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Entered, according
to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by the PUNCHINELLO
PUBLISHING COMPANY, in the Clerk's Office
of the District Court of the United States, for the
Southern District of New York.
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.
AN ADAPTATION.
BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.
CHAPTER XVII.
INSURANCE AND ASSURANCE.
Six months had come and gone and done it; the weather
was as inordinately hot as it had before been intolerably
cold; and the Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON stood waiting, in
the gorgeous Office of the Boreal Life Insurance Company,
New York, for the appearance of Mr. MELANCTHON
SCHENCK.
Having been directed by a superb young clerk, who
parted his hair in the middle, to "just stand out of
the passage-way and amuse yourself with one of our
Schedules for awhile," until the great life-Agent
should come in, the Gospeler read a few schedulistic
pages, proving, that if a person had his life Insured at
the age of Thirty, and paid his premiums regularly until
he was Eighty-five, the cost to him and profit to the
Company would, probably, be much more than the amount he
had insured for. It must, then, be evident to him, that,
upon his death, at Ninety, the Company would have
received, in all, sufficient funds from him to pay the
full amount of his Policy to the lady whom he had always
introduced as his wife, and still retain enough to
declare a handsome Dividend for itself. Such was the
sound business-principle upon which the Boreal was
conducted; and the merest child must perceive, that only
the extremely unlikely coincidence of at least four
insurers all dying before Eighty-five could endanger the
solvency of the beneficent institution.—Having
mastered this convincing argument, and become greatly
confused by its plausibility, Mr. SIMPSON next gave some
attention to what was going on around him in the Office,
and allowed his overwrought mind to relax cheerfully in
contemplation thereof. One of human nature's
peculiarities was quite amusingly exemplified in the
different treatment accorded to callers who were
"safe risks," and to those who were not. Thus,
the whisper of "Here comes old Tubercles,
again!" was prevalent amongst the clerks upon the
entrance of a very thin, narrow-chested old gentleman,
whom they informed, with considerable humor, that he was
only wasting hours which should be spent with a spiritual
adviser, in his useless attempts to take out a Policy in
that office. The Boreal couldn't insure men
who ought to be upon their dying beds instead of coughing
around Insurance offices. Ha, ha, ha! Another gentleman,
florid of countenance and absolutely without neck, was
quickly checked in the act of giving his name at one of
the desks; one clerk desiring another clerk to look,
under the head of "A.," in his book, for
"Apoplexy," and let this man see that we
can't take such a risk as he is on any terms. A third
caller, who really looked quite healthy except around the
eyes, was also assured that he need not call
again—"Because, you see," explained the
clerkly wag, "it's no go for you to try to play
your BRIGHT'S Disease on us!" When,
however, the applicant was a robustious, long-necked,
fresh individual, he was almost lifted from his feet in
the rush of obliging young Boreals to show him into the
room of the Medical Examiner; and when, now and then, an
agent, or an insurance-broker, came dragging in, by the
collar, some Safe Risk, just captured, there was an
actual contest to see who should be most polite to the
panting but healthy stranger, and obtain his private
biography for the consideration of the Company.
The Reverend OCTAVIUS studied these sprightly little
scenes with unspeakable interest until the arrival of Mr.
SCHENCK, and then followed that popular benefactor into
his private office with the air of a man who had gained a
heightened admiration for his species.
"So you have come to your senses at last!"
said Mr. SCHENCK, hastily drawing his visitor toward a
window in the side-room to which they had retired.
"Let me look at your tongue, sir."
"What do you mean?" asked the Gospeler,
endeavoring to draw back.
"I mean what I say.
Let—me—see—your—tongue.—Or,
stop!" said Mr. SCHENCK, seized with a new thought,
"I may as well examine your general organization
first." And, flying at the astounded Ritualistic
clergyman, he had sounded his lungs, caused a sharp pain
in his liver, and felt his pulse, before the latter could
phrase an intelligent protest.
"You may die at any moment, and probably
will," concluded Mr. SCHENCK, thoughtfully;
"but still, on the score of friendship, we'll
give you a Policy for a reasonable amount, and take the
chance of being able to compromise with your mother on a
certain per centage after the funeral."
"I don't want any of your plagued
policies!" exclaimed the irritated Gospeler, pushing
away the hand striving to feel his pulse again.
"As you have expressed a desire to resign the
guardianship of your wards, Mr. and Miss PENDRAGON, and I
have agreed to accept it, my purpose in calling here is
to obtain such statement of your account with those young
people as you may be disposed to render."
"Ah!" returned the other, in sullen
disappointment. "That is all, eh? Allow me to inform
you, then, that I have cancelled the Boreal policies
which have been granted to the Murderer and his sister;
and allow me also to remark, that a dying clergyman like
yourself might employ his last moments better than
encouraging a Southern destroyer of human life."
"I do not, cannot believe that MONTGOMERY
PENDRAGON is guilty," said Mr. SIMPSON, firmly.
"Having his full confidence, and thoroughly knowing
his nature, I am sure of his innocence, let appearances
be what they may. Consequently, it is my determination to
befriend him."
"And you will not have your life
insured?"
"I will not, sir. Please stop bothering
me."
"And you call yourself a clergyman!" cried
Mr. SCHENCK, with intense scorn. "You pretend to be
a Ritualistic spiritual guide; you champion people who
slay the innocent and steal devout men's umbrellas;
and yet you do not scruple to leave your own high-church
Mother entirely without provision at your death.—In
such a case," continued the speaker, rising, while
his manner grew ferocious with
determination—"in such a case, all other
arguments having failed, my duty is plain. Yon shall not
leave this room, sir, until you have promised to take out
a Boreal Policy."
He started, as he spoke, for the door of the
private-office, intending to lock it and remove the key;
but the unhappy Ritualist, fathoming his design, was
there before him, and tore open the door for his own
speedy egress.
"Mr. SCHENCK," observed the Gospeler,
turning and pausing in the doorway, "you allow your
business-energy to violate all the most delicate
amenities of private life, and will yet drive some
maddened mortal to such resentful use of pistol, knife,
or poker, as your mourning family shall sincerely
deplore. The articles on Free Trade and Protection in the
daily papers have hitherto been regarded as the climax of
all that utterly wearies the long-suffering human soul;
but I tell you, as a candid friend, that they are but
little more depressing and jading to the vital powers
than your unceasing mention of life-insurance."
"These are strong words, sir," answered Mr.
SCHENCK, incredulously. "The editorial articles to
which you refer are considered the very drought of
journalism; those by Mr. GREELEY, especially, being so
dry that they are positively dangerous reading without a
tumbler of water."
"Yon brought the comparison upon yourself, Mr.
SCHENCK. Good day."
Thus speaking, the Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON hurried
nervously from the Boreal temple; not fairly satisfied
that he had escaped a Policy until he found himself
safely emerged on Broadway and turning a corner toward
Nassau Street. Beaching the latter bye-way, after a brief
interval of sharp walking, he entered a building nearly
opposite that in which was the office of Mr. DIBBLE; and,
having ascended numerous flights of twilight stairs to
the lofty floor immediately over the saddened rooms
occupied by a great American Comic Paper, came into a
spidery garret where lurked MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON,
"Hard at it?" he asked, approaching a
ricketty table at which sat the persecuted Southerner,
reading a volume of HOYLE'S Games.
"My only friend!" ejaculated the lonely
reader, hurriedly covering the book with an arm. "I
am, as you see, studying law here, all alone with these
silent friends."
He waved his thin hand toward a rude shelf on which
were several well-worn City Directories of remote dates,
volumes of Patent Office Reports for the years '57
and '59, a copy of Mr. GREELEY'S Essays on
Political Economy, an edition of the Corporation Manual,
the Coast Survey for 1850, and other inflaming
statistical works, which had been sent to him in his
exile by thoughtful friends who had no place to keep
them.
"Cheer up, brother!" exhorted the good
Gospeler, "I'll send you some nice theological
volumes to add to your library, which will then be
complete. Be not despondent. All will come right
yet."
"I reckon it will, in time," returned the
youth, moodily. "I suppose you know that my sister
is determined to come here and stay with me?"
"Yes, MONTGOMERY, I have heard of her noble
resolution. May her conversation prove sustaining to
you."
"There will be enough of it, I reckon, to sustain
half a dozen people," was the despondent answer.
"This is a gloomy place for her, Mr. SIMPSON,
situated, as it is, immediately over the offices of a
Comic Paper."
"And do you think she would care for cheerful
accessories while you are in sorrow?" asked the
Gospeler, reproachfully.
"But it is so mournful—that floor
below," persisted the brother, doubtfully. "If
there were only something the least bit more lively down
there—say an Undertaker's."
"A Sister's Love can lessen the most crushing
gloom, MONTGOMERY."
A silent pressure of the hand rewarded this
encouraging reminder of sanguine friendship; and, after
the depressed law-student had promised the Reverend
OCTAVIUS to walk with him as far as the ferry in a few
moments, the said Reverend departed for a hasty call upon
the old lawyer across the street.
Benignant Mr. DIBBLE sat near a front window of his
office, and received the visitor with legal serenity.
"And how does our young friend enjoy himself, Mr.
SIMPSON, in the retreat which I had the honor of
commending to you for him?"
The visitor replied, that his young friend's
retreat, by its very loftiness, was calculated to inspire
any occupant with a room-attic affection.
"And how, and when, and where did you leave Mr.
BUMSTEAD?" inquired Mr. DIBBLE.
"As well as could be expected; this morning, at
Bumsteadville," said the Gospeler, with answer as
terse and comprehensive as the question.
"—Because," added the lawyer, quickly,
"there he is, now, coming out of a refreshment
saloon immediately under the building in which our young
friend takes refuge."
"So he is!" exclaimed the surprised Mr.
SIMPSON, staring through the window.
There, indeed, as indicated, was the Ritualistic
organist; apparently eating cloves from the palm of his
right hand as he emerged from the place of refreshment,
and wearing a linen coat so long and a straw hat of such
vast brim that his sex was not obvious at first glance.
While the two beholders gazed, in unspeakable
fascination, Mr. BUMSTEAD suddenly made a wild dart at a
passing elderly man with a dark sun-umbrella,
ecstatically tore the latter from his grasp, and
passionately tapped him on the head with it. Then, before
the astounded elderly man could recover from his
amazement, or regain the gold spectacles which had been
knocked from his nose, the umbrella, after an instant of
keen examination, was restored to him with a humble,
almost abjectly apologetic, air, and Mr. BUMSTEAD hurried
back, evidently crushed, into the refreshment saloon.
"His brain must be turned by the loss of his
relative," murmured the Gospeler, pitifully.
"His umbrellative, you mean," said Mr.
DIBBLE.
When these two gentlemen had parted, and the Reverend
OCTAVIUS SIMPSON had been escorted to the ferry, as
promised, by MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON, the latter, after a
long, insane walk about the city, with the thermometer at
98 degrees, returned to his attic in time to surprise a
stranger climbing in through one of the back windows.
"Who are you?" exclaimed the Southern youth,
much struck by the funereal aspect, sexton-like dress,
and inordinately long countenance of the pallid,
light-haired intruder.
"Pardon! pardon!" answered he at the window,
with much solemnity. "I am a proprietor of the Comic
Paper down below, and am eluding the man who comes every
day to tell me how such a paper should be
conducted. He is now talking to the young man writing the
mail-wrappers, who, being of iron constitution and
unmarried, can bear more than I. There was just time for
me to glide out of the window at sound of that fearful
voice, and I climbed the iron shutter and found myself at
your casement.—Hark! Do you hear the buzz down
there? He's now telling the young man writing the
mail-wrappers what kind of Cartoons should be got-up for
this country.—Hark, again! and the young man
writing the mail-wrappers have clinched and are rolling
about the floor.—Hark, once more! The young man
writing the mail-wrappers has put him out."
"Won't you come in?" asked MONTGOMERY,
sincerely sorry for the agitated being.
"Alas, no!" responded the fugitive, in the
tone of a cathedral bell.
"I must go back to my lower deep once more. My
name is JEREMY BENTHAM; I am very unhappy in my mind;
and, with your permission, will often escape this way
from him who is the bane of my existence."
Being assured of welcome on all occasions, he of the
long countenance went clanging down the iron shutter
again; and the lonely law-student, burying his face in
his hands, prayed Providence to forgive him for having
esteemed his own lot so hopelessly gloomy when there were
Comic Paper men on the very next floor.
That night, before going home to Gowanus, the old
lawyer across the way glanced up toward MONTGOMERY'S
retreat, and shook his head as though he couldn't
make something out. Whether he had a difficult idea in
his brain, or only a fly on his nose, was for the
observer to discover for himself.
(To be Continued.)
UNIVERSOCKDOLOGY.
Mr. PUNCHINELLO: It afflicts me, one of your most
assiduous readers, to notice that you cast not even so
much as a lack-lustre glance at the brilliant gems that
STEPHEN PEARL ANDREWS scatters periodically through the
columns of the Evening Mail and WOODHULL &
CLAFLIN'S Weekly. Are the times out of joint;
or is it your Italian nose? Do you fear to quote the
sublimated utterances of the perspicacious, although
pleonastic philosopher? Does he lead you in thought, or
the expression thereof? Then, wherefore? And if not,
wherever may the just reason be found for your
indifference?
The science of Universology, as so delightfully
unfolded by Mr. ANDREWS, is one that must ere long
overtop and engulf all others, seeing that it is, of
itself, the science which embodies and contains all. It
teaches that the universe exists in time and
space—a fact never discovered till now—or
that, rather, it exists in space and time, as the two
negative containers of its statism or existence,
and of its motism or eventuation, (its chain of
events.) It shows that statism, or
world-existence-at-rest, in space, is analogous with the
cardinal series of numeration; and motism or
world-existence-in-motion, in time, analogous with the
ordinal series of numbers; and that, finally, statism and
cardinism, (as of the four cardinal points in the
orientation of space,) are analogous with spiritualities
and the spirit world; and that motism and ordinism
(succession by steps) are analogous with temporalities,
(transitory things) and so with the mundane or transitory
sphere.
Now this is the whole subject in a nutshell—a
subject it behooves you and all other deep thinkers to
grapple withal. Through your efforts to spread the
glorious truths thus ingeniously set forth, how much good
might be done! Think of the unravelling of the
complications surrounding the Germano-Gallic war; the
light that might be thrown upon the sources of HORACE
GREELEY'S agricultural information; the settlement of
the Coolie question. Then, see what effect a clear and
candid discussion of the topic would have on the public
morality, security, and peace! How often it appears that,
in spite of the normal equanimity observable in
circumstantial evidence, hereditary disciplinarisms are
totally devoid of potential abstemiousness. This may be
owing to the fact that at ebb and neap tides the
obliquity of vision (duism) remarked by most invalid
veterans in their occasional adversaria, is
unconscious of their parental dignity, and by no means to
be confounded with the referees in astronomical or
pharmaceutical cases, or with ordinary omphalopsychites.
Whatever be or not be the result of these investigations
and calculations, it is consolatory to the student of
proportional hemispheres to remark that, whichever way
the sophist may turn, he must invariably rely on
the softer impeachments of a hireling crowd, with
"Water, water,
everywhere,
And not a drop to
drink,"
and give up all personal interest in the homogeneous
relations arising from too precipitate a ratiocination of
events, urging, at the same time, the positive
proportions exercised in the administration of a not over
particular dormitory, and the replication of
chameleonizing—constantly chameleonizing,
odoriferosities.
Yours, PATHIST.
About Face!
Recent London advices briefly state that EDMUND ABOUT,
the missing correspondent of the Soir, has turned
up somewhere. Our Cockney informant imagines that M.
ABOUT, like his distinguished ancestor, (ABOU, B.A.,)
found his "sweet dream of peace" too rudely
disturbed by the howlings of the Prussian dogs of war,
and decided to 'ead About for Paris, simply in order
to avoid being 'eaded off by the enemy.
"WHEN YOU GO TO LONG BRANCH, DO NOT TAKE A
NEWFOUNDLAND DOG WITH YOU. I BROUGHT ONE DOWN WITH ME
HERE, AND WHENEVER I GO OUT TO TAKE A LITTLE DIP, THE
FAITHFUL CREATURE WILL INSIST ON DRAGGING ME
ASHORE."—Letter from a Friend.
SUMMER AT SANDY POINT.
Sandy Point, August 18, 1870.
PRELIMINARY FLOURISHES.
DEAR PUNCHINELLO:[1] Nature demands a change
of air. Man needs rest. Invigoration is necessary to
health. The throbbing brain must shut down on its
throbbing.
Hence second-class hotels, with first-class prices;
hence hard beds, no gas, and many flies. I
say—"Hence—flies," but as a general
thing I notice they will not hence.
WHERE TO GO.
Those who are fond of flees may flee to the mountains.
I know when I've got enough, and I prefer to surf it
on the sea shore. Take the 3-1/2 A.M. train, and come
to
SANDY POINT.
Everything here is sand as far as the eye can reach,
or a horse and wagon, with a profane driver, can travel.
The ocean laves the beach. The sea also is here. The tide
comes in twice a day. This alone gives Sandy Point a
great advantage over all other points on the coast.
I rode up in the regular conveyance, and soon after my
arrival found myself standing on the spacious and elegant
piazza of
THE CHARNEL HOUSE,
a palatial structure erected by the late Mr. CHARNEL,
who is said to have lavished an immense fortune upon it.
Strictly speaking, he didn't lavish quite so much
paint on the front as an advanced civilization had a
right to expect; but within, everything, (including the
clerk,) appears to have been furnished with an eye to
LUXURIOUS COMFORT,
Mr. SOAPINGTON, the genial landlord, Mr. RICHARD
SOAPINGTON, Jr., the gentlemanly clerk, Mrs. SOAPINGTON,
the accomplished hostess, and the lovely Miss CLARA
SOAPINGTON, all greeted me with that hearty welcome, so
dear to the traveller. SOAPINGTON said he was glad to see
me, and, seeing that it was me, he would be willing to
infringe on his inflexible rule, and would allow me to
pay
CASH IN ADVANCE.
Madame S. was sorry she couldn't set me up a cot
in the wash-room, but would be compelled to let me have a
double front-room over the bar. I told her if the
apartment had a practicable trap door I thought I could
get along.
RICHARD S., Jr., was sure he had met me before; and,
as a friend, he would say the establishment was not
responsible for valuables unless deposited in the safe.
He would take my watch and jewelry to wear while I was
there, inasmuch as
HE WAS THE SAFE HIMSELF.
The charming Miss S. didn't say anything, but she
smiled, and looked such unutterable things from behind
the blinds, that I expect to find it all in the bill.
Everybody that can get a railroad pass should come to
Sandy Point
WHAT TO DO.
Sit in the reading-room and look over the torn files
of two daily papers a week and a half old; or study a
hotel advertiser.
THE SURF BATHING
is magnificent. The prevalence of an unmitigated
undertow renders it quite exhilarating for old ladies and
invalids. Any one who is drowned will have every
attention paid to his remains,—by the sharks.
BOATING.
Everybody boats. The ROWE Brothers are here, and sing
on the water by moonlight. You can blister your bands at
an oar, or bale out the boat, just as your taste
inclines. As the life-preserver is a little out of
repair, I stay on shore.
FISHING.
Everybody fishes. There are all varieties, from
speckled trout and mackerel, up to conger eels, horse
mackerel, and porpoises. Parties frequently come back
with all the fishing they want. If absent a week on a
trip, they can make arrangements to have their board run
on just the same.
DRIVING.
Everybody drives. The roads are of unsurpassing
loveliness. They drive every day. If the waiters would
drive a few flies out of the dining-room, we wouldn't
sit down quite so many at table.
WHO ARE HERE.
Sandy Point, with all its native attractions, would be
nothing were it not for the beauty and fashion that
throng its halls. There are men here who can draw their
note for any amount. Here is an ex-member of Congress;
there a double X brewer, both immensely wealthy. Diamonds
abound. There is a hop in the parlor every evening and
preaching on Sundays.
I should not forget a paralytic washwoman in my
section of the house, who has a prevailing idea, when she
brings home my clothes, that eleven pieces make a
dozen.
Reader, if you seek
THE FLUSH OF HEALTH,
come down here! I wasn't very flush when I got
here, but I don't intend to go away till I've put
myself into thorough repair.
Yours, SARSFIELD YOUNG.
[1]
SOAPINGTON, of the hotel here, and I, have been
skirmishing over a board bill for a couple of weeks,
and he has finally outflanked me to the amount of about
$40. I think if you will insert this correspondence it
will be all right. S. will succumb.
A War Conundrum.
When are soldiers like writers for the press? When
they charge by the column.
A well-tilled Soil.
The article on DICKENS, in the August number of the
Atlantic Monthly, is certainly suggestive of fresh
Fields, if not of pastures new.
THE WATERING PLACES.
Punchinello's Vacations.
Sometimes Mr. PUNCHINELLO is very busy. Not only has
he upon his shoulders the ordinary labors of conductor of
a great journal, but he has much to do for other people.
His editors, his printers, his binders, his artists, his
engravers, his corps of clerks, his office and errand
boys, and all connected with his extensive establishment,
come to him from time to time for advice in regard to the
investment of their surplus earnings, and between
assisting in the purchase of a farm for this one, a house
for the other, and all sorts of stocks and bonds for the
rest, he is often terribly pressed for time. 
No one who is not looked up to by a crowd of grateful
dependents, all fattening in the shadow of his
prosperity, as it were, can understand Mr. P's.
feelings of responsibility at such times.
Such an unusual demand upon his time occurred last
week, and Mr. P. found that he would not be able to spend
a few days as usual at some fashionable watering place.
But be must have some recreation, so he determined to
have a day's fishing among the celebrated Thousand
Islands of the St. Lawrence. He put some luncheon in a
basket, and set off quite early in the morning. Finding
that some twenty hours were consumed in the transit, Mr.
P. thought that, considering his hurry, he had better,
perhaps, have gone to Newark for a day's fishing off
the piers. But he was at the St. Lawrence now, and it
would not do to complain. He hired a boat, lines, bait
and two navigators, and set out bravely. 
He sailed among a crowd of islands where either the
bowsprit or the boom was continually getting caught in
the shrubbery and rocks, until he came to island No. 18.
Here was a picnic party.
For reasons which the accompanying view may render
obvious, Mr. P. and his men declined the invitation of
the picnickers to stop and join them. The boat continued
on until it reached the channel between islands No. 87
and No. 88, and there Mr. P. got out his lines and
commenced to fish, trolling his bait behind as the boat
slowly sailed, under the hot sun, among those lovely
isles, where, to be sure, burning's half o' the
sport, but where "burning SAPPHO" would have
lost herself utterly, and probably have tumbled into some
of the watery intricacies and have put herself out.
Mr. P. did not have much luck at first. He caught one
muskallonge, after a period of patient waiting which he
feels he also must call long, and once, when he thought
he was hauling in a fine bass, he turned very red when
the boatmen laughed at seeing him "cotch an
eel." But after a while he got a royal bite. He
hauled in manfully, and although, owing to the
intricacies of the channel, he could not see what he had
caught, he knew it was a fine fellow from its weight. At
last, after tremendous tugging, he got it in over the
stem. 
It was one of the thousand islands!
What could be done now?
The steersman, who had slipped under a seat when he
saw the great mass above him, and the man who managed the
sails, were both Canadians, and after a great deal of
excited talk, they agreed if Mr. P. would make it worth
their while, they would endeavor to put the island back
in its place and make no remarks in public which would
tend to produce a misunderstanding between the
governments of Great Britain and the United States, on
the ground of undue acquisition of territory. By the
payment of a sum, which it will require a club of thirty
subscribers to make good to him, Mr. P. concluded the
arrangement, and they sailed back to replace the island.
But what was the horror of the party, when they perceived
on the unfortunate bit of British territory, a plate,
which had stuck fast by reason of a covering of the juice
of plum-pie, and a fork which was rammed firmly into the
earth!
It needed but few collateral evidences to convince Mr.
P. and his men that this was the island where they had
seen the picnic.
And where were the picnickers?
If any of Mr. P's. subscribers in Prince EDWARD
Island, Costa Rica, the Gallipagoes, or other outstanding
places, receive their paper rather late this week, they
are informed that, in consequence of his having spent
three entire days exploring the labyrinth of these
islands in order to find the bodies of the unfortunate
party of pleasure, (which bodies he did not find,) Mr. P.
was very much delayed in his office business. His near
patrons received their papers in due time, but those at a
distance will excuse him, he feels sure, when they
consider what his feelings must have been, while
grappling for an entire picnic.
The island was dumped down anywhere, without reference
to its former place. When the Alabama claims are settled,
Mr. P. will go back and adjust it properly.
Mr. P. gained nothing by this trip but the knowledge
that there are but 980 of these islands, which an
unscrupulous monarchy imposes upon a credulous people as
a full thousand, and the gloom which would naturally
pervade a man, after an occurrence of the kind just
narrated.
On his way home, he stopped for supper at Albany, and
there he met CYRUS W. FIELD and Commodore VANDERBILT. One
of these gentlemen was looking very happy and the other
very doleful.
(The tall gentleman in the picture is Mr.
FIELD—not that he is really so very tall—but
he is elevated. The short one is the Commodore—so
drawn, not because he is short, but because he is
depressed.)
After the compliments of the season, (warm ones,) Mr.
P. asked his friends how the war in Europe affected
them.
"Gloriously!" cried Mr. FIELD. "Nothing
could be better. The messages fly over our cables
like—like—like lightning. Why, sir, I wish
they would keep up the war for ten years."
"And you, sir?" said Mr. P. to the
Commodore.
"Oh, I hate it!" said VANDERBILT. "They
send neither men nor munitions by our road. It is an
absolute dead loss of hundreds of thousands of dollars to
me that my railroad is on this side of the ocean. I shall
never cease to deplore it."
"But sir," said Mr. P. "the war may
cause a great exportation of grain from the West, and
then your road will profit."
"Don't believe it," said the Commodore.
"The war will stop exportation."
"It goes against the grain with him, any way you
fix it," said Mr. FIELD, with a festive air.
"He can't carry any messages."
"On a cabalistic cable," remarked Mr. P.
CYRUS smiled.
"No, air," said the Commodore, reverting to
his grievances. "Never has such a loss happened to
me, since I went into New York Centrals."
"Well, I tell you, VANDY," said Mr. FIELD,
"if you and other grasping creatures had kept away
from New York's entrails it would have been much
better for the body corporate of the State."
"Look here!" cried the Commodore, in a
rage.
Mr. FIELD looked there, but Mr. P. didn't. He
thought it was time to go for his train, and he went.
SEVERAL UNSAVORY RENDERINGS.
 hy
there should be such a thing as a New York Rendering
Company is a puzzle to thoughtful minds. Persons resident
in certain districts of the city, that border on the
North River, though, are cognizant of that Company. The
North River nose knows the Co., and would close itself to
it, only that it is too close upon it to close
effectually.
And what are the New York Rendering Company, and to
whom do they render, and what? Lard bless you! sir, or
madam, they comprise a thing that lives, if not by the
sweat of its brow, at least by the suet of its boilers.
The dead horses of the city car companies are the
creature's normal food. Nor does it despise smaller
venison, for it can batten upon dead kittens, too, and
fatten upon asphyxiated pup. Carnivorous, decidedly, is
the creature concreted by the New York Rendering Company,
converting all that it touches into fat, and so, living
literally upon the fat of the land. That the Company
render other things besides fat, however, has been for
some time past a subject of complaint against their
management, and here are a few details of their
renderings.
Once the atmosphere of the bays and rivers of New York
was a source of health to the excursionists who, in
summer time, seek relaxation by inexpensive voyages upon
the waters adjacent to the city. By casting the refuse of
their carrion into these waters, the New York Rendering
Company have rendered foul and noxious the once healthful
atmosphere of our aquarian outlets, rendering themselves
a nuisance, at the same time.
Thus, anything like a "pleasure" excursion
by water, in the neighborhood of New York, has been
rendered impossible during the present season, by the New
York Rendering Company.
Off all the shores of our bays Offal has accumulated,
and that during the hottest summer on record for these
latitudes. The waters have thus been rendered unfit for
bathing in, as the air has been rendered pernicious to
breathe—another rendering by the New York Rendering
Company, whose manifest mission is to offalize the
world.
It is pleasant to know, then, that the renderings of
the New York Rendering Company are likely to be
reactionary as well as suicidal, (perhaps suetcidal might
be a better word here,) in their results. Their
"offence is rank," and has reached the nose of
authority, for we find it stated that "Mayor HALL
has already made complaint against the New York Rendering
Company, and that they will he indicted at the next
sitting of the Grand Jury."
And when their boiling nuisances come to be seized, as
we trust they will be, how jolly to see them
"rendering to Seizer" all that has rendered
them the nuisance they are! Then let them render up the
ghost, and go out spluttering, like a dip candle from one
of their own rancid renderings—and so an end of
them.
A CARD OF THANKS.
PUNCHINELLO is extremely indebted to The Sun
for the association of the names of several worthy
gentlemen with the ownership of the only first-class
Illustrated Humorous and Satirical paper published in
America: (Subscription price, for one year, $4.00. Single
copies 10 cents. Office, 83 Nassau St., New York.)
Well, it is something to be credited with having
decent men about you; perhaps if The Sun would try
the experiment it would be found more purifying than even
the sermons of O. DYER.
WHY IT IS SO DRY.
We thought it had something to do with a lack
of moisture in the air; and now, along comes Monsieur
PROU, another philosopher, and merely says what we had
thought. He declares that there was so much ice last
winter (come now, gentlemen of the Ice Companies, what
have you to say to that?) it couldn't melt in time to
evaporate in time to supply moisture in time for the
necessary showers. (Somehow, there's an eternity of
"time" in that sentence; but n'importe:
allons!) We think PROU has proved his case. And,
although we can't quite sympathise with his
suggestion that detachments of sappers and miners be
employed in the spring-time, in Arctic (and doubtless
also Antarctic) regions, in blowing up icebergs and
otherwise facilitating the operations of old Sol, we give
the ingenious Frenchman credit for at least as much
philosophic acumen as we ourselves possess: and Heaven
only knows how superb a compliment we thus convey!
Couldn't our friend Capt. HALL be requested to
watch the Pole a little next winter, and look into this
idea of ours and PROU'S?
CIRCUMSTANCES WILL COMPEL THE STATELIEST OF MEN TO
STOOP, SOMETIMES.
GETTING A LIGHT FROM THE STUMP OF A NEWSBOY'S CIGAR
IS ONE OF THEM.
A SCENE FROM OLD NICK-OLOS NICK-OLBY.
THE EMPEROR DE MANTALINI GOING TO THE
"DEMNITION BOW-WOWS."
OUR POLICE REPORT.
On Tuesday last a suspicious looking man was arrested
by the police, and taken to the One Hundred and Fourth
Precinct Station House, on several charges of disorderly
acts perpetrated by him in various parts of the city. He
gave his name as CHARLES A. DANA, and was locked up for
the night.
Yesterday morning, prisoner was brought before Justice
DOWNY, at the Jephson Market Police Court.
Officer LOCUST, being called to testify, stated that
his attention was directed to the prisoner, on Tuesday
afternoon last, by some boys in Fourteenth Street.
Prisoner was standing on the side-walk, on the side of
the street opposite Tammany Hall. He was armed with a
small pewter squirt, with which he was trying to smear
the front of that building by drawing up dirty water from
the gutter. The range of the squirt did not appear to
reach more than half-way across the street. The water
used was very foul, leaving stains upon a dirt-cart that
was passing. While witness was watching the prisoner, the
Hon. WM. M. TWEED came down the steps from Tammany Hall,
and, upon seeing him, prisoner ran away, but was seized
by witness, before he could make his escape.
On being interrogated by the magistrate, prisoner said
that he hardly knew what he was doing when arrested. The
Sun was in his eyes at the time. If it hadn't
been so, he would not have missed his shot. He must do
something for a living, and he thought that throwing
dirty water was as good an occupation as any other. Had
made money out of it by threatening respectable people
with his pewter squirt, and they would give him money
rather than have their clothes soiled. He would do
anything to make money; and he didn't in the least
mind dirtying his hands in the making of it.
To a question by the magistrate, as to whether he had
had anything to do with casting offal into the bay,
prisoner laughed in a wild manner, and said that he, for
one, could never be accused of wasting good, honest dirt
in that way. All the offal in the world, said prisoner,
wasn't too much for him to use in bespattering the
objects of his attention, friends as well as foes. He had
heaved tons of offal, already, at Mr. A. OAKEY HALL,
(whom he evidently imagined to be an Irishman, and called
O'HALL,) He didn't care whom he hit, in fact, so
long as he could make it pay.
A gentleman connected with the velocipede interest,
whose name our reporter did not catch, here stated that
he became acquainted with prisoner nearly two years ago,
while the velocipede frenzy was at its height. He had
constructed to order for the prisoner a peculiar
velocipede called the "Sun Squirt." It
had a Dyer's tub attached to it, which was filled
with bilge-water. On this machine, the prisoner, armed
with a pewter squirt, used to practise for several hours
a day, careering rapidly around the rink, and taking
flying shots, as he went, at large posters attached to
the wall, having portraits on them of General GRANT, Hon.
H. GREELEY, Hon. WM. M. TWEED, The Mayor, Governor
HOFFMAN, and several other citizens of admitted position
and respectability. The bilge-water usually came back
upon him, however, and he was generally a humiliating
object on leaving the rink.
Prisoner, on being asked by the magistrate whether he
had any references respecting character to give, replied
in the negative, whereupon orders were issued to lock him
up, pending the appearance of Mr. PUNCHINELLO, who will
have some statements to make about him at a future
day.
A reward of $5,000 has been offered for any
information about the pewter squirt, and particularly as
to when, and by whom it was made; and, as detectives are
now engaged in working up the case, there can be but
little doubt that the vile instrument will ere long be
identified.
DISTRESSING.
Some awful smasher of cherished notions is trying to
make out that ROUGET DE LISLE was not the real author of
the famous Marseillaise, but that he stole it from
the Germans. It pains us to contemplate the possibility
of the charge being true, but, should it prove to be so,
we suggest that the name of the accepted author be
changed from ROUGET to ROGUEY DE LISLE.
"WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT?"
Servant. "MASSA FENTON AND MASSA CONKLIN
HAVE SENT DIS YERE FOUNDLIN' TO YER, TO TOOK KEER
OF FOR A FEW WEEKS."
Matron Greeley. "O: DEAR, DEAR! AND IF
IT SHOULD DIE ON MY HANDS, WHO'S TO PAY THE FUNERAL
EXPENSES?"
HIRAM GREEN AMONG THE FAT MEN.
The "Last Gustive" attends the Annual
Clam-Bake.
Empires may totter and Dienastys pass in their
checks.
Politicians may steal the Goddess of Liberty poorer
than JOB'S old Maskaline Gobbler.
J. FISK, Jr., may set the heel of his bute down onto
the neck of Rail Rodes—Steambotes—ballet
gals, and all that sort o' thing, and this mundane
speer will jog along, as slick as a pin, and no questions
asked.
But deprive a Fat man of his little clam-bake, and it
would be full as pleasant as settin' down onto a
Hornet's nest, when the Hornet family were all to
home.
That's so.
Another cargo of clams has gone to that born whence no
clam returns, onless you ram your finger down your
throte, or take an Emetick.
In the words of Commodore PERRY, who is, alas! no
more.
"The misfortenit bivalves meet the Fat man, and
they're his'n."
Altho' I'me not much on the fat order myself,
I received an invitation to attend the grate Clam-bake.
Mrs. GREEN put me up a lunch to eat on the cars, and
robin' myself in a cleen biled shirt, I sholdered my
umbreller and left Skeensboro.
The seen at Union Park was sublime with plenty of Ham
fat. If all flesh is grass, thought I, when old tempus
fugit comes along with his mowin' masheen to cut
this crop of fat men, I reckon he will have to hire some
of his nabor's barns, to help hold all of his
hay.
Great mountins of hooman flesh were bobbin' about
like kernals of corn on a red hot stove, remindin' me
of a corn field full of punkins set up on clothes
pins.
The little heads on top of the great sweating bodies,
looked as if they were sleev buttons drove in the top of
the Punkins.
When a fat man laffs, his little head sinks down into
his shirt collar, and disappears in the fat, like a
turtle's head when you tickle his nose with a sharp
stick.
And then to see them eat clams. I've seen men
punish clams by the bushel—by the barrel—but
never did I see men shovel clams in by the cart load
before.
"Gee-whitaker," said I, to a Reporter of a
N.Y. Journal, "them critters must have a dredful
elastic stomack."
"Yes," said he, "when Fat-men get clam
hungry, the sea banks has to give up her clams, and the
grocery keepers furnish the seasonin'."
"Wall," said I, "if the Sea has many
such runs on her clam-banks as this, she will have to put
on her shutters soon, and go into lickerdation."
"In which state," said he laffin',
"it would be exceedin'ly
clam-etous."
The members of the Fat Men's Club all went
prepared for hot weather, dressed in a linnen soot and
carryin' palm leaf fans.
I also notised large fassits onto the toes of their
butes, so as to let out the grease occasionly, and keep
there butes from sloppin' over.
President RANSOM told me, that a fat man's wife
invented the fassets, so as to save sope grease.
"One fat man in hot weather," said Mister
RANSOM, "will furnish grease enuff, in the summer
time, to keep his family in soft sope the year around,
besides supplyin' two or three daily papers with a
lot."
Between you and me, Friend PUNCHINELLO, that greasy
yarn seems rather too slipperry to swaller, but I guess
it'll wash after all.
PETER REED, of New York, and Docter WHITBECK, of West
Troy, danced the hiland fling for the championship and a
barrel of clams.
"While PETE was cuttin' a pigin wing, and the
Dr. was rakin' down a dubble shuffle, they made
things rattle, and naborin' towns thought it was an
airthquake, and began movin' out their feather
beds.
"Go it, my fat friends," said I, to
encourage 'em, "blood will tell, and exercise
help to digest your clams."
They shook their feet ontil exhausted natur, from
necessity, ceased to be virtous, when suddenly they both
tumbled over onto their backs, and blowed like
porpoises.
The weather bein' hot, a shovel full of cloride of
lime was sprinkled onter them, to keep them from
gettin' fly blode.
I was introjuced to a North River steembote pilot,
whose corporosity looked like the Commissary department
of a Prushion Regiment.
"How are you, Paunchy Pilate," said I,
gettin' off a joak at his expense. "How many
clams have you crucifide to-day?"
"Bully for you, ole man. Haw! haw! he! he! ho!
ho!" roared half a dozen fat men at my faceshusness,
and they laffed and shook their sides, ontil I thought
they'd colaps a floo and spatter me.
One of them fat men approched me, and invited me to
have a game of leep frog.
"Excuse me, Captin," said I, "when I
get so I can sholder an elefant, I'le come around and
accomodate you."
Some was playin' tag. Some was playin'
blindman's-buff, while all was amusin'
themselves, at some innocent pastime or other.
The day's performance was closed by chasin' a
greased pig.
The hog was well greased and let loose, and the whole
lot of fat men started pell-mell.
It was "Root hog, or die" with the odds in
favor of the Hog.
All of a sudden, the hog turned back, and the fat men
coulden't stop, when down they all fell on top of
poor piggy, smashin' him flatter'n a pancake.
The bystanders were startin' for derricks and
jack-screws to raise the fat men off from each other.
"Hold on," says I, "I know a trick
worth 2 of that."
I rusht into the house, and ceasin' the
dinner-bell, rung it as hard as I could.
It delited me, in my old age, to see them chaps
scrabble when they heard that bell.
In 10 seconds time, only one member of the pile
diden't git up, and rise, and that was the hog.
It was a cruel deception—but I believe the mean
trick justifide the end, and saved the Bord of Helth a
big bill of expense. For sure's you're borned, it
would have been a meesely old job, cartin' of that
big pile of corrupshun.
I had seen enuff for one day.
My fisikle and intelectooal capacity was gorged.
Foldin' my Filacteries, and pickin' up my bloo
cotton parashoot, I fled the seen, hily tickled to think
I wasen't a fat man.
Virtously of thee,
HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,
Lait Gustise of the Peece.
WOMAN ASSERTS HER RIGHTS
OUR FINANCIAL ARTICLE.
WALL STREET, August 9th, 1870.
SIR:—It is with feelings of indignation and
scorn that I proceed once more to pollute my pen with the
chronicles of a mercenary rabble. It had been
thought that the remonstrances of the pure and
high-minded among your readers would have sufficed to
overcome the resolution of an infatuated, but not
Criminal Editor. There was a time when the claims of a
Certain Contributor were wont to be considered.
But the passion for worldly greed has, alas! perverted a
too simple nature, and where the Muses once found a
congenial resting place, the demon Mammon now sits in
GHASTLY TRIUMPH.
I will not here refer to my threat of resignation, nor
to the shouts of diabolical laughter with which it was
received by the conductor of a Comic Journal, whose name
it would not become me to mention. Suffice it to say that
those sentiments of loyalty and affection which have ever
been my glory, and a keen appreciation of the difficulty
of obtaining employment on the Press, have kept me
attached to the staff of PUNCHINELLO. The anguish which
Finance has cost an artistic soul no one may ever know.
The silent tear may fall, but it shall be buried in my
bosom. The spectacle of my hidden suffering shall stand
as a reproach to one whom I once HONORED and now
PITY.
Divesting myself of that part of my nature which is
comprised in the good, the beautiful and true, I betook
myself yesterday to Wall Street and the Gold Room. At the
portals of the Financial Menagerie, a gentleman placed
his hand upon my shoulder.
Was I a subscriber?
No, but I was a comic writer.
He said I looked as though I had seen misfortune. If I
was not a subscriber, perhaps I had been in the
Penitentiary, served out a sentence at Sing Sing, or
procured a divorce from my wife?
I had done none of these things.
I was not a member of the Legislature?
No.
A brilliant idea struck him. Perhaps I had been an
editor?
I pleaded guilty.
He thought that would do—I might go in.
I went in, and herewith submit to you the result of my
investigations.
NINE O'CLOCK.—On opening this morning, a
scarcity of money was perceptible in the market. It was
especially perceptible in the case of your contributor.
(This is not a hint that a week's salary in
advance would be acceptable.) Peanuts are much sought
after. (They are excellent things to pelt a fellow with.)
Apples were inquired after, but upon a rumor that they
were unripe, they declined several per cent.
HALF PAST NINE.—The following telegram has just
been received here.
"METZ, August 11th.
"To His Serene Highness, the Prince of Erie,
Duke of the Grand Opera House, Admiral of Narragansett,
Commander of the Ninth, etc., etc., etc., Erie Palace,
New York City.
"ROYAL BROTHER:—Louis has received his
baptism of fire. McMAHON wept. He is training to dispute
with Miss LOUISA MOORE, the proud title of the
'Champion Weepist.'
"Send me the Ninth, and the flower of Opera
Bouffe—aye, even the great
SCHNEIDER—shall be thine. 'Tis France that
calls—be kind. Fraternally thine own,
NAP."
It was at first thought that H.S.H. would accede to
the Emperor's request, his recent treaty with the
Court of the Grande Duchesse and his diplomatic
relations with the Viennoise Ballet Troupe having
rendered the event far from improbable. It was also
considered that the hostility which he has openly
displayed towards the British Erie Protection Committee
would predispose him in favor of England's natural
enemy. In view of the possible departure of the Ninth,
and the consequent prolongation of the European war, gold
rose several degrees above freezing point.
TEN O'CLOCK.—The Ninth, don't go to
Europe after all. Several members of Company
"K" were observed to shed tears of
vexation—or joy! Here is Col. FISK'S reply.
"To NAPOLEON, (not in Berlin.)"
"EFFETE MONARCH:—Can't spare the b-hoys
at any price. They're going into camp down at the
'Branch.' Besides, some of them haven't paid
for their uniforms yet. With regards to
Eugenie,"
"I am Right Royally Yours,"
JAS. FISK, JR.
"P.S.—If a large diamond, a team of six
black and white horses, a Sound steamer, or a copy of the
Tribune, would be of any use to you, command me. I
might also spare you GOULD and some of my relations in
case you were very short of men, and had some very
perilous positions to fill up. JAMES."
HALF PAST TEN.—Speculators in New York Central
and Hudson River securities are much excited over a
report that Commodore VANDERBILT had been seen to
purchase a watering hose in the store of a well known
manufacturer of gardening implements, on Broadway. He
wrapped it in brown paper, placed it in his $1000 buggy,
and drove away behind Dexter at the rate of 0:01-1/4 per
minute. I have it on good authority that there is no
truth in the rumor, circulated a few days ago, that the
Commodore was engaged in negotiation with the Paid Fire
Department for the use of their engines, etc., on some
occasion not far distant.
ELEVEN O'CLOCK.—It is now officially
announced that the watering hose referred to in my last
is intended for gardening purposes only.
HALF PAST ELEVEN.—Great war between Erie and the
Tribune. Tribune interdicted on Erie
Railway and Boston and Long Branch steamers. Desolation
of the Hub in consequence. Panic amongst Tribune
stockholders.
TWELVE.—FISK says that the Tribune is so
heavy that it must far the future be paid
for by weight, on his steamers. It is felt that
this course, if adopted by Mr. GREELEY, would be
financially ruinous to the interests of his paper.
HALF PAST TWELVE.—It is stated here that Mr.
GREELEY, in the effectual disguise of a bran new hat and
respectable boots, succeeded in smuggling a carpet bag
filled with Tribunes on board the Plymouth
Rock. Much anxiety is felt here concerning his fate,
in case the Admiral should discover his presence on
board.
ONE O'CLOCK.—In a letter just received, Mr.
GREELEY designates the above report as "a
lie—a lie—false and malicious, and uttered
with intent to malign and defame." I publish Mr.
G's correction with pleasure.
HALT PAST ONE.—For some days past a steady
decline has been noticeable in Government securities; a
want of confidence in the Executive is said to be the
cause. It is reported that several of our leading
financiers have openly indicated their dissatisfaction
with the policy of those in power at Washington.
Two O'CLOCK.—The leading financier referred
to in my last I find to be JAMES FISK, JR.
HALF PAST TWO.—He indicated his dissatisfaction
with the policy of the Government, to the President at
Long Branch, thus: Having transferred all the jewels from
his left hand to the right, and carefully adjusted them
there, he raised the hand in question to his finely cut
Roman nose, then, extending his fingers, he twirled them
for several minutes without exhibiting any symptoms of
fatigue. GRANT is said to have allowed a prime Partaga to
drop from between his lips in his surprise.
THREE O'CLOCK.—It is now rumored that Fisk
did not apply his fingers in the manner stated.
HALF PAST FOUR.—Market (at Delmonico's) gone
frantic over a consignment of Opera Bouffe sent by
the Erie Protection Committee as a mark of confidence in
the present Erie management. Eries said to be in good
voice. Preferred stock will open in about a month with an
extensive and carefully selected ballet. Premiéres
Danseuses (hic) strong, with extensive sales. Scenery
(hic) quiet, (hic.) Appointments active (hic.)
GREENBAGS.
Influence of Association.
Reading on one of the bulletin boards, the other day,
the words "War to the Last!" we were
irresistibly reminded of the difficulty that lately
existed between the native and Chinese Crispins in
Massachusetts.
THE WAY TO BECOME GREAT.
 alf-witted people, only, will suppose I mean
grate, for the most obtuse nincompoop must know
that anybody can become a grate man by going into the
stove business; but to develop yourself into a real
bonâ-fide great man, like GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN or
DANIEL PRATT, requires much study and a persistent
effort. I have carefully thought out this subject, and
have reduced my reflections and observations to a series
of rules, which, for the benefit of humanity, I propose
to make public.
It must he premised that there are many varieties of
great men. Daddy LAMBERT was a great man, so was the
living skeleton, yet even a casual observer could
perceive the difference in their greatness. The greatness
of the fleshy world is one thing; the greatness of the
no-fleshy world is another. Also, strange as it may seem,
a man may be great and yet not be great. HOOD was a great
General, so was NAP 3, but they tell me that Nashville
and Saarbrucken are terrible commentaries on greatness.
Also a man may be great and not know it. They say that,
until he had made his grand success at Fort Fisher, you
never could persuade BUTLER that he was a great General.
TUPPER, I am informed, would never believe that he was
the most remarkable poet ever produced by England. Also a
man may be great and be perfectly aware of it.
Acquaintances of GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN, Gen. O'NEILL,
and Count JOANNES, assert that no one knows, better than
these gentlemen, that they are great men. Also a man may
die calmly in the consciousness that he is a
distinguished individual, and yet, years afterwards, some
magazine writer may cast historic doubts upon his
greatness.
Of course there are several classes of great people.
There is the little great man, (for example, NAP. 3,) the
big great man, (BISMARCK,) the great little man, (NAP.
1,) and the great big man, (the Onondaga giant.) But the
patient observer must perceive that general rules will
cover all these cases.
It is to be hoped that no one, who shall become great
by means of my rules, will turn upon me and revile me,
when he finds himself interviewed incessantly, persecuted
by unearthings of his early sins, by persistent beggars,
by slanders of the envious, by libels of the press, and
by the other concomitants of greatness. You must take the
sour with the sweet. Even the sweetest orange may have an
unpleasant rind.
RULES BY WHICH EVERY MAN CAN BECOME GREAT.
1. Always be sure to get what belongs to you, and make
most vigorous grabs for everything that belongs to
everybody else.
2. Take everything which is offered to you, if it be
on a par with what you deem the standard of your
worth.
This rule requires the exercise of much wisdom in its
application. If, for example, you look upon the Custom
House as the office which is adapted to you, don't,
under any circumstances, take the appraiser's
position. But you must never let the rule work the other
way.
3. Always have a policy. Talk about it much and often,
and be sure to call it "my policy."
The best of rules being liable to misconstruction,
some Congressmen have acted as if this rule read,
"Always have a policy shop."
4. Always have a theory. If a murder has been
committed, appear to know all about the "dog,"
and to be familiar with its history from the time when it
was a pup. Be sure to fix suspicion upon some person,
even if you are compelled to eat your own words on the
following day.
5. Talk much and often about protection, and give
advice to farmers, even if you don't know anything
about agriculture.
6. Fill your head with classical quotations, and trot
them out on all occasions, whether discussing a bill for
the diffusion of beans among the Indians, or the Alabama
claims.
7. Smoke many costly Havana cigars.
This rule has been lately discovered.
8. Get some one to write a history of CAESAR for you,
or an account of a tour in the Highlands, and then claim
the work as your own.
There are one or two observations I would here make,
which may be useful. If you are ambitious, you had better
commence at the lower rounds of the ladder, in order that
your ascent may be safe and rapid. If you would be, for
instance, a great statesman, be first an alderman; if a
great warrior, be first—well, say a tanner. Also,
you should pay particular attention to the clothes which
you inhabit. An old white hat and a slouchy old overcoat
will insure you a nomination for the office of
Governor.
If, by following these rules and heeding these
observations, you cannot become a great man, you may rest
assured that the fault is not in the rules, but in you.
What is already perfect cannot be made more perfect. If
you fail, after conscientiously following the above
advice, (though I'm not sure that the fact will not
be the same, if you succeed,) it's because you are
already great—a great fool.
"THE COLORED TROOPS FOUGHT
NOBLY."
So far as the Franco-Prussian war has gone, the
blackest page of its history appears to be the employment
of the Turcos, who are nearly as black as average Nubian
"niggers." The expedient of mixing black troops
with white was not very successful during our own little
war. Raids upon hen-roosts were about the most prominent
results of the experiment, though said raids were
magnified by the Rads into grand victories over Confeds.
The Turcos have done better, so far as mere fighting is
concerned; but their brutal outrages exceed so greatly
the hen-roost exploits of WENDELL PHILLIPS'S devoted
darkies, that they are certainly entitled to be organized
into battalions bearing the title of the NAPOLEON Black
Guards.
"THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE."
According to a newspaper paragraph, turtles are
growing used to being canned alive, now, on the Pacific
Coast. On hearing of this atrocity, the Nine Muses
repaired at once to the office of PUNCHINELLO, and here
is the result of their visit:
'Tis the voice
of the Turtle
That's heard in
the land.
Crying, "Bother
your care!
I don't want to
be canned!
"Pack me whole
in a tub,
Nor be stingy of
ice,
What I want is a
BERGH,
Nothing less will
suffice."
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
Black-eyed Susan asks us whether a Pitched
battle can take place on land.
Answer.—Certainly not. When we speak of a
battle being Pitched we mean that it has been fought by
Tars.
Fogbank.—"Is DANA, of The
Sun, any relation to "Truthful JAMES," of
whom the Overland Monthy has written?"
Answer.—Distantly related, through
intermarriage with the LONGBOWS.
Moses.—We do not suppose that the person
referred to by you as a Dyer and Scourer is in any way
related to OLIVER DYER, although the latter person
scoured Water Street some time since, and very
effectually, in pursuit of a "sensation." The
word "Scourer," nevertheless, might be an
allowable corruption of "Esquire," when applied
to any of the proprietors of that mephitic daily, The
Sun.
Pickerel.—Will Mr. GREELEY be obliged to
dress in court costume if he accepts the mission to the
Court of St. JAMES? Answer.—No. It would be
contrary to Mr. GREELEY'S well-known principles to
get on "tights."
Flagroot.—Is it correct to say the
"balance" of an army, meaning the rest of
it?
Answer.—Not always. When an army has turned
the Scale of battle, however, the word Balance may be
used.
Mary Jane.—I have embroidered a flag for
the Prussian army, and am at a loss for a motto. How
would "Bear and Forbear" do?
Answer.—"Beer and for Beer" would
be better.
"THERE!—I SHOULD LIKE TO SEE THE
UNDERTOW THAT WOULD RUN AWAY WITH ME!"
A ROAR FROM NIAGARA.
DEAR PUNCHINELLO:—Having been reminded, by your
recent notes on Niagara, that there is a cataract of that
name, possessed of height and depth and breadth and
volume and other well-known characteristics of a genuine
Waterfall, I thought I would go and see it for myself.
Not that I doubted your statements—which, indeed,
are handsomely supported by familiar
statistics,—but certainly there is a charm in
treading the ground once trod by Greatness,
breathing—well not the same air, I hope, but some
of the same kind,—viewing the identical scenes, and
being swindled by the self-same parties, that had just
occasioned your animated comments.
I don't know a charm at all comparable with that
of being swindled in the midst of fine scenery, when the
funds and enthusiasm still hold out, and the sense of
actually getting the worth of one's money is not yet
so blunted by transactions calculated to awaken Thought,
as to have lost the power of increasing one's
felicity. That the intelligent lad who drove me was in
league with every one of the parties who were stationed
here and there with the sole apparent purpose of
receiving fifty cents from visitors, I was loth to
believe, though nothing could have been plainer, if one
had happened to think of it from the start.
Is it not funny, the way they serve their Congress
Water at the Cataract House? They put a big lump of ice
in a tumbler, take a bottle from a shelf, pour the warm,
stale fluid, (tasting like perspiration, as one
might fancy,) into this glass, and expect you to wait
till it has grown cool enough to be palatable. Well, if
you wait, you lose what little life there is left in the
stuff; and if you don't, you'll be sorry you
hadn't done so.
One may say, "You needn't have ordered any
Congress Water." Very well, but why not, provided I
liked it? The clerk said they kept Vichy, also, but I
learned they were "out." I wish they had been
out of Congress too. "All right!" said I,
"I shall enjoy my breakfast all the more, for I know
that will make amends!" And it did. The
"salmon trout" was dry, as usual, but that
breakfast was a good thing. I enjoyed it, and my two
niggers and my New York paper of day before, (for which I
paid a cute looking boy in the hall ten cents, on my way
to breakfast,) and was happy.
Not, my dear P., till I reached the "other
side," and had been inveigled into the Museum Hotel,
and persuaded into those vile wrappings of oil-cloth,
with the ponderous rubbers over my thick boots, and had
stood around for some time, awaiting the pleasure of the
very leisurely guide, sweating at every pore, (or
nearly every one, for there are several millions,
I believe, and I so hate exaggeration,) and trying to
evade the glances of the amused bystanders, did I begin
to realize the enormity of the imposition that had been
practised on me. Just fancy yourself, Mr
PUNCHINELLO, in such a costume, taking a seemingly
interminable walk in a hot sun, down ever so many steps,
encased in those nasty articles of gear, in the company
of several other helpless unfortunates, wishing with all
your might yon were already there!"
"But the grandeur and glory of the adventure will
console me!" I murmured. Grandeur be hanged! A fig
for the "glory!" What! do you call this
"going under the Falls,"—that renowned
journey, so full of peril? Pooh! merely standing in a
bath-tub and letting somebody pull the string! You
don't get quite so wet; that's all. Where's
the "danger," where's the
"glory," of merely stepping under a little
spirt from one end of the Falls, with plenty of room to
stand, and no darkness, no mystery, no nothing. Nothing
but an overwhelming sense of being a cussed fool, and a
simpleton, and a stupid, and a dunce!
Oh, the going back, after that! in the same loathed
costume, inwardly justifying the laughter of the knowing
loungers as you ascend among them, and cursing yourself
as the chief among ten thousand (ninnies,)—the one
altogether idiotic.
Except for this enormous swindle, dear P., I should
have enjoyed Niagara, and Niagara would doubtless have
enjoyed me. But this preposterous, disgusting,
outrageous, ridiculous, contemptible, disgraceful,
unsurpassable swindle prevented anything like a
mutual understanding. I saw green in the Falls, the Falls
saw green in me. The Falls kept coming down; I had
already come down, (with my dollars,) and, in fact, was
perpetually descending, with sums varying from
twenty-five cents to four dollars and a half.
My sole object, friend PUNCHINELLO, in addressing you
on this subject, is to beg and beseech that you will warn
the too-credulous and too-generous public against this
unmatchably atrocious swindle of Going Under the Falls.
It is too much for proud Humanity, Mr. P.! It is
crushing! It is withering! It is annihilating! What!
"Annex" this fraud? Never!—NEVER!
TUPMAN.
THE POSSIBLE "WHY?" OF IT.
The personal feeling against the French Emperor, so
often displayed in the columns of the Tribune, has
frequently been a subject of comment. Nevertheless it is
easily accounted for. As Louis NAPOLEON is said to detest
ham, ever since he was incarcerated in the
fortress of that name, so does the Hon. HORACE GREELEY
detest him, ever since he (H. G.) was arrested in
France for some offence, real or imaginary, which we
cannot now recall to mind, and thrown into prison at
Clichy. And to this, also, may be traced the celebrated
bon mot of Mr. GREELEY, who once remarked, on a
festive occasion, that "Ham was afflicted with
trichinosis when it had Louis NAPOLEON in
it."
A HINT FOR EXCURSIONISTS.
On account of the present nauseating condition of New
York Bay, owing to the offal nuisance, no prudent voyager
should seek to stem its feculent tide unless provided
with "something to take." An intelligent
correspondent suggests that brandy would be about the
thing, but that it should be labelled "Bay
Bum."
A Military Opinion.
The "Prussian centre," of which we hear so
much just now, ought to be permanently established at
Cologne, which place has been, in feet, the Scenter of
the world for generations past.
BOOK NOTICE.
LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
By E. SHELTON MACKENZIE, LL.D, Philadelphia: T. B.
PETERSON AND BROTHERS.
In this volume of 484 pages, Dr. MACKENZIE brings
before his readers a very full and interesting
compilation of facts relating to the career of the great
novelist. Besides these, the volume contains a number of
characteristic articles from the pen of DICKENS,
published, originally, in All the Year Round, some
of which are of recent date. The book is embellished with
a portrait and autograph of DICKENS.
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