Punchinello, Vol. II., No. 34, November 19, 1870 - Various
The Poet having now advanced so far in his work as to make a very
respectable collection of poems, and beginning to run short of matter,
casts his eyes around him in search of aid, hoping to find inspiration
in some fortuitous moment from the many little incidents that are always
occurring, and which only observing minds would notice. For the time he
sees nothing that would suggest even to the most sparkling intellect the
shadow of a rhyme, and he begins to be in despair. He walks up and down
his dingy room, thrusts his long fingers amid the raven locks that adorn
his poetical cranium, and gently at first, then furiously, irritates the
cuticle of his imaginative head-piece, hoping thereby to waken up his
ideas and find a foundation upon which to erect another stone in the
edifice of his never-fading glory.
This process does not seem to be as successful as usual: the ideas
refuse to come at his bidding, and he glares around in consternation,
Can it be possible that he has exhausted himself; that his ideas are
entirely run out; that the fountain is dry, and the Muse has ceased to
smile upon him; that he must descend from his high elevation as the poet
of the family, the hope and pride of his friends and the admiration of
himself, and sink to the level of his earthy brothers and become one of
them, no better and no worse? No--perish the thought! never again will
he mingle with those rude and vulgar natures, having no thoughts or
feelings above their creature comforts: content to live like animals,
uninspired by the divine _afflatus_, untouched by the poetic fire. Full
of determined energy never to yield the high position he has acquired,
he rushes forth into the open air and takes his winding way through the
green meadows and leafy wilds. Here, sitting on the stump of an old
tree, he spies little Bob Peepers, weeping as if his heart would break:
the briny tears coursing down his ruddy cheeks form little rivulets of
salt water with high embankments of genuine soil on either side, and a
distracted map of a war-ridden country is depicted upon his
grief-stricken countenance. Full of compassion for the suffering, the
tender heart of the Poet melts at the sight, and in mellifluous tones he
asks, "What is the matter, BUB?"
Sobbingly digging his fists into his eyes, and carefully wiping his
classic nose on the sleeve of his jacket, the heart-broken mourner
murmurs:--
"I've lost my sheep,
And don't know where to find them,"
and bursts forth into a prolonged howl. That heart-rending cry of agony
is too much for the gentle Poet, who, sinking upon the ground beside the
weeper, ventures to whisper a hope that Time, or some of the neighbors,
may bring back the lost sheep and restore happiness and tranquillity to
the agitated bosom. The suggestion is met with incredulous scorn and
another burst of uncontrollable sorrow, amid the pauses of which Bob
recounts to his sympathetic friend how, "being wearied with watching the
gambolling sheep, he laid himself down in the meadow to sleep, and never
awoke till a blue-bottle fly, who buzzing about so tickled his eye that
sleep fled away. Then he rose to his feet, and looked around for the
gambolling sheep, but found, they were gone he couldn't tell where: so
he threw himself down in the deepest despair, bemoaning his strange
unaccountable loss, and the horrible beating he'd get from the Boss,
when at night he went home with his sad tale of woe. He was sure he
would never have courage to go."
The sad tale so pathetically and ingenuously told melted the already
simmering heart of the hearer, who counselled tranquillity and
philosophy in the words
"Let them alone and they'll come home,"
and jocularly added, as he saw a ray of hope lighting up the eye of the
boy, like the first rays of the sun seen through a fog,
"And bring their tails behind them."
The brilliant idea of their tails coming behind them instead of before
them tickled the risibilities of the sympathizing friends, and for a few
moments the woods echoed to their responsive mirth.
The laugh did them good. The poet perceived instantly he had a theme
upon which to build his verse, and hastily bidding BOB "good-by," he
flew exultingly to his paternal abode, rushed up the garret stairs,
seized his goose-quill, and amid the tumultuous beatings of his
over-charged heart and throbbing brain jotted down on the instant, in
all the enthusiasm of poetic fervor, the incident that had fallen under
his inspired observation. Not to be too personal, and still to preserve
the truthfulness of the history, he dropped a few letters from BOB
PEEPER'S name, while, with a wonderful accuracy unknown to modern
writers, he keeps to the subject of his verse, its misery, the remedy
and result, and facetiously gives to the world the same cause for
laughter and inspiration that he received so gratefully.
* * * * *
THE POLITEST NATION IN THE WORLD.
We had always considered JOHNNY CRAPAUD as the pink of politeness. But
we are now satisfied that JOHNNY BULL goes ever so far ahead of him. We
have never known that Frenchman yet, who would oblige his enemies by
killing himself. But the recent loss of the _Captain_ shows that the
noble Englishmen are prepared to do this by wholesale. One could wish
our enemies no worse luck than to have a few such _Captains_ given them.
And how lavish the expenditure! It takes no end of money to get up one
of those big iron-plated coffins. It is certainly a dramatic,
_auto-da-fe_ and a most obliging act, considered with reference to one's
possible enemies. No Frenchman ever thought of such a thing. In fact,
they go no further than positively declining to do anything bad with
their navy.
* * * * *
[Illustration: FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE.
"THERE WAS A SURPRISE PARTY AT No. 9,999 TWENTY-THIRD STREET LAST
EVENING. UPON RETURNING FROM THE OPERA, THE PROPRIETORS FOUND THEIR
MANSION FULL, OF GUESTS."]
* * * * *
A DRY SETTLEMENT.
There is a little young village in Denver which rejoices in the name of
Greeley. To this place came a benevolent bar-keeper, bringing a cheerful
stock of whiskey. Down upon his grocery came the enraged Greeleyites,
and to prevent their own stomachs from being burned, they burned the
building. We can imagine these very particular pioneers passing a great
variety of the most astonishing laws, with various penalties. For
chewing tobacco--one month's imprisonment; for subscribing to The _N.Y.
Evening Post_--death; while for the hideous misdemeanor of eating white
bread, the offender would be left to the pangs of his own indigestion.
* * * * *
Fact. Fancy, and Fun-ding.
THE FUNDING BILL, as a step towards making the Erie Canal free, should
commend itself to any one, since if it becomes a fact, it will, we
fancy, prevent this noble industrial enterprise from becoming, like its
first cousin, simply an eyrie for the vultures of finance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE LATEST STYLE.
AS MEN'S CLOTHES ARE CUT HOUR-GLASS FASHION NOW, PUNCHINELLO SUGGESTS
THE ABOVE PATTERN AS AN APPROPRIATE ONE FOR THEM.]
* * * * *
THE ALARM-BELLE AT RYE.
At Rye, Westchester County, a small town
Built near the Sound, but of a scant renown,
That always to its biggest size did run
At summer-time, beneath a blazing sun,
But rested as a _town_, as if to say,
"I'll pay no further taxes, come what may;"--
The ancient cobbler, JOHN, unknown to fame
(So many cobblers since have borne the name),
Owned the great belle of all that country place,
His daughter, with her tongue and lovely face,
Who took to soothing every kind of pain,
Tramped through the streets, dragging a muddy train.
With kerchief blowed her horn both, loud and long.
And talked incessantly of every wrong,
Kept her tongue wagging, until right was done.
Thus did the daughter of old cobbler John.
What mighty good this BERGH of that Burgh did.
While her tongue lasted, she had never hid:
Suffice it that, as all things must decay,
The fleshy tongue at length was worn away;
She mouthed it for a while, and people dreamed
Of golden days before this belle had screamed.
Loaded and beat their horses at their ease.
Drove thorn with, wounded backs and broken knees,
Turned turtles over, and e'en tortured clams.
Murdered trichinae, when they boiled their hams.
Till one, a doctor, who was passing by,
Struck by the horrors going on in Rye,
Cut from a calf, that yet was very young.
And kindly gave unto the belle, a tongue.
By chance it happened that in Rye town dwelt.
A German grocer (and his wife, a Celt),
Who loved his lager and his pretzels too
(His wife was partial to the morning dew).
But, when we fell into these troublous times,
He cared for nothing but to save his dimes.
He had a donkey, that would sometimes go.
Just as the donkey chanc'd to feel, you know,
Which he would ride, whenever his brigade
Was ordered to the streets for a parade;
But as the times got hard, he'd loudly swear
The oats that donkey ate he could not spare.
At length he said: "I'll turn him out, py Gott!"
Looked at his wife and to her said, "Vy not?
Let him go eat upon the public ways,
I want him only for the training days."
So the poor donkey had to feed on thistles.
Until his hair became like unto bristles.
One afternoon, when everybody slept
Except the belle, out from her house she crept,
And met the donkey, walking on the way;
He smelt the calf and thought to have some play.
Kicked up his heels, a grating bray did utter.
And laid the belle a-rolling in the gutter.
She raised a mighty shout, she raised a squeal.
And loudly her persistent tongue did peal,
And this did seem the burden of her song:
"Some chap hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!
"Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd"
Of vagabonds and urchins, shouting loud,
Gathered around the poor, bedraggled squealer,
Until at length there came a stout Rye peeler;
Who forthwith told the belle her cries to cease.
And took her to a Justice of the Peace.
The Justice heard the story of the belle,
And looking wise and grave, he said: "'Tis well;
Bring me the old Dutchman." The grocer brought,
Shaking with fear, then stood before the Court.
And then' the Justice to recite began
The charter of the Cruelty to An-
Imals Society, and then he said:
"Pride rideth on a donkey, as I've read,
Until it gets a fall, and then it loses
Its dignity and blubbers o'er its bruises.
These are newspaper proverbs, but I fear
You don't love proverbs, as you do your beer.
Just take that donkey and give him an oat,
And don't show up until you've brushed his coat."
The grocer left disgusted, took the brute;
And all the people then at him did hoot.
The cobbler heard and almost split his knee
[He took it for the lapstone in his glee],
"Church bells," quoth he, "but ring us to the mass.
My belle hath gone and saved a starving ass;
And this shall make, when put in jingling rhyme,
The Belle of Rye all famous for all time."
* * * * *
A CHEERFUL SUBJECT.
According to an Ohio paper, a double child has been born to a couple
named FINLEY, in Morrow county. It is, so to speak, a double-ender,
being provided with a supplementary head at the point where the feet are
usually situated. The child is a female-and a very curious amendment to
the Sixteenth Amendment, since, should it arrive at woman's estate, it
will, of course, be entitled to a double vote. How will it be should one
end go Republican and the other Democratic? To send a duplex woman into
the world seems to be a very unnecessary freak of Nature, seeing that
there is enough of duplicity in womankind already.
* * * * *
Homoeopathic Politics.
THE CITIZENS' ASSOCIATION, finding that their sands of life are nearly
run out, are now advertising privately for some fresh candidates, who
for a salary will undertake to cure the ring-worms of the body politic
by their pimple prescription of substitution, or putting yourself in
their place, which is a political modification of the law in
homoeopathic medicine, _similie similibus errantur_, or in morals, "set
a rogue to catch a rogue."
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
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+--------------------------------------------------------------+
[Illustration: WHAT WE ARE COMING TO.
_Cook (negotiating for situation)._ "WELL, IT'LL BE NICISSARY FOR ME TO
HAVE A FOTERGRAFF OF YER WIFE, AND A RICOMMINDATION FROM YER LAST
COOK."]
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
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| AND |
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