Punchinello, Volume 1, No. 07, May 14, 1870

Chapter II: Part 2

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Forty-four is going to talk (with a pen) to Fourteen. I am a female; and forty-four, as just hinted, is my age. Fourteen is also a female--just the age I was once. How I recollect that day! I was full of romance and hope; now I've no romance, little hope, and some wrinkles. It is a fine thing to be fourteen. I should like to go back there, and make a long visit. But that can't be. How much I wish it could! If only there were life-renewers as well as hair-renewers! They called me pretty at fourteen--said I had pretty ways, (one of them was one hundred and thirty-five avoirdupois,) and would certainly be a belle. But I proved too much for that. One hundred and seventy-five cut off all hope. I sighed, ate nothing, studied poetry, did a good deal of melancholy by moonlight and otherwise, but nothing came of it. I made myself as agreeable as possible; but it was the old story--I was too much for 'em--I mean the young men of the period. I dressed and gave parties. I took lessons in singing of Sig. Folderol, and in dancing of Mons. Pigeonwing, and could sing cavatinas and galop galops with the best of them. Ma said I was an angel, and Pa declared I was perfect. But none of the young men said so. My dear Fourteen, it may be just so with you. Your ma and pa may say you are angelic and perfect; but where's the use of it, if nobody else can be made to see it? I tried my best to catch the young men in my net. But, provoking things, they wouldn't be caught. Between ourselves--mind, don't blab it out--young men are the greatest noodles that were ever put upon the face of the earth. I never yet saw one that could be depended upon to stand by. I am sure, as you know, no one ever stood by me--when there was a parson at hand. At fourteen I didn't much care where they stood, if it wasn't on my corns. Twenty years later I shouldn't have been so particular. But I don't much mind now, bless you! _You_ wont at forty-four. There's nothing to these young men. All talk, pretence, audacity, and paper collar, I assure you. I've studied all of them. They are the same now as then. Human nature, you know, my dear Fourteen, is the same yesterday, to-day, and week after next. I used to think it wasn't; now I know it is. These young men--monsters that they are--will pour the nectar of compliments over your face, and the acid and canker of abuse down your back; and all in the same breath, if they get a chance. Pray have an eye and an ear out for them. If you go to Long Branch, or Newport, or Saratoga, or the White Mountains this summer, just look out for them. They are dreadful creatures at home in the cities, but doubly dreadful at these resorts. You are young, simple, unsophisticated. I was at your age. But I soon got over such weaknesses. You must very soon, or be a ninny. "Simple," "artless," "unsophisticated," and such terms mean simply softness. Whatever else you are, or are not, don't be soft. The mistake of my fruitless life has been that I believed, in other years, all that was told me by the other sex. They said to my face that I was a beauty; at Mr. Jones's, they said I was a fright. They said I sang like a Patti; at Brown's, I screeched like an owl. They said I danced like Terpsichore; at Smith's, they declared I wabbled round like any other lame duck. They said my taste in dress was the pink of perfection; at the Duzenbury's, I was scandalously deficient in every thing of the sort. It's a way the young men of that day had with all the girls; and they go the same vile way now. Pray don't have any thing to do with them. I don't, and I wouldn't for the world. Folks say I'm prejudiced against em; but it isn't so--I hate 'em. It is healthy to hate what is hateful. It is healthy to hate a bundle of broadcloth, kerseymere, buttons, and brass, and it's my delight by day and dream by night. I'm forty-four--you're fourteen. I've seen the world--you haven't. You look through rosy glasses; I through the clear, naked eye. My advice to you on the young men question is this: Discount nine words in every ten spoken to you as absolute trash--the gush of mere evaporative sentiment. If you are called pretty, graceful, accomplished, neat in dress, comely in person, that your eyes sparkle like diamonds, and your lips are poetic, with whole volumes of such, just make up your mind that there are plenty of fools around trying to make a sillier one than themselves. It may seem very fine for the moment, but it will realize something very different afterward. Suppose you are _not_ caught up? All the better. I'm forty-four, independent, free, a slave to no man nor monkey. Better live, to write your own tale than be the abject one to another. Better be forty-four and yourself, than a cipher belonging to some body else. Far better beware of the young men than be worn by them. At least so thinks and says

FORTY-FOUR.

* * * * *

A NEW RAILWAY PROJECT.

While every one agrees that a railway running through the city of New-York, and transporting passengers with rapidity from one end of the island to the other, is an absolute necessity, no one has yet hit upon a plan which satisfies the public. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals objects to the Elevated Road, on the ground (though it is in the air) that the cars will continually run off the track, and, falling on the horses and dogs in the street below, crush them to a fatal jelly. The Arcade plan is objectionable to the shop-keepers, inasmuch as it will change the great thoroughfare into a street consisting exclusively of cellars, thereby driving the buyers elsewhere. Conservative people, who like old things, naturally dislike the Pneumatic Railway, and vehemently assert that "they'll be blowed if they travel over it," which will undoubtedly prove to be true. Evidently a new plan must be devised if every body is to be satisfied. That plan PUNCHINELLO rather flatters himself that he has invented.

It does not seem to have yet occurred to any one that we are not necessarily shut up to the single plan of fitting a railway to the city. Why can we not fit the city to the railway? Every body remembers that when the Mountain wouldn't come to MOHAMED, that eminent preacher went to the mountain. Here we have a precedent worth following, To build any sort of railway in New-York will take time and money. Why, then, should we do it when there are plenty of nice railways already built in every part of the country? There is a very nice railway completed and in running order from Pokertown, in Montana territory, to Euchrebend, just across the line in Idaho. All we have to do is to box up our buildings, together with the Central Park, the sewers, the docks, and the Tammany Hall General Committee, and express them through to Pokertown. The city can then be set up on each side of the Pokertown and Euchrebend Railway, and then we shall have the desired state of things--a railway running through the heart of our city. This plan is both novel and easy. At all events it is easy of execution in comparison with the Arcade plan, and it presents no features to which any one can reasonably object. Drawings of the city as it will appear when this plan has been carried out are now in process of publication, and will soon be for sale at this office. (N. B.--Shares in the Pokertown and Euchrebend Railway, and lost along the route of that admirable road, also for sale on application to the gentleman whose able pen presents this scheme to our readers.)

* * * * *

"Curses Come Home," etc.

The gay young men of New-York are said to be terribly addicted to the use of _absinthe_. They pick up the vice in Paris, and hence arises the singular paradox that, even after they return home, they still continue to be Absinthees.

* * * * *

A Logical Sequence.

Paper made from wood cannot be claimed as a modern invention, for Log books, as every body knows, have been used by mariners since ever so long ago.

* * * * *

_Young Wife._ "YES, DEAR, MY HUSBAND IS ALL I COULD WISH HIM TO BE."

_Husband (who is making bread in the back room)._ "I WISH I COULD SAY AS MUCH FOR HER."]

* * * * *

ABOUT A BLOCK.

A "COUNTRYMAN" writes to us, asking whether the extension of "Murderer's Block" is among the current city improvements, He says that, on recently visiting this city, he had great difficulty in determining the exact locality of the sanctuary in question. Some said it was in the Eighth Ward; others located it in the Seventeenth. A policeman in East Houston street, in reply to the query, "Which is Murderer's Block?" waved his hand with a gesture indicative of unlimited space, and said, "You are on it." Not pleased with the impeaching tone of this reply, our informant made his way to another ward, where he put the same question to the first policeman who came along. Without giving him a direct reply, the officer winked, shifted his quid of tobacco so as to display his Check to full advantage, and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at indefinite city "slums" behind him. Let the "Countryman" understand that, as things are at present, he may stand almost any where in the city and be within a marble-shot of "Murderer's Block." Perhaps Superintendent JOURDAN is quite aware of this.

* * * * *

Neptunian.

Is it correct to speak of the waters of the Black Sea as the colored element?

* * * * *

SONG OF THE RETURNED SOLDIER.

[WITH REMARKS BY PUNCHINELLO.]

I'll hang my harp on the willow-tree,

_(And that's a very sensible thing for him to do. A hand-organ is what he wants now.)_

And I'll off to the wars again;

_(Not much. A fellow with only one leg, and perhaps but half the regulation number of arms, is not wanted in the ranks.)_

My peaceful home has no charms for me,

_(Of course not. He gave up his home and business to go to the wars, and he can't expect to have all these things when he comes back again, you know.)_

The battle-field no pain.

_(A great many other fellows besides him found the battle-field no payin' place.)_

The country I love stands up in her pride,

_(That's so. He's right this time.)_

With a diadem on her brow;

_(Referring probably to what SUMNER calls the "dire Democracy.")_

Oh! why did she flatter my boyish pride?

_(Because she wanted men; that's all.)_

She is going to leave me now!

_(By no means. He can play his organ on the corner as long as he wants to.)_

She took me away from my child and wife,

_(That was all right enough. He couldn't take his wife and child into camp.)_

And gave me a shoddy suit;

_(Entirely the fault of the contractors.)_

I quite forgot my good old life,

_(That was perfectly proper. People in camp have to forget that sort of thing.)_

While they taught me to march and shoot.

_(Good lessons; worth learning.)_

She seemed to think me above the men

_(Made him corporal, most probably.)_

Who staid at their homes, you see;

_(And if he fought on principle he was above most of them.)_

Oh, had I jumped the bounty then,

_(Horrible idea!)_

It would have been better for me.

_(That's not so certain. To be sure, in that case he might have got a good office in some of the Departments, or been made a Consul, but why should he complain? He has a first-rate organ, and nobody hinders him from sitting on the corner and grinding it the livelong day, if it pleases him. And then there's the honor! His country may not think about it, nor the people who give him pennies, but if he feels it himself, what more need he want? How ridiculous it is for some persons to insinuate that a rich and powerful people, who can grant hundreds of thousands of dollars to railroad companies, and North Pole expeditions, ought to be ashamed to see their disabled soldiers begging on the corners! Absurd beyond comparison!)_

* * * * *

NO GHOST AFTER ALL.

MR. PUNCHINELLO, having been often scared out of his senses (which are usually very good and trustworthy senses,) by double tattoos on his library table, and also by the eccentric movements of the table itself, is happy to announce that, after all, there is nothing in it. There is a Dr. HAMMOND who has sent all necessary explanations to the _North American Review_. We do not understand them at all, but they are highly soothing and satisfactory. It seems that Mr. P. (in common with less distinguished characters) has "a gray tissue." This does not refer to his coat, but to something inside of him which renders him the nervous creature that he is. Well, not to make too scientific a matter of it, it appears that our "gray tissue" operates upon our "spinal cord," and raises the old boy (if we may be allowed the expression) with our brains; and this, in some way, but really we do not exactly see how, produces the raps, and leads us to suppose that we are hearing (dear old lady!) from our grandmother. It is astonishing how simple these mysterious matters appear after a scientific explanation.

* * * * *

THE DOG-BREAKER'S DIFFICULTY.

A PLAN IS DEVISED FOR STRAIGHTENING IT.

RESULT.]

* * * * *

Philological Query.

Is the following sentence, which Mr. PUNCHINELLO finds in that respectable paper, the _Boston Advertiser_, to be considered as English or Latin?

"The constitutio de fide has been adopted by the Ecumenical Council, nemine contradicente."

* * * * *

Absurd to Ask It.

The Belgians propose to drop the letter "h" from the French language. In France itself the proposition is received wrathfully, and it is no wonder, when we remember that Perfidious Albion has been the great dropper of "h" from time immemorial.

* * * * *

A Place Appropriately Named.

SIGH-BERIA

* * * * *

FISCALITIES.

Let no one read this title--rascalities. Fiscalities are very different things. (_That is to say, out of Wall street_.) PUNCHINELLO always had a strong liking for fiscal subjects, and even now he would be glad to write a fiscal history of the United States, provided he was furnished with specimens of all the various coins, bank-notes, greenbacks, bonds, and such mediums of exchange that have been in circulation from colonial times until now. (_That is to say, he'd like very much to have the coins and things, but if any one takes up this offer, and wants to keep his coins, a money-order for a corresponding amount, or ordinary bills, in a registered letter, will be entirely satisfactory_.) But as he can not write a book this week, he desires to draw the attention of his readers to the fact that fiscal expansion ought to be the great end of man. (_That is to say, it often is, but in a different way from what _PUNCHINELLO _means_.) For instance, look at Colonel FISK, of the glorious Ninth! Had not his vigorous intellect been closely applied to the great questions of fiscal economy, is it likely that the steady expansion of his corporeal being would have given such a weight to his wisely-planned movements? (_That is to say, if he hadn't got rich he wouldn't have got so fat, and then buildings would not tremble when he drills_.) A man who is perfectly proportioned in a fiscal point of view, can call himself a monarch of the world. The elements will own they are his servants, and the seasons will mould themselves to suit his will. (_That is to say, he can have one hundred and fifty fine young women to dance the Devil's Torchlight Cotillion in his own theatre, and he can sit there, if he wants to, all alone and look at them just as long as he pleases; and not one of them dare stop till he's ready_.) Space bows before such a man, and shrivels itself up into a mere nothing. Land and water are alike to such a one. It matters not to him whether the waves roll beneath his possessions, or the solid ground upholds them.

ST. CECILIA sits at the feet of this great exponent of fiscal expansion, and TUBAL CAIN dwells serenely in his court-yards. (_That is to say, just wait until you hear his new brass band!_) Now, who would not be as this financial monarch? Who would not say: "I, too, can do these things?" (_That is to say, which of us would not gladly take every cent the good FISK possesses, and let him beg his bread from door to door, if we only got a decent chance?_) If it were not for such shining examples of the power of wealth and the glories that it is capable of placing before our eyes, the souls of ordinary men would much less frequently be moved to extraordinary effort in the line of pecuniary progress. (_That is to say, if old_ FISK _did not change the ballet in his Twelve Temptations so often, and did not keep on getting new dancers, and dressing them all up different every week or two, we would not have to raise a dollar and half so frequently to go and see the confounded thing_.) But it is of no use to try and calculate the vast advantage of Fiscal expansion. Even with a WEBB'S Adder, PUNCHINELLO could not do the sum, and it's pretty certain that it would make WEBB Sadder, if he tried it. Among other things, a man of fiscal solidity is never unprepared for emergencies, and, if necessary, he can resort to extremities of which ordinary people would never dream. (_That is to say, have you seen_ FISK'S _last legs?_) Therefore, it becomes us all to endeavor to have a share in the prosperity of which we see such a shining example, (_that is to say_, PUNCHINELLO _does not mean for us all to go buy stock in Erie_,) and mayhap, even the humblest of us may, in time, be able to whistle "Shoo Fly" in marble halls. (_That is to say, even a poor ostler may get along very well if he attentively and industriously waters his stock_.)

* * * * *

Interesting to Mr. Bergh.

"Dog's-Ear" shirt-collars (the ones that stick up and are doubled down at the points,) are coming into fashion.

Says young SOLOMONS, the other day, "I want something new in collars; I shall cut my Dog's-ears." And he went and did it; which is decidedly interesting to Mr. BERGH.

* * * * *

An Interesting Patient.

New-Haven enjoys an elephant that has corns, and is about to be operated on by a chiropodist. There is a largeness, approaching to sublimity, in the idea of an elephant with corns, though it naturally suggests the query, "What Boots it?"

* * * * *

A Dogged Problem.

If Sir WALTER SCOTT'S dog was worth--say--ten "pounds," what was his Kenilworth?

* * * * *

CONDENSED CONGRESS.

SENATE.

The gentle CHANDLER is occasionally goaded to rage and rhetoric by perfidious Albion. The other day he had one of these deliriums. In the language of the bard.

He shook his fists and he tore his hair
Till they really felt afraid;
For they couldn't help thinking
the man had been drinking.

He wanted to annex the Winnipeg district. It was true that the Winnipeg district was an unmitigated nuisance to England; and probably it would prove an unmitigated nuisance to us if we annexed it. But it would make Great Britain mad. The dearest object of his life was to madden Great Britain. What was Great Britain? What business had she on this continent? None but the right of conquest. It occurred to him that that was all we had ourselves; but that made no difference. His motto was, Great Britain _est_ Carthago, or _delenda_ must be destroyed, or something of that sort--he forgot exactly what. He knew we could whip Great Britain, and he wanted to fight her. That is, he wanted some body else to fight her. It would be the proudest moment of his life to serve, exclusively as a sutler, in the grand American army which should go forth to smash Great Britain. Queen VICTORIA was only a woman. Therefore he would fight her single-handed. Let her come on. Let her son, who was a snob, come on. Let Mr. THORNTON come on. Let every body come on. He defied every body. He expectorated upon every body. (Mr. CHANDLER by this time became so earnest that seven Senators were constrained to wait upon him, but it produced no sedative effect.) Mr. CHANDLER kept on in this manner until he had challenged the population of the planet to single combat, and then subsided, and ordered five hundred copies of the morrow's _Globe_ to send to various potentates and constituents.

Mr. DRAKE said of course no body minded CHANDLER. But there were some glimmerings of sense in CHANDLER, and he thought the Winnipeg war would be a good thing. Perhaps CHANDLER might be induced to go out there, which would make it pleasant for the Senate. Mr. SUMNER said he was disgusted, not with CHANDLER'S principles, which were excellent, but with his quotation, which was incorrect. He considered correct quotation far more important than correct principles. Every school-boy knew that _delenda est Carthago_ was what Mr. CHANDLER attempted to cite. To be sure Mr. CHANDLER was not every school-boy. (Cheers for every School-boy.) Mr. SUMNER took advantage of this occasion to relate several incidents of the life of HANNIBAL, and closed with a protest against the accursed spirit of caste. In support of this view he sent to the clerk's desk, and had read a few chapters from KANT'S Critique of Pure Reason.

HOUSE.

Schenck scatters members to flight whenever he introduces his tariff bill. This disgusts SCHENCK, and he has been trying to bring back the erring Representatives by the use of the Sergeant-at-Arms and fines. The House has lately amused itself by listening to excuses.

Mr. BUTLER'S name was called. Mr. BUTLER was not there. Mr. SCHENCK proposed to fine him.

Mr. COX objected. Why, he said, should the sweet boon of BUTLER'S absence rouse the anger of SCHENCK. He would suggest an amendment that BUTLER be fined when present and blessed when away. The less they had of BUTLER the better.

Mr. AMES was making money, and therefore he could not come.

Mr. DAVIS was prosecuting MCFARLAND, which he considered better fun than discussing the tariff.

Mr. FITCH had gone to take a bath. Mr. LOGAN said that was ridiculous. He himself had never found it necessary to absent himself on such a ground. No representative of the people ought to take a bath.

He was sorry to see this tendency to aristocracy on the part of members. West Point and the bath-tub were undermining our institutions.

Mr. POLAND said that he had been to call on a clergyman. Mr. LOGAN said that was worse if possible than the bath. He much preferred immersion to sprinkling.

Mr. SWEENEY (who is Mr. SWEENEY?) had been superintending the birth of an infant SWEENEY. Mr. KELLEY said a man who would basely look after his young when the fate of pig-iron was trembling in the balance, was unworthy to represent American freemen. What was the interesting situation of any individual, male or female, compared to the interesting situation of "fish-plates." The same fiendish spirit that animated the Confederate armies was still alive. But it now found expression in vile and insidious attacks upon the "scrap-iron" which was the pride of every true American heart. He did not hesitate to say that the man who would vote against an increase of 7000 per cent, _ad valorem_, upon railway iron would, if his cowardly soul would let him, have aimed the pistol of the assassin at the late Mr. LINCOLN.

Mr. LOGAN said there was no occasion for Mr. KELLEY to say any thing about any man from Illinois. He, LOGAN, could take care of that State without KELLEY'S assistance. He had observed with grief and shame that KELLEY had made several more speeches this session than he (LOGAN) had. He did not intend to suffer this in future.

Mr. KELLEY said he voted for his constituents, who were ironmongers; but ho spoke, in an iron-ical way, for the whole country. He meant to speak early and speak often.

Mr. SCHENCK upheld the income-tax. He said it bore very lightly on Congressmen, for none but honest men were compelled to pay it.

* * * * *

OUR LITERARY LEGATE.

Minister MOTLEY is a gentleman, a scholar, and, though last not least, as genial a diner and winer as ever put American legs under a British peer's mahogany. There was a time when he was for avenging British outrage by whipping John Bull out of his boots, but now, clad in a dress-coat of unexceptionable cut, he deprecates the idea of international breaches. As a diplomatist he could scarcely show more indifference to the Alabama claim, if the claim itself were All a Bam. He roars for recompense more gently than a sucking dove. When he presented our little bill a _grand coup_ was expected, but the trans-atlantic turtle seems to have shut him up. Listening to compliments on the "Dutch Republic" he forgets his own, and renders but a Flemish account to his country. Not content with following the festive footsteps of his illustrious predecessor, REVERDY, he has made new tracks to every hospitable nobleman's door. The scented soft-soap of adulation is his "particular vanity," and under its soothing influence he seems to be washing his hands of his official responsibilities. In point of fact, MOTLEY has deserted his colors, and, as a diplomat, is by no means up to the American Standard. As it is clear he cannot maintain the _prestige_ of the Star Spangled Banner abroad, we call upon the Government to give him Hail Columbia, and order him home.

* * * * *

CONS BY A WRECKER.

Where are women wrecked? Off the Silly Islands.
Where are men wrecked? Some off Port, some Half Seas over,
some off the Horn, or wherever they Chews.
Where are rogues wrecked? In the Dock.
Where are brokers wrecked? On the Breakers.
Where are children wrecked? Some in Babycome Bay, and some on the
Coral Islands.
Where are bad musicians wrecked? On the Sound.
Where are would-be sharpers wrecked? On the Mighty Deep.

* * * * *

BOOK NOTICES.

IN SPAIN AND A VISIT TO PORTUGAL. By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. New-York: HURD & HOUGHTON.

A good summer book of nearly three hundred pages. As usual, ANDERSEN is not abstruse in his way of putting things. His narrative is adapted alike for the juvenile mind and for the adult. There is no periphrasis in it. One understands his meaning at a glance; therefore the book should be a very popular one when summer time sets in, and people look for some quiet _delassement_ which will not compel them to think.

_Policeman._ "THAT'S HIM: OVER THERE PICKING THE OLD GENTLEMAN'S POCKET."

_Green Youth._ "THEN WHY DON'T YOU ARREST HIM?"

_Policeman._ "WELL, IT MIGHT MAKE HIM FEEL UGLY TOWARDS ME, I LIKE A QUIET LIFE."]

PUNCHINELLO:

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These beautiful little machines are very fascinating, as well as useful; and every lady should have one, as they can make every conceivable kind of crochet or fancy work upon them.

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This is the most perfect and complete machine in the world. It knits every thing.

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Parties getting up Clubs preferring cash to premiums, may deduct seventy-five cents upon each full subscription sent for four subscribers and upward, and after the first remittance for four subscribers may send single names as they obtain them, deducting the commission.

Remittances should be made in Post-Office Orders, Bank Checks, or Drafts on New-York City; or if these can not be obtained, then by Registered Letters, which any post-master will furnish.

Charges on money sent by express must be prepaid, or the net amount only will be credited.

Directions for shipping machines must be full and explicit, to prevent error. In sending subscriptions give address, with Town, County, and State.

The postage on this paper will be twenty cents per year, payable quarterly in advance, at the place where it is received. Subscribers in the British Provinces will remit twenty cants in addition to subscription.

All communications, remittances, etc., to be addressed to P.O. Box 2783.

PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY

No. 83 Nassau Street,

NEW-YORK

* * * * *

S. W. GREEN. PRINTER, CORNER JACOB AND FRANKFORT STREETS.

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