Punchinello, Vol. 2., No. 32, November 5, 1870 - Various
I say to her, "that this choir contest is an excellent feature, one that
is sure to draw." But she answers nothing, and busily reads the
libret--, the psalm, to herself.
Then comes the litany. And here again MARGARET betrays her rural habits,
by repeating audibly the first response, thus encroaching on the
province of the choir-boys, who have now united, and form a fine and
powerful chorus, less picturesque perhaps than the Druidical chorus in
the first act of _Norma_, but quite as religious in its effect. After
which comes a hymn, executed by a soprano, who is really a deserving
little girl, and whom I little expected to find doing the leading
business in a first-class church, when I first saw her in the chorus at
the Stadt Theatre, seven years ago. MARGARET, warned by experience, does
not venture to interfere with the singing, to the evident disappointment
of the usher, who is watching her with the intention, plainly expressed
on his face, of peremptorily putting her out, if she sings a single
note. Then comes a recitation of the commandments by the leading male
perfor--, that is to say, by the rector, supported by the double chorus,
and the orches--, the organ, I should say; and then we have the sermon.
I like the sermon. It is delivered with admirable effect, and is, on the
whole, more soothing than the average syrup of the apocryphal Mrs.
WINSLOW. The rector compliments us all on our many virtues, and
contrasts us with the supposititious sinners who are presumed to abound
somewhere in the vicinity of rival houses. The middle-aged men evidently
feel that he will make no mistake worth noticing, and so go to sleep as
calmly as though they were at BOOTH'S THEATRE. The middle-aged ladies
contemplate the dresses of their neighbors, and the young people flirt
with cautious glances. When the curtain--when it is over, I mean--we go
cheerfully away, like an audience that has slept through a Shakesperean
play, and feels that it has done its duty. And when we are once more in
the street, I say to MARGARET: "This has been a delightful performance.
There has been nothing said to make one feel disagreeably discontented
with one's self, nor has there been any impolite suggestions as to the
undesirable future of anybody, except the low wretches who, of course,
don't go to any church. How much better this is than the solemn service,
and, the unpleasantly personal sermons that we used to hear at your
little rural church."
MARGARET.--"I do not like it. Why should boys be hired to pray, and
women to sing for me? Why should I be told by the preacher that I am
perfectly good, when I have just confessed that I am a 'miserable
sinner?' Why do you call this service religious, and Rip Van Winkle
theatrical? Believe me, St. APOLLOS deserves a place among your 'Plays
and Shows' quite as much as does BOOTH'S or WALLACK'S."'
And I to her--"St. APOLLOS shall take its proper place in PUNCHINELLO'S
show. But permit me to say that you are very unreasonable. What do you
go to church for? To be made uncomfortable and dissatisfied with
yourself?"
MARGARET,--"To be made better."
MATADOR.
* * * * *
A PASTOR ON POLITICS.
The Reverend Mr. CREAMCHEESE congratulated the hearers of his last
sermon upon the encouraging religious aspects of the time, remarking how
pleasant it was in this fall season to find all the political parties in
the country so interested in making their election sure. We maybe
mistaken, but we think the Rev. gentleman's zeal outruns his discretion.
The preying of politicians is of a kind which we trust the clergy will
never seek to imitate; but now that Congress has undertaken to supervise
this matter of election, there no knowing what it may become in the
future.
* * * * *
AN EVASIVE REPLY.
A Correspondent suggests that in No. 30 our artist has given Mr. C. A.
DANA, in representing him as refusing a bribe with virtuous indignation,
a two-cent-imental an expression. In reply, Mr. PUNCHINELLO--although
his own opinion is that the mistake has been in making it rather
dollar-ous than cent-imental--would refer his correspondent to the
artist.
* * * * *
A QUERY FOR SOL-UTION.
Is it a fact that, because _Sol_ is the Latin for _Sun_, being on the
_Sun_ is therefore equivalent to being a SOLON?
* * * * *
TO THE DIPLOMATISTS OF THE HUB.
Whether the Boston dip is a penny one or not, it is nevertheless
scandalous.
* * * * *
POEMS OF THE CRADLE.
CANTO IX.
Rub-a-dub, dub,
Three men in a tub,
The Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick-Maker,
They all jumped into a rotten potato.
Behold the gentle Poet, now in the midst of the tumult of war. How
calmly he surveys from his elevated position the situation of the hosts
and the signs of the times. He hears the drums beat and the bugle call
to arms, and his soul is filled with martial ardor. Unable to wield the
sword, he seizes his poetical pen, resolved to become the Chronicler and
Historian of the war, and thus add his little mite for the improvement
of future generations. He decided that it must be characteristic, and in
keeping in style with his other productions: short, pithy, and
comprehensive; simple and amusing enough for a child; deep and sarcastic
enough for the most astute mind.
He begins by describing in graphic style the sounds that first struck on
his ear and fired his manly soul--the beat of the rolling drum. Then
comes a description of the terrible conflict that occurred in his native
village, between the three most prominent men of the day. This, not to
be too verbose, he simply likens to being "in a tub."
BILLY the butcher, stout, red-faced, and pugilistic, with his particular
friend MARC the baker, having become jealous of the beautiful shop and
immense patronage of JOHNNY the candlestick-maker, resolve to put an end
to it in some way, even if they have to fight him.
That showy candlestick shop, with its gay trimmings and beautiful
ornaments, open every day before their face and eyes, and attracting
crowds of idlers who stand gazing in at the windows, or lounging around
the doors, is a little too much for the Butcher, who in vain displays
before his door the fresh-cut meat and the tempting sausage. True, he
has plenty of customers; but they come because they need what he has to
sell; they come of necessity, not for pleasure. The Baker experiences
the same vexation, as he sees his loaves passed by and mockingly made
light of.
They bear awhile in silent envy the annoying sight of the rollicking
crowd and the joyful JOHNNY with his troop of apprentices, who have all
they can possibly do to attend to their numerous customers, and who
receive their broad pieces of money with a careless ease that makes the
fingers of the lookers-on tingle.
At last human nature can stand it no longer. The two malicious
storekeepers put their heads together, and resolve to draw their
prosperous enemy into a fight that will ruin him and enable them to
smash his windows. Accordingly, they throw stones and dirt at him, but
he, intently interested in his store, notices them not. His noisy
apprentices and loungers around see and point out the insult, and urge
him to avenge himself. But no; he has no time to pay attention to petty
annoyances; he is too busy getting up a huge candlestick for the Fair,
and so, to smooth matters over, he sends his two enemies an invitation
to view the magnificent candlestick that is to throw so much light on
the world.
"He is either too stupid or too sharp for us," sighs the Baker; "we
can't do anything in that way. Suppose we set up an opposition store,
with one of your sons for Proprietor, and see what effect that will
have."--"Good, it shall be done," says the Butcher.
Soon an empty store adjoining is hired, and being put in order, when the
hitherto blind Proprietor wakes up to the fact that there is a coalition
against him, and that he had better be stirring or he will lose his
trade. Accordingly he writes a remonstrance to his friend the Butcher,
telling him "he wishes no rival in the trade. He has always had a
monopoly, and he intends to keep it." His apprentices back him up in his
assertions, and declare they are ready to die for him and their
candlesticks. The advent of the messenger is noticed with inward
rejoicing by the twain, but, when he presents his remonstrance, he is
immediately kicked out of doors.
That is the last feather, the one straw too much, and the excitable
little Candlestick-maker at once challenges his opponents to deadly
combat.
The Poet, with a sublime contempt for the mysterious and wonderful
intricacies of war, significantly calls this rush to arms a "jumping
into a rotten potato."
Alas! it proves a rotten potato to the poor Candlestick-maker. Out
sallies the Butcher with his cleaver, and his boys with their knives,
and by his side the Baker with his rolling-pin, followed by his crowd of
friends armed with toasting-forks and cutting-irons, presenting a
formidable front to the astonished JOHNNY and his handful of
apprentices.
But there is no back-door to creep out through now; so at it they go,
Valor against Might, but Might is the stronger, and Valor gets knocked
on the head and has to fall back. This exasperates the heroic defenders
of the shop, who exclaim, "If you can't fight any better than that, you
had better leave," and immediately begin an attack in his rear.
The poor man, astonished at this unlooked-for defection from his ranks,
turns his eyes imploringly around for aid, but sees none that can avail
him. He hears on all sides the shout, "Clear out, clear out. If you
can't win the battle for yourself, we will win it for ourselves, and
keep the spoils." Sadly he views the situation; he feels the kicks of
the Candlestick-makers in the rear, and he knows there is no hope for
him. But his beloved store! he will save that if he can; he will offer
himself as a sacrifice.
With compressed lips he walks to the Butcher, and says, "You have got
the best of me; I'll give in. Stop the fighting." BILLY, overjoyed at
the victory, embraces him, and is about to give the order for retreat,
when the wily Baker whispers, "The shop is there yet, and it is that
that troubles us as much as the man. Let us keep at it till we demolish
it, and thus put a stop to all future controversy. After killing the old
fox, don't leave a nest of young ones to grow up and bite us. What is
their loss is our gain, you know. Do you understand?" "Yah, Yah!"
* * * * *
Latest from Below.
An unsophisticated young imp, who had not long been in Hades, was
cowering over a small fire in a distant corner, endeavoring to keep from
freezing, when his Impious Majesty himself heard the youth
soliloquizing: "When will LIE BIG, the editor of the _Sun_, keep me
company?" "You blockhead!" exclaimed his Majesty, "LIE BIG, the editor
of the _Sun_, is not coming back for some time; he is of more service to
me on earth, making converts for my jurisdiction, than the public are
probably aware."
* * * * *
[Illustration: ENGAGEMENT IN HIGH LIFE.
Perhaps it is not generally known that Miss SUSAN B. ANTHONY desires to
leave one field only that she may enter another; in other words, that
the lady contemplates marriage. Our authority is uncertain whether the
prospective groom is one of our border aborigines or an ex-Fenian leader
of noted gallantry. We have, however, ventured upon the following sketch
illustrative, in advance, of the reception, and which, in the absence of
more explicit information, we may as well call--
ANTHONY AND CLEOPATRICK.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A CARPET GENERAL.
_Brigadier-General Woodford_. "DEAR ME, WHAT A DISAGREEABLE SMELL!
WONDER WHAT IT CAN BE?"
_Lady_. "OH! THAT'S GUNPOWDER, GENERAL."
_Brigadier-General Woodford_. "GUNPOWDER?--AW! IS IT? NEVER SMELT
ANYTHING OF THE KIND BEFAW."]
* * * * *
HIGH-HANDED OUTRAGE.
EDITOR OF PUNCHINELLO: Sir:--I am the young lady, travelling in New
Jersey (perhaps they will next make a crime of _that_!), and mentioned
in a recent paragraph as having been asked by a person (called a _man_)
"if _this_ was ELIZABETH?"
I insist, Sir, that I was right in resenting, as I did, the impudent
familiarity of this person (called a _man_), who, after sitting for an
hour or two in perfect silence (having first intruded himself into the
seat beside me without making any kind of apology), abruptly turns to me
and says, "Is _this_ ELIZABETH?"
I insist, Sir, that I was right in asking the ruffian what he meant.
Consider the abruptness, Sir, of this question--this selfish question,
as it turned out, after a grim and gruff silence of an hour and a
quarter. Could not this unamiable person (called a _man_), have prepared
me for it by a few moments' affable conversation? Why should he dare
intrude his "Is this ELIZABETH?" with such brutal abruptness? Not a
sudden proposal from one of my numerous suitors could have startled me
more.
Look at the question, Sir, as pointing at my supposed Christian name (I
_have_ one, but it is _not_ ELIZABETH, nor yet ELIZA); can you imagine
anything more odiously familiar? "Well known for his mild and gentle
disposition" this "gentleman" of Brooklyn may be; but there was no
mildness, no gentleness this time, I assure you! The language alone
proves _that_!
The rudeness was all the more shocking and discomposing, from the fact
that I was at that moment contemplating the elegant features of a
gentleman at the other end of the car, who seemed not altogether
indifferent to my appearance (which he would have been, perhaps, had I
seemed of "uncertain age," as the low fellow observes who wrote this
paragraph), and there was every appearance of a growing interest in two
susceptible hearts, when this cold-blooded (but "mild and gentle")
person launched his brutal interrogatory, so selfish and unfeeling, with
such violent abruptness.
Look, if you will, Sir, at the question as referring purely to the city
which we were approaching. How did I know that my new found, but already
dear friend was not about to alight (as, indeed, he seemed to be), and
leave me to the disgusting society of this "mild and gentle" barbarian
sitting beside me in such a state of stolid indifference, and thinking
only of a vulgar town, and his still more vulgar affairs in that town!
Consider again, Sir, the audacity of this person (called a _man_), in
repeating his odious question after the rebuke I had administered! Yes,
he actually repeated it! as though I were a long-lost acquaintance, of
whose identity he felt more than doubtful; I simply said to him (though
the slanderous report says I _screamed_ it), "You may think you are a
gentleman, Sir" (and here I claim is evinced a disposition to be fair
even to an enemy)--"you may _think_ you are a gentleman, Sir, to address
a lady so; but I do not wish to continue any further talk with you."
You may fancy the state of my feelings, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, at being
obliged to make this little speech, and my friend at the other end of
the car looking on, with wonder in every one of his expressive features,
and the conductor at that instant coming in and shouting, "ELIZABETH!"
as though I were called for and must go that very instant. Indeed, I
felt very much like doing so--but not, I assure you, on perceiving that
the "mild and gentle" ogre I have been speaking of was already going
out. No; I was thankful I was going further, though the behavior of the
remaining passengers was not calculated to inspire me with a very
quieting sense of ease.
You will, I am sure, excuse the feelings of a lady who has been insulted
by a ruffianly person (called a _man_), and affronted by a car-full of
insolent and vulgar mob, called the American Public. I hope the
gentleman at the other end of the car will take for granted that _he_
was not one of this brutal mob.
Yours, with much feeling,
MEDORA EUPHEMIA SLAPSADDLE.
* * * * *
THE LAST MOTTO OF THE JOHN REAL DEMOCRACY.--O'BRIEN,
LED--WITH a hook.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE POLITICAL CAT'S-PAW. JOCKO WOODFORD MAKES TOMCAT
LEDWITH USEFUL FOR PULLING THE ROASTED CHESTNUTS OFF THE FIRE.]
* * * * *
HIRAM GREEN INTERVIEWS HORACE GREELEY.
Some unpublished Facts--H.G. of the Tribune reveals to H.G. of
Punchinello what he Knows of Farming.
"H. G. OF THE _Tribune_, I believe," said I, reaching out and taking his
lilly-white hand, one Saturday mornin at Chattaqua.
"Jess so," said he, politely, "and this is H.G. of PUNCHINELLO. We're a
helthy team at writin' comic essays--eh! Squire?" And the hills, dales,
and barn-yards resounded with our innercent prattle.
"My bizziness, Mister GREELEY, is to see if you know as much about
agricoltural economy as you do about politikle economy. As I useter say
to culprits, who was bein tried before me when I was Gustise of the
Peece, you needent say nothin which will criminate yourself."
"Well, my lerned friend," said he, hily pleased at my happy way of
puttin' things, "foller me, and I'le show you what farmin on scientific
prenciples can do for a man."
Arm in arm we sailed forth, as gay and festiv as a pair of turkle
doves--HORRIS with his panterloons stuffed in his bute legs, and the
undersined with his specturcals adjusted on his nose.
"Do you see that piece of land over yender?" said he, pintin to a strip
of 10 akers. "That was a worthless swamp two yeer ago. For $15,000.00 I
made it what it is, and to-day, I'me proud to say it, my farm is worth
$1,750.00 more, with that 10 akers under cultivation, than it was before
I drained it."
"HORRIS," said I, wishin to humor him, "as an economist, this shows your
brains is in the rite spot."
He then took me in his garden, and showed me what his success in the
sass bizziness had been. "Do you see that 10 aker bed?" said he. "Well!
last fall I saw a lot of pie plant growing in a wild state. I said
nothin to nobody, but when it got ripe I saved the seed. This spring I
planted that patch of ground with it, anticipatin the biggest crop of
pie timber in the State. And, sir, jest as sartin as this white hat was
once new," said he, pintin to his old plade out shappo, "when that stuff
grode to maturity, I sent a cart lode down to the market, and it was all
sent back with a note, statin that burdocks wasn't worth a cuss for
pies. But," said he, takin me by the button-hole, "no man can fool me
agin on pie timber."
"As a farmer, HORRIS," said I, so as to keep the rite side of him, "your
ekal hasent been hatched."
He then shode me the remains of a young orchird; said he: "The borers
got into the roots of them trees, which trees cost me, within the last
two yeer, about $5,000.00. I tried all sorts of ways to get rid of them.
I even set my hired man to readin artikles on 'What I know of farmin' to
'em. This put the grubs to sleep 'long at first, but they finally stopt
their ears up with clay, and wouldent listen. So that dodge was plade
out. I then bought a lot of ile of vitril and poured it about the roots
of them trees, and I tell you, friend GREEN," said he, as tickled as a
boy with his first pair of new boots, "it would have made you laff to
see them borers moosey."
"But," said I, "it killed them trees deader'n a smelt."
"Which don't amount to shucks, so long as the cause of sientific farmin
is benifitted, by showin bugs that the superior critter man is too many
meesles for the animile kingdom," was his reply.
"Them trees over there," said this distingished farmer, "was a present
to me. They come marked _pine_ trees. It is over three yeers since they
was sot out, and not a solitary _pine apple_ have they yielded yet. I
reckon it takes time for them to bear fruit," said he in his simplisity.
"Not only time," said I, somewhat surprised, "but if you live through
all etarnity, you won't see a darned apple on them trees."
"But, Squire GREEN," said he, with a downcast air, "H. WARD BEECHER says
pine apples grows on pine trees, and as long as brother B. spends all
his salary in edicatin hisself for a farmer, he orter know."
"Brother fiddlesticks," said I, a little riled at hearin him cote H.W.B.
as a farmist. "HANK is a 4 hoss team at raisin food for the sowl; but
when you come to depend on sich chaps to raise grub and other vegetables
for the stomack, excoose me for sayin it, it haint H. WARD'S fort, no
more'n it is mine to outsing NILLSON for the beer."
We entered his poultry yard.
"You're old peaches on raisin fouls, I've been told," said I.
"Ker-r-rect," said he, "chickens is my best holt. Last spring I had a
favorite speckled hen--she was the specklest biped which ever wore
feathers. One day, I sot her on 300 eggs. That fowl done her level best
and spread evry feather, but she hadent enuff elasticity to cover so
much territory at one settin."
"Well, sir," said he, straitenin his form, up to its full hite, "Sients
come to my ade. I got a feather bed, and with a glue pot bilt out that
hen's spread."
"What," I says, "the hen dident hatch all them eggs?"
"Not exsactly," was his reply; "she would have hatched every egg,
but--but--but--," and he broke down and bust into teers.
"But--why?" I asked, soothin his perturbed spirrit.
"She had a great deal of pride that hen did. She was terribly stuck up.
Just as she got settled down for a good square old-fashioned set, she
was so proud of her position, that somehow or other, it struck _in_ and
killed her."
We visited his barn, which was chock full of farmin tools. Said he:
"It is allers a mistery to peeple how I make farmin pay, but, Squire,
between you and I, heer's where I reckon I've got 'em. Where I loses in
other branches I make up heer. Any and everybody which invents a farmin
masheen sends me one, and I gives them a puff. Every 30 days I gets up a
bee, to which I invites the nabors. With hammers we knock them masheens
to pieces, and, sir!" said he, blowin his bugle horn of liberty with his
cote sleeve, "as the Roman mother once said, 'these is my tressoors,'
for, sure's your born, the sales of old iron more'n pays runnin my farm,
losses and all."
The shades of nite was a fallin, so thankin H.G. for posten me up on his
farmin nolidge, I left him, with my mind fully made up, that, with the
Filosifer, the _pen_ was a heep site mitier in his hand than a farm is,
in which opinion any well-bred, onprejodiced farmer will fall into.
Ewers farminly,
HIRAM GREEN, ESQ.,
Lait Gustise of the Peece.
* * * * *
[Illustration: FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE.
"AT A PRIVATE THEATRE IN THIS CITY MR. J--N SM--TH RECENTLY MADE HIS
_debut_ AS _Rolla_, AND CREATED A MARKED SENSATION."]
* * * * *
THE NEWMAN FUND.
About seventy of the artists connected with the illustrated press of
this city and Boston have contributed drawings for the benefit of the
family of the late WILLIAM NEWMAN, formerly one of the designers of the
London _Punch_, and who for the last ten years held a prominent position
among the graphic artists of this city. To this move on the part of
kindred spirits, PUNCHINELLO cries "Bravo!" The kindly worker who has
passed away from our midst would have been foremost himself in moving
thus when death or sickness had fallen upon a brother of his guild. To
aid his family, then, in the manner proposed, is the best tribute than
can be paid to his memory. Due notice will be given of the arrangements
for exhibiting and disposing of the contributed pictures, to possess
some of which, PUNCHINELLO hopes, will be a matter of emulation with his
New York readers.
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR BAD CHILDREN ON THE BORDER.
_Missionary_. "AND IT CAME TO PASS THAT CAIN WAS WROTH WITH ABEL, HIS
BROTHER, AND ROSE UP AGAINST HIM AND SLEW HIM."
_Comanche Warrior_. "HOW! HOW!--GOOD!--CAIN RED MAN, EH?--ABEL WHITE
MAN?--HOW! HOW! CAIN GET ABEL'S SCALP--GOOD!"]
* * * * *
VENUS AND ADONIS
An Eclogue of the Period.
(Respectfully dedicated to the ladies of the Free-love Pantarchy.)
_Venus._
Adonis, sweet, hide not thy blushing face:
What terrors masculine thy soul abash?
And why with boyish pout dost mar the grace
Of maiden lip and innocent moustache?
_Adonis._
O you dry up! I tell you. I'll be cussed
If I'm a-going to stand such pesky bother
From you strong-minded gals. And, what's the wust,
I darn't touch ye.--G'long, 'r I'll tell your mother!
_Venus._
And feel'st thou then no solemn intuition--
No subtle psychological vibration--
Or instant, full, spontaneous recognition
Of my pantarchic self-annunciation?
For love is free, and mutual reaction
Of kindred organisms airily
Subsists and ceases, as 't gives satisfaction:
We change with changes of affinity.