a
celestial region. The intervening sea is one over which the most
penetrating of argus-eyed policemen or sheriffs, can not see. Australia--is
it not the land of gold? Who that has poached a pile does not gravitate
there, as the needle to the pole? Of course, I do not mean the
sewing-machine needle.
Some people think California greater. I don't. The greatness of a country
does not in all cases turn on its great rogues. New-York and Washington may
not assent; but, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, isn't it so? These may give it character,
but of the sort nobody is anxious to carry in his pocket as a wedge by
which to enter good, genteel society. "Character," says a leading mind, "is
every thing." Quite true; and if of the right sort, will take a man
speedily to the noose. Biddy can get the most stunning of characters at the
first corner for half a week's wages or--stealings. As a general thing, I
don't believe in characters, and for the reason that a large portion of my
acquaintances--I go into society a great deal--do not appear to have a bit
of the article. They say it is unnecessary; that "society" don't demand it;
and that to have it is like travelling with baggage which is mere rubbish.
My elastic but excellent friend JENKINS says the only sense that can be put
on society market to practical advantage is the uncommon scamp. Common
sense, so-called, is a drug. Old Mr. MATTEROFACT--who heeds him or his?
He's always pushed into the corner, or crowded to the back seat. Sensible
people, the world being judges, are a mistake. They were born and educated
that way. They don't definitely belong anywhere. Trespassers, interlopers,
impertinents-why should they be tolerated? Doesn't CONGRESSMAN SURFACE, of
the Forty-fourth District, rule the roast? Isn't Mrs. SIMPLE the pattern
Woman of the Swell-Front avenue? Who so charming as Widow MILKWATER? Common
sense might have done once, but that was when the world was younger and yet
more old-fashioned. It isn't available now. Rust never shines. Out upon it,
or let it get out. The best place, I would suggest, is out of town--and in
the woods. Strangers always make people feel uncomfortable.
Need I hint just now that it is Lent? Lent is suggestive. It suggests some
of my best books. Books are the best of friends. They are honest. They say
what they feel, and feel what they say. Like other blessings, too, they
often take to wings and fly; and it proves to be a fly that never returns.
A good book is a joy forever. The only sad thing about it is, that it keeps
lent all the time--not so much piously as profanely. Am I my brother's
keeper? No. But my brother is quite too often a keeper of mine--of mine own
choice authors. The best of friends are, of course--like the best of
steaks--rather rare. Like honest men they count only one in ten
thousand--an extremely small per cent in a commercial point of view.
Books--what should we do without them? What may we not do with them, if it
were not for the season of Lent?
I am something of a politician. My friends do not think I am. But they are
prejudiced--friends always are. I go, on principle, for the greatest good
of the greatest number. You know that humble, initial figure. I confess to
a love of loaves and fishes. A nice French loaf, and a delicious salmon in
the suburbs of green peas--who wouldn't be a politician about that time? I
have run for office--and at least half a dozen times. But, bless you, I
never caught it. Some big, burly, brainless cur of a fellow was always
ahead of me. Very queer in politics--the less the head the more one gets
ahead. A head is little or nothing; but face, cheek, assurance--such is
much; is every thing. What are politics but audacity? what professions of
public good but pretences for private pap? I like politics. Politics,
however, don't seem to like me. I call myself a patriot; but, strangely
enough, or otherwise, I have never been called to fill a patriot's
office--say for $5000 and upward per year. As for a patriot's grave--it's a
fine thing, no doubt, but I have never regarded it as my "mission" to fill
that. It affects one's activity and usefulness, and cuts off going to
FECHTER BOOTH, _Frou-Frou_, the _Twelve Temptations_, and opera.
I declined all such honors during the war, and on principle; the principal
thing being that I had no taste for lead and iron. Iron, I know, is good
for the blood; but taken in bullets, it lessens instead of increases the
circulation. These metals are quite too much for a delicate stomach. Shells
as a drink I like; shells as bombs I do _not_ like. They are
unhealthy. As a beverage I can surround it several times a day, and bless
the climate that grows it, and the cask that makes it. But of shells, as of
company, I prefer to make my choice. I, too, have my choice of office. I am
strong and can draw well. My _forte_ is drawing salary. That may not
be the highest form of art, but it is unquestionably artful. Moreover, it
is the one mankind, if it could, would cultivate with the most assiduity.
It is the plaster every man would put to his back.
As a politician I believe in myself first, my pocket second, my country
third. This platform is strong and satisfactory--at least to your friend,
TIMOTHY TODD.
* * * * *
ALBANY COCK-ROBINS.
Who killed the Charter?
I, says the _Herald_,
With wit _a la_ JERROLD.
As Assemblymen I ferruled,
And I killed the Charter.
Who killed the Charter?
I, says the _World_,
With my blunders hurled
And black flag unfurled,
And I killed the Charter.
Who killed the Charter?
I, says the _Sun_,
With my sensation fun,
Or my Sol-ferino gun,
And I killed the Charter.
Who killed the Charter?
I, says PUNCHINELLO,
With my wit so mellow,
I was the very fellow
Who killed off the Charter.
* * * * *
THE DWARF DEJECTED.
A pathetic recital for the benefit of you, or me, or any other snail who
may want a tortoise-shell.
In what year, or under what king Bezoman, lived he, no matter. Suffice it
to know he still survives.
Once he was happy!
Once, whene'er the eventide flooded the earth with effulgent glory, and
each little star began to wonder who I was, to the loftiest turret of his
quite commodious castle this dwarf would climb, and muse upon sciology and
the cosmic forces.
[Illustration]
"Oh! Life is joy--is peace to me!" would he cry, ever and anon.
And ever an anonymous owl would scream, "To whoo? To whoo?"
Upon one eventful eve he sat upon his turret.
Gazing around, he sprang upon his feet.
"What, ho!" he cried, as a glimmer of light shot across the surface of the
lake, "What, ho! A light in the ship-house! Tis the red light of danger! I
forbode."
Glancing around and beneath him, he perceived that the stucco was peeling
from his favorite turret. "Here is danger, indeed!" he said; and loudly
shouted for his ah! too dilatory servant to bring the ladder by which he
ascended and descended his lofty pinnacle. At last the servant came, and he
was a new and somewhat weighty waiter youth.
"Ah! big lad--!" then said the dwarf.
"I am glad, good sir," replied the boy.
"I would have the big ladder!" cried his master.
"I can't be gladder," said the boy.
The dwarf looked pityingly down upon the youth for several moments.
"Are you a natural-born fool?" said he.
The boy advanced to the edge of the roof, made a bow, placed one arm at
right angles before him, while the other hung by his side, and thus he sang
his song:
"I've never been to public school,
My vaccination did not take.
Perhaps I will grow up a fool;
But that my heart will never break.
I would not win in learning's race,
Nor e'er be rich and lose my looks;
I think that a small-pocked face
Is worse than e'en small pocket-books.
Then, didy fol, la, la, la, la!--"
"Stop!" cried the now enraged dwarf. "Begone! ere I, base boy! shall heave
the turret down."
"Certainly," replied the youth. "Big, ornary, base boy shall leave thee to
rot down. Oh! yes; of course, of course!" And away he went.
The Court fool came at last and let his master down.
"Oh! ho!" said he of the motley, as the dwarf came slowly down the ladder.
"Thou art now the first descendant of thy house."
The dwarf laughed, and fell the rest of the way. "No matter!" he cried,
rubbing his shins. "My house shall follow me. It shall come down too. I am
going to have it all built up anew."
"Bravo!" said the clown. "I thought you were too happy."
On the next day the door-bell of the castle rang, and soon a varlet came to
fast inform my lord the dwarf that in the parlor waited now a giant, and on
the card he gave his name was written, "S.T. Mate." The dwarf unto his
parlor quick repaired, and there, upon some dozen chairs the giant sat,
smiling benign.
"Hail to thee! good Sir Dwarf," spake the mammoth, and rising and folding
his arms across his breast, he sang, in royal bass, his song:
"I hear that thou, O neighbor brave!
Thy edifice anew would build.
I come to much vain labor save.
If thou to hear me now art willed."
"Proceed," said the dwarf, seating himself upon a piano-stool, and screwing
himself up until he was near the ceiling and on a level with the singer's
head. The giant proceeded:
"If thou shouldst build thy house thyself,
The cost thou surely ne'er would know;
But if I take the job, my friend.
You'll see where every cent will go."
"I like that," said the dwarf. "Pray sing some more."
"I'll tell you just what it will cost;
And all that you will have to do
Will be to travel for a time,
Whilst I your castle build anew."
"That's capital!" cried the delighted dwarf. "It would suit me exactly.
Warble me yet other wood notes wild."
The giant sang on:
"A castle such as you will want
Will cost you eighty pounds--or so.
I'll charge you nothing for my time;
You'll see where every cent will go."
[Illustration]
The dwarf revolved himself rapidly, and quickly reached the floor.
"The concert's over!" he cried, "and here's a check for eighty pounds.
Proceed! Tear down; construct! I leave tonight for foreign parts. Write me
when all is done. Adieu."
The interview terminated.
The clown, who had overheard this fair discourse, now left the castle; and
retiring to a secluded spot, where--a willow drooped sadly o'er the brook,
he laid him down and died.
The dwarf to foreign parts now hied, and when twelve months had passed, and
he had had no news of his grand castle, he returned home.
He found the castle finished--all but the roof and walls. The deep cellars,
with their marble copings just peeping 'neath the heavy mass of weeds that
clustered to their very edge, were dark and solemn. The sly fox slunk along
their passages, and grim serpents reared their heads from many a gloomy
corner.
The dwarf, he gazed in silence!
By heavy sighs his breast was heaven, and black thoughts made his soul like
Hades!
Anon he mounted in hot haste, and rode unto the giant's castle on the
distant hills. By sundown, the dwarf he saw on the horizon a great blue
mass, the sight of which did move his inmost being.
"It is his castle!" quoth he, and he gave his steed free rein.
The interview was terrible!
All the domestics fled and hid themselves in distant dells.
At last the dwarf, exhausted by vituperation, sank upon the flagstones of
the court-yard. Then folded the giant his arms and sang his song:
"Oh! hear me now, misguided dwarf,
Eight thousand pound more I must ask.
Materials, and labor too,
All rose since I began my task.
Among the things we can't divine.
Are values of such terms as 'so;'
But I've all items entered straight,
Where all the money goes you'll know."
The dwarf gave one quick savage glance at the pocket of the giant, S.T.
MATE, and then, without a word, he proudly crossed the drawbridge.
But he had not long left the castle at his back ere dejection crept upon
him and never left him more.
The dwarf he did his cellar reach, fainting, almost bereft of speech; and
as his men he staggered by, with panting breast and haggard eye,
"Minstrel!" he cried, "O laggard! I for deepest depths of Lethe long. Get
thy guitar and sing a song!"
The minstrel sang:
"O Estimate!
Thy name is great,
MEDUSA's head thou sure must own.
Do as we will,
Thy coming still
Turns all our hard-earned cash to stone."
The dwarf, now sunk in Lethe's mud, did snore; knowing the sign, the
minstrel then forbore.
[Illustration]
* * * * *
ODE TO THE MISSING COLLECTOR.
BY REGALIA REYNA.
Where are _you now_, MR. BAILEY?
We've been looking for you daily,
Sometimes sadly, sometimes gayly,
Ever since the week begun.
Loving you so dear as we do,
Doting on you, doubting for you,
Looking for you, longing for you,
Waiting for you, watching for you,
Fearing you have cut and run,
Ere your heavy task was done
In cigars, and snuff, and rum;
Spoiling for us lots of fun,
And racy items for _The Sun_,
In the seizure rows begun,
And the heavy raids to come.
Think of poor, forsaken KIRBY,
Think of honest-scented HARVEY!
Your desertion, J. F. BAILEY,
"Busts" our glorious Trinity;
Robs the law of subtlety,
Knocks our look for _moietie_,
Knocks that Jersey property!
So much whisky all set free:
Where is SHIELDS to get his fee?
Think of melancholy PUFFER,
What the aged CHILDS must suffer!
JOSHUA F., the noble buffer,
"Lost to sight, to memory dear,"
Think of energetic VAIL
Looking round to get his bail,
While you're riding on a rail,
Or on ocean gayly sail
For UNCLE BULL'S dominion!
How could you thus fly the track
With so many stores to "crack,"
And COLUMBUS at your back
To defy the whiskey pack
And popular opinion?
Whiskey "fellers" feeling badly,
Cigar-sellers smoking madly,
Bondsmen looking sorely, sadly,
If their signatures are clear,
If you will not cost them dear,
If in court they must appear
Mournfully, in doubt and fear.
Oh! you weak, unfeeling cuss,
To get them in this shocking muss;
How their pocket-books will rue it!
J.F.B., how _could_ you do it?
Are you putting for the West,
Did you take French leave for Brest,
Have you feathered well your nest,
Do you sweetly take your rest;
Say, whom _do_ you like the best--
COOK, or JENKS, or FULLERTON?
Would you, JOSH, believe it true,
At the moment, sir, when you
Waited for that verdict blue,
O'er the wires the message flew,
Paid or franked by BOUTWELL through:
"The gig is up; the cuss won't do.
Put the district Thirty-two
Under General PLEASANTON."
Oh! the vile ingratitude;
Of Statesmen in this latitude;
Worse than DELANO'S attitude.
Say, what is your longitude,
East or West from Washington?
* * * * *
"Fox"-y.
FECHTER'S wig in HAMLET.
* * * * *
"Echoes of the Clubs."
SOUND of the policemen's _batons_ on the sidewalk.
* * * * *
Over and Under.
INDIANA is said to be "going over" her divorce laws. She has certainly gone
long enough under them.
* * * * *
Our Bullet-in.
THE government has so many bad guns on hand that it deserves to be called,
"A snapper-up of unconsidered Rifles."
* * * * *
Every Little Helps.
THE British newspapers say that ARTHUR HELPS writes the PRINCE OF WALES'S
speeches. Now, if ARTHUR HELPS the Prince, who helps ARTHUR?
CONDENSED CONGRESS.
SENATE.
By particular request, the Georgia bill came up. So did Senator SCHURZ. He
approved of almost all propositions which tended to complicate questions,
because the more complication the more offices, the more offices the more
patronage, and the more patronage the more fees. He knew that it was an
alluring precedent which was offered them in the action of the legislature
of Georgia, retaining itself for double the term it was elected to serve.
But it was the duty of Congress to resist temptation. He used the word duty
advisedly. Gentlemen might sneer; but he could tell them that the public
would not stand the infliction of such a Senate as that which he saw before
him for a day longer than it was obliged to by law. By disregarding law, he
wished to know whether the laws would not be greater than the profits. He
admitted that this was a pun; but appealed to PUNCHINELLO upon the point of
the propriety of puns. Reform, he would say, was a "plant" of slow growth.
He had sown it; and his colleague, Mr. -----, had watered it; but it did
not seem to thrive in Missouri.
Mr. DRAKE, who has been studying elocution under a graduate of the Old
Bowery, and has acquired a most tragic croak, which, with a little rouge
and burnt cork, and haggard hair, gives him a truly awful aspect, remarked
that the soil of the South was clotted with blood by fiends in human shape,
(sensation in the diplomatic gallery.) The metaphor might be meaningless;
but it struck him it was strong. These fiends were doubly protected by
midnight and the mask. In his own State the Ku-Klux ranged together with
the fierce whang-doodle. His own life had been threatened. (Faint
applause.) He had received an express package marked in large letters,
"D.H." The President of the United States, an expert in express packages,
had told him this meant "Dead Head." Was this right? Hah! Bellud!! Gore was
henceforth his little game. He would die in his seat. (Great cheering,
which rendered the remainder of the senator's remarks inaudible.)
The case of the admission of General AMES as a senator from Mississippi
came up. Senator CONKLING said that he had no objection to AMES in
particular; but in Brigadier-General, he considered the principle of
letting in men who elected themselves to be bad. Notoriously, General AMES
did not live in Mississippi. He considered this rather creditable to
General AMES'S good sense than otherwise. But did it not operate as a
trivial disqualification against his coming here to represent Mississippi?
Besides, if generals were allowed to elect themselves, where would it end?
General AUGUR, he believed, commanded the Indian district. He would send
himself to the Senate from that region, and be howling about the Piegan
massacre and such outrages upon his constituents, with which the Senate had
been sickened already. In that case AUGUR, he grieved to say, would be a
Bore. Then there is CANBY, who commands in Virginia. CANBY would like to be
a senator, no doubt, like other people who never tried it; and he will be
if he CANBY. A distinguished friend of his in the other house, whom it
would be detrimental to the public service for him to name, if this
military representation were to be recognized, instead of sitting for a
district in Massachusetts, would represent Dutch Gap. They had already, in
his friend from Missouri, a representative of the German Flats; and he
submitted that a member from Dutch Gap would be two tonic for the body
politic.
Mr. HOWARD was in favor of the admission of AMES. He considered the
arguments of the last speaker paltry, and his puns beneath contempt. What
difference did it make whether AMES represented Mississippi or not?
Mississippi was disloyal, and didn't deserve to have any representative.
AMES was a good fellow, and a good officer. Besides, he had been through
West-Point and knew something. He understood he played a very fair game of
billiards, and he would be an ornament to the Senate. Let us let him in.
The Senate had already let in REVELS, who had been sent by AMES; and it was
absurd to keep out AMES, who was the master of the REVELS. He considered
that, in the language of a manly sport with which senators were familiar,
he "saw" Senator CONKLING'S puns, and went several better, though he did
not wish to be considered a better himself.
All this time, singular to say, Senator SUMNER remained silent.
HOUSE.
The House had a little amusement over polygamy in Utah. That institution
shocks Mr. WARD, of New-York, and naturally also Mr. BUTLER, of
Massachusetts. Mr. WARD was astonished to see any member standing up in
defence of polygamy in the nineteenth century. If some member should stand
up in any other century and defend it, it would not astonish him at all. It
was sheer inhumanity to refuse to come to the rescue of our suffering
brethren in Utah. How a man who had one wife could consent to see fellow-
creatures writhing under the infliction of two or three each, was what, Mr.
WARD remarked, got over him. Mr. BUTLER pointed out how much money the
Mormons had made.
Mr. Cox did not see why we should interfere by force to prevent a man's
marrying as many wives as he chose. Such a man was his own worst enemy; and
his crime carried its own punishment.
Mr. HOOPER, of Utah, said the bill was an outrage. By all the wives that he
held most sacred, he felt impelled to resent it. MOSES was a polygamist;
hence his meekness. If this sort of thing was continued, no man's wives
would be safe. His own partners would be torn from him, and turned out upon
the world. He scorned to select from among them. Take all or none.
* * * * *
THE MARRIAGE MARKET IN ROME.
The business of catching impecunious counts, of magnetizing bankrupt
marquises, and of plucking penniless princes, as practised by American
women, appears to absorb all the attention in Rome at present. The rage for
titles is said to be so great among some classes of Americans resident in
the Holy City, that the only song one hears at evening parties and
receptions is the one commencing,
"When I can read my title clear."
We should not be surprised any day to hear that a marriage market had been
opened on one of the plazas of Rome, the quotations of which would read
something after this fashion: Husbands dull and declining; American
beauties more active; foreign mammas less firm; American securities in
great demand; the market in princes somewhat stronger; holders of titles
much sought after; brains without money a drug in the market; "bogus"
counts at a discount; the genealogy market panicky and falling; the stock
of nobility rapidly depreciating; the pedigree exchange market flat and
declining, etc., etc. This traffic in titles, this barter in dowries, this
swapping of "blood" for dollars, is an offense too rank for words to embody
it. The trade in cadetships is mild in comparison with it, because in these
commercial transactions with counts, while one party may be the purchaser,
both parties are inevitably seen to be sold. The business may only be
excusable on the theory that "an even exchange is no robbery." But so long
as brains are not bartered for a title, or beauty sacrificed for a
pedigree, we should not complain. Of money, there is plenty in America;
and, while marquises are in the market, let Shoddy continue to pipe for its
own. A fig for Macbeth's philosophy that "blood will have blood." We modify
it in these degenerate days to "blood will have money:"
"Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare;
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair."
* * * * *
"The Lay of the Last Minstrel."
"SHOO FLY, don't bodder me."
* * * * *
"Benedict's Time."
THE honeymoon.
* * * * *
Homoeopathic Cure for Hydrophobia.
BARK.
* * * * *
Ode to my Washerwoman.
$2 50.
A.T. STEWART & CO.
ARE MAKING
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* * * * *
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* * * * *
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The Mastery of Languages;
OR
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Either of the above volumes sent by mail free to any part of the United
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* * * * *
RED AS A ROSE IS SHE.
_Third Edition._
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* * * * *
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* * * * *
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_Boss, (gloomily.)_ "AH! CAUSE 'NUFF. DE RIGHTS OB DE CULLID PUSSON IS
FORGOT, AND DE SIXTEENTH 'MENDMENT AND SUFFERIN' WOMAN RULES DE ROOST!"]
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TERMS TO CLUBS.
* * * * *
WE OFFER AS PREMIUMS FOR CLUBS
FIRST:
_DANA BICKFORD'S PATENT FAMILY SPINNER_,
The most complete and desirable machine ever yet introduced for spinning
purposes.
SECOND:
_BICKFORD'S CROCHET AND FANCY WORK MACHINES_.
These beautiful little machines are very fascinating, as well as useful;
and every lady should have one, as they can make every conceivable kind of
crochet or fancy work upon them.
THIRD:
_BICKFORD'S AUTOMATIC FAMILY KNITTER_.
This is the most perfect and complete machine in the world. It knits every
thing.
FOURTH:
_AMERICAN BUTTONHOLE, OVERSEAMING, AND SEWING-MACHINE_.
This great combination machine is the last and greatest improvement on all
former machines. No. 1, with finely finished Oiled Walnut Table and Cover,
complete, price, $75. No. 2, same machine without the buttonhole parts,
etc., price, $60.
WE WILL SEND THE
Family Spinner, price, $8, for 4 subscribers and $16.
No. 1 Crochet, price, 8, for 4 subscribers and 16.
No. 2 Crochet, price, 15, for 6 subscribers and 24.
No. 1 Automatic Knitter, 72 needles, price, 30, for 12 subscribers and 48.
No. 2 Automatic Knitter, 84 needles, price, 33, for 13 subscribers and 52.
No. 3 Automatic Knitter, 100 needles, price, 37, for 15 subscribers and 60.
No. 4 Automatic Knitter, 2 cylinders }
1 72 needles}price, 40, for 16 subscribers and 64.
1 100 needles}
No. 1 American Buttonhole and Overseaming Machine, price, $75, for 30
subscribers and L120.
No. 2 American Buttonhole and Overseaming Machine, without buttonhole
parts, etc. price, 60, for 25 subscribers and 100.
Descriptive Circulars
Of all these machines will be sent upon application to this office, and
full instructions for working them will be sent to purchasers.
Parties getting up Clubs preferring cash to premiums, may deduct
seventy-five cents upon each full subscription sent for four subscribers
and upward, and after the first remittance for four subscribers may send
single names as they obtain they them, deducting the commission.
Remittances should be made in Post-Office Orders, Bank Checks, or Drafts on
New-York City; or if these can not be obtained, then by Registered Letters,
which any post-master will furnish. Charges on money sent by express must
be prepaid, or the net amount only will be credited.
Directions for shipping machines must be full and explicit to prevent
error. In sending subscriptions give address, with Town, County, and State.
The postage on this paper will be twenty cents per year, payable quarterly
in advance, at the place where it was received. Subscribers in the British
Provinces will remit twenty cents in addition to subscription.
All communications, remittances, etc., to be addressed to
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY P. O. Box 2783. No. 83 Nassau Street,
NEW-YORK