Punchinello, Vol. 2., No. 32, November 5, 1870 - Various
_Adonis._
Now just look here, you don't sponge no love free
At this here shop: it's stealing,--that's the sin it is!
What's more, too, if you want to hang 'round _me_
You'd better just play light on them affinities!
* * * * *
A LETTER FROM THE "HUB."
THE BOSS TOWN OF NEW ENGLAND,
October 1870 times.
DEAR PUNCHINELLO: Hailing (not to say reigning) from this august (and
all the year round) place, I naturally feel privileged to pour my
troubles into your ears, with doubts as to their length. [Length of
what, troubles or ears?--ED.]
The fact is, no man was ever treated so badly or so seldom as I have
been. Others have "waked up" and found themselves famous. I've practised
waking for years, and never found myself in fame, or anything else,
excepting energetic "tailors' bills," and an occasional square meal.
Thirsting for renown, I have coined my wealth of brains into one
transcending effort, and amid much travail of genius, and travel of paw
to pate, have produced the following
ORIGINAL LINES,
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which I dedicate to the late Political Convention, as embodying the
principles there adopted, with this difference, that, while their
Resolutions have no point, my resolution enables me to make two points
in every line.
While I'm not in the proverb business, I have a couple on hand that are
getting mouldy, so I send 'em along.
"Once go to grass, and your enemies will soon make a hey-day over you."
"Get all you can, and can all you get."
But that reminds me of a Beautiful Tale:--
Deacon K---- lacked the confidence of the inhabitants of M----. He was
most sincerely detested for his hypocrisy and double-dealing, and so
very unpopular, that a few wags conceived the idea of drawing up a paper
requesting him to leave town.
Once endorsed by two or three respectable names, the joke took; the
paper circulated like wildfire and soon contained every business name in
the place.
A most horrible position to occupy in respect to one's neighbors.
But the Deacon was a genius in his way. Getting possession of the
document, he adroitly changed the heading, and behold! the intended
rebuke was transformed into a humble petition to the President that
Deakon K---- be appointed Postmaster of M----. In due time the
appointment came, much to the consternation and chagrin of the
villagers.
The position was held one season in spite of all opposition; but the
Deacon did not prosper in the end, for after wandering about the streets
of New York a miserable outcast, he naturally drifted on to the
editorial staff of the _Sun_. The End.
Trusting, my dear 'NELLO, you will give me a good setting-up, and cast
my lines in pleasant places, I remain,
Yours in fun,
S. R. DEEN.
* * * * *
TIMELY.
They now put little watches on the outside of portemonnaies and
cigar-cases. There has been doubt expressed as to the value of these
time-pieces; but if they go as certainly as the money and the cigars,
they will do very well.
* * * * *
HEAVY.
There is now a strike among the blacksmiths, and as the men have already
come down very heavily, it is supposed it will be successful.
* * * * *
[Illustration: ADVICE TO YOUNG LADIES.
WHEN YOU HAVE NEW DRESSES OR BONNETS TO SHOW, ALWAYS GO LATE TO CHURCH,
SO THAT THERE MAY BE A FULL CONGREGATION TO PLAY OFF YOUR AIRS AND
GRACES UPON.]
* * * * *
MR. PUNCHINELLO'S POLITICAL MANUAL.
I. QUALIFICATIONS OF A VOTER.
Now and then Mr. PUNCHINELLO has noticed (with infinite scorn and
contempt) all the stuff and nonsense published in the newspapers about
registry and inspection, about citizenship and twenty-one years of age,
and other games and devices of that soft sort. The qualifications of a
voter may be stated with severe and scientific accuracy, as follows:--
_Ubiquity._--By this is to be understood the power, not of _being_, but
of _belonging_ in from six to twelve Wards at the same time. Analogous
to this is the capacity of being at once a subject of VICTORIA REGINA
and a loyal citizen of the United States--a talent most exquisitely
developed in the Hibernian nature.
_Receptivity_.--This may be divided into two classes, as follows:--
1. The material power, which is that of receiving from any candidate any
sum of money which, the said ass of a candidate may be willing to pay
for a vote.
2. The spiritual power, which is that of imbibing, at the expense of the
aforesaid candidate, any number of fluid pounds of anything good to
take, whether the same may be punches, cock-tails, smashes, slings, or
plain drinks.
_Pugnacity_.--This is a quality by no means to be lightly spoken of,
especially in a District represented by that eminent warrior, the Hon.
Mr. MORRISSEY. Our fathers fought, bled, and died for liberty, and the
least an independent citizen can do is to be willing to fight and bleed
(and even he "kilt") in the same behalf. There is a difference, however,
between dying and being "kilt," which we need not point out to those
noble champions of liberty who are also of the Celtic persuasion.
II. QUALIFICATIONS OF AN EDITOR.
_Mendacity_.--This is a talent mainly developed in the manipulation of
election returns. But it may be exhibited in various other ways. Here,
for instance, is an obnoxious candidate who is a quiet, respectable,
honest, church-going family man. The height of mendacious talent is
shown in representing this paragon of virtue to be a brawler, a
blackguard, a swindler, an infidel, and a bad husband and father. If he
mildly denies that he is any such person, the proper course is to call
him all the unpleasant names over again, adding, by way of clincher,
that he is popularly supposed to have murdered his grandmother. This
will floor him.
_Verbosity_.--This is the power of writing two columns in answer to a
three-line paragraph--of twisting, turning, transmogrifying, dissecting,
kicking, cuffing, illustrating, turning inside out, and outside in again
the aforesaid paragraph. The real master of this art will show his skill
by the great number of times in which he will manage to say "We" in the
course of his lucubration.
III. QUALIFICATIONS OF A CANDIDATE.
_Density_.--This indicates the utter incapacity of a candidate to
understand any public question. It is a very safe quality, for the more
he knows, the less likely is he to commit himself. It is an equally
pleasant quality, since it enables its possessor to take the fence and
to maintain it, while, by a sort of optical delusion, each party
supposes him to be upon its own side. It saves regular out and out
_lying_, if Mr. GREELEY will allow us to use so strong a word. For
instance, if asked, "Are you in favor of a Protective Tariff?" the
candidate may answer, "I am" (for he doesn't know whether he is) or "I
am not" (for he does not know but he may be a most cantankerous Free
Trader). In this way he may, with Roman honesty, satisfy everybody, and
promote peace and good-will and that sort of thing in the handsomest
manner.
_Capillary Attraction_.--This is analogous to receptivity in the voter.
If the citizen drinks hugely, the candidate must be able to keep up with
him; and to have a sponge stomach equal to the absorption of quarts, and
even of gallons, is a piece of excellent good fortune for the man who is
fool enough to want to go to Congress, instead of enjoying the delights
of obscurity. Verily, he has his reward. He who suffers in the gin-mills
of New York may recover himself in the Champagne-sparkling saloons of
Washington.
_Pecuniosity_.--"To him that hath shall be given." The candidate must
beg, borrow, or steal something to begin with. He must possess a power
of bleeding equal to that of twenty-four country doctors.
MR. PUNCHINELLO has here given a skeleton sketch of his great work upon
politics. The reader had better make the most of it; for the Great Book
will not be published until after the author's death, which he doesn't
think (if he knows himself) is likely to happen tomorrow. And so he
closes with a brief exhortation: Go on, worthy gentlemen! Continue to
spend, drink, war, falsify, for the good of your country! Are you a
Voter? Show yourself to be such indeed, by voting all day, all the time,
and at all the polling-places! Are you a Candidate? Show yourself to be
a good one by keeping your mouth shut (except for drinking) and your
pocket open! Are you an Editor? Ah! Mr. P. has nothing to say to you.
Mr. P. is an Editor too! We understand each other, worthy brother! We
know where the world keeps its cakes and ale!
* * * * *
CAPITAL REMOVAL.
MR. PUNCHINELLO having been invited to attend and address the
Capital Removal Convention (so called) held in Cincinnati, wrote a
letter declining to be present, upon the ground that he was exceedingly
comfortable where he was. However, he added his views at great
length, but the ingrates did not even read his letter. In this he advocated
the removal of the Capitol to some point so distant that twenty-three
months of an Honorable Member's term of twenty-four months
would be spent in going and returning. At the same time Mr. P. suggested
the abolition of the salaries of the Members; and the passage
of an act making it a forgery for any member to print in _The Globe_
a never-uttered speech. But, alas for the wisdom of age! he doesn't
see that the Convention acted on any of these suggestions.
* * * * *
SMALL POTATOES.--The "Murphy" Radicals.
* * * * *
[Illustration: VERY APPROPRIATE.
_Young Man_. "HELLO! MRS. CRUMBLETY, WHAT ARE YER DOIN' ALONG ER THAT
NEWFOUDLING DORG?"
_Mrs. C._ "WELL, HE STRAYED INTO OUR HOUSE LAST NIGHT AND AS HE DIDN'T
SEEM TO HAVE NO MASTER, I THOUGHT I'D JEST TAKE HIM ROUND TO THIS HERE
NEW FOUNDLING HOSPITAL."]
* * * * *
SARSFIELD YOUNG'S REMINISCENCES OF CHARLES DICKENS.
It is surprising that since Mr. DICKEN'S decease no one should have
conceived the idea of writing a sketch of that illustrious author. It is
perhaps too much to require that some competent person prepare his
biography, but the public have a right to expect at least a few
reminiscences. I am persuaded to sketch the following imperfect outlines
only from a conviction that the great novelist has in this respect been
neglected. I trust I shall not be deemed to have broken the seal of
private confidence in this disclosing how well I knew him, and (what is
still more remarkable) how well he knew me:--
[While Mr. DICKENS was on his first visit to this country, the writer
had not the pleasure of his acquaintance. He put up in Philadelphia, at
a well-known and fashionable boarding-house then kept by an aunt of
mine, at the corner of Second and Thirteenth streets. He never said
anything while there, until he came to pay his board bill, when bidding
my aunt farewell, he observed: _"Mrs. SAGOE, for terseness and brevity,
your steaks surpass any I have ever met with."_ Aunt Sarah had these
words neatly framed, and they have hung in her back parlor to this day.
Before he came again, the country had made wonderful progress. A new
generation had been born, including myself.]
When the steamer was signalled, I went down on the wharf. DICKENS was
standing near the rail, and wore a coat, vest, pants, and a hat. I
couldn't make out through the glass how much they cost, and I forgot to
ask him afterward. Shortly after she had hauled into the dock, I went on
board. We shook hands. Mr. DICKENS had a peculiar way of reserving his
right hand for this process, though on great occasions he would use
both. We employed all four, with the understanding that a more formal
demonstration should be made at PARKER'S. I offered to carry his valise.
Graciously declining my services, he betokened his appreciation of my
delicate attention by presenting me on the spot with a complete set of
his works--Author's Edition.
"My dear fellow," he whispered, "there's a Boston man down below,
blacking my other pair of boots, who'd feel hurt if I should let anybody
else take that bag."
I called upon him as soon as he was fairly settled, and found him in his
shirt-sleeves, writing vigorously. Mr. DICKENS'S intimate friends are
aware that he indulged in the habit, while writing, of occasionally
dipping his pen in the inkstand. I don't remember much about the room
except that there were several chairs (good chairs) and a table in it.
The distinguished occupant was sitting about nine and a half feet from
the door facing the Southwest, his hair well brushed, head a little
inclined to the right, except his eyes, which, were inclined to twinkle
as though he had just hit upon something particularly bright and happy.
The carpet was green with a red figure. You could see in a moment that
he was a man of genius. The room was lighted with gas. Was it possible
that the immortal author of "DICKENS'S Works" was before me? [Upon the
table was a cigar, half consumed, an inkstand, three pen-holders, a
bundle of envelopes, a brass key, several bouquets, a paper-cutter, a
stick of sealing-wax, a quantity of writing-paper, a table-cloth
(spread), a newspaper (the date has escaped me), and such other things
as are usually on such tables.]
DICKENS, as soon as he saw me, stopped writing, wiped his pen, ran his
fingers through his hair, took out his watch and wound it up, brushed
his coat and put it on (not forgetting to place a rose in the
button-hole), and then, waving his hands very gracefully (he wore
high-priced studs and a pair of elaborately built sleeve-buttons),
addressed me as follows:--
Mr. DICKENS _(with tender embrace)_ SARSFIELD!!!!
Mr. YOUNG _(representing American Literature)_ CHARLES!!!!
The remainder of our conversation was devoted to minor topics.
Early one morning we started from the Parker House, and walking rapidly
over West Boston bridge, passed through Cambridge, by the Colleges, and
kept on travelling, without speaking a word, the best part of a couple
of days, I should judge, though I didn't have my watch with me. Suddenly
he asked the name of the town we were rapidly approaching.
"Great Harrington," said I.
"Is it possible?" said he. And we turned and walked home again.
His first reading in America was a private one to me. We had come in
from a thirty-mile walk, and I was somewhat tired. Taking up the second
volume of his History of England, he began in an easy, careless way. So
did I. I went to sleep. Just as he was finishing the book I woke up; and
when he asked me how I liked it, I told him frankly that, in my opinion,
it never would do in the world--the plot was too eccentric.
He was a kind man. Frequently he would ride for days together up and
down a railroad, for no other purpose than to help take cinders out of
people's eyes.
He was fond of oysters, of children, dogs, and an international
copyright. I remember his meeting me once on Broadway and he didn't
recognize me. He never mentioned the incident afterward. It has been
said that he was also fond of dress. I regret that I never asked him
about this, though I recall the circumstance of my inquiring where he
had his vests made. Said he; "My waistcoats were made abroad."
He never liked to sit for his photograph; consequently, he generally
stood up.
It pleased him to receive letters requesting his autograph and a lock of
his hair. The articles were invariably sent by return mail. He was also
gratified at the privilege of shaking hands with people whom he was
never to see again. I once humored him by introducing in a body two fire
companies and a Sunday school.
As we parted he gave me excellent advice: "Write with vigor," said he,
"with sincerity, and blue ink; but don't write novels. It might injure
the sale of my books." I promised him I would not, and we saw each other
no more.
SARSFIELD YOUNG.
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