Chapter XXVII: Solution

In the darkness of a night made opaque by approaching showers, a man stands under the low-drooping branches of the edge of a wood skirting the cross-road leading down to Gospeler's Gulch.

"Not enough saved from the wreck even to buy the merciful rope that should end all my humor and impecuniosity!" he mutters, over his folded arms and heaving chest. "I have come to this out-of-the-way suburb to end my miserable days, and not so much as one clothes-line have I seen yet. There is the pond, however; I can jump into that, I suppose: but how much more decent were it to make one's quietus under the merry greenwood tree with a cord--"

He stops suddenly, holding his breath; and, almost simultaneously with a sharp, rushing noise in the leaves overhead, something drops upon his shoulder. He grasps it, cautiously feels of it, and, to his unspeakable amazement, discovers that it is a rope apparently fastened to the branches above!

"Wonderful!" he ejaculates, in an awe-stricken whisper. "Providence helps a wretch to die, if not to live. At any other time I should think this very strange, but just now I've got but one thing to do. Here's my rope, here's my neck, and here goes!"

Heedless of everything but his dread intention, he rapidly ties the rope about his throat, and is in the act of throwing forward his whole weight upon it, when there is a sharp jerk of the rope, he is drawn up about three feet in the air, and, before he can collect his thoughts, is as abruptly let down upon his feet again. Simultaneously, a sound almost like suppressed swearing comes very clearly to his ear, and he is conscious of something dimly white in the profound darkness, not far away.

"Sold again: signed, J. BUMSTEAD," exclaims a deep voice. "I thought the rope was caught in a crotch; but 'twasn't. Try't once more."

The astounded hearer feels the rope tugging at his own neck again, and, with a half comprehension of the situation, calls "Stop!" in a suffocating voice.

"Who's there?" comes from the darkness.

"JEREMY BENTHAM, late proprietor of first-class American Comic Paper.--Died of Comic Serial.--Want to hang myself," is the jerky reply from the other side.

"Got your own rope, sir?"

"No. One fell down on my shoulders just as I was wishing for it; but it seems to be too elastic."

"That's the other end 'f _my_ rope, air," rejoins the second voice, as in wrath. "I threw't over the branches and thought it had caught, instead of that it let me down, sir."

"And drew me up," says Mr. BENTHAM.

Before another word can be spoken by either, the light of a dark-lantern is flashed upon them. There is Mr. BUMSTEAD, not three yards from Mr. BENTHAM; each with an end of the same rope about his neck, and the head of the former turbaned with a damp towel.

"Are ye men?" exclaims the deep voice of Mr. MELANCTHON SCHENCK from behind the lantern, "and would ye madly incur death before having taken out life-policies in the Boreal?"

"And would my uncle celebrate my return in this style?" cried still another voice from the darkness.

"Who's that spoke just then?" cries the Ritualistic organist.

The answer comes like the note of a trumpet:--

"EDWIN DROOD!"

At the same instant a great glare of light breaks upon the scene from a bonfire of tar-barrels, ignited at the higher end of the cross-road by young SMALLEY; and, to the mingled bewilderment and exasperation of Mr. BUMSTEAD, the radiance reveals, as in noonday, Mr. SCHENCK and his long-lost nephew standing before him; and, coming towards them in festive procession from Gospeler's Gulch. MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON with FLORA on his arm, the Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON escorting MAGNOLIA, Mr. DIBBLE guarding Mrs. SIMPSON, Mr. CLEW'S arm in arm with JOHN McLAUGHLIN. Father DEAN and Judge SWEENEY, Miss CAROWTHERS, and the SMYTHES.

"Trying to hang yourselves!" exclaims Mr. DIBBLE, as the throng gathers curiously around the two gentlemen of the rope.

"And my old friend BENTHAM, too!" cries the Gospeler.

"How perfectly ridiculous!" warbles FLORA.

Staring majestically from one face to the other, and from thence towards the illuminating bonfire, Mr. BUMSTEAD, quite unconscious of the picturesque effect of the towel on his head, deliberately draws an antique black bottle from his pocket, moistens his lips therewith, passes it to the Comic Paper man, and eats a clove.

"What is the meaning of this general intoxication?" he then asks quite severely. "Why does this mass-meeting, greatly under the influence of inferior liquor as it plainly is, intrude thus upon the last hours of a Ritualistic gentleman and a humorous publisher?"

"Because, Uncle JACK," returns EDWIN DROOD, holding his hands curiously behind him as he speaks, "this is a night of general rejoicing Bumsteadville, in honor of my reappearance; and, directed by your landlord, Mr. SMYTHE, we have come out to make you join in our cheer. We are all heartily sorry for the great anguish you have endured in consequence of my unexplained absence. Let me tell you ow it was, as I have already told all our friends here. You know where you placed me while you were in your clove-trance, and I was o unbecomingly asleep, on Christmas night. Well, I was discovered there, in less than three hours thereafter, by JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, who carried me to his own house, and there managed to awaken me. Recovering my senses, I was disgusted with myself, ashamed of what had happened, and anxious to leave Bumsteadville. I swore 'Old Mortarity' to secrecy--"

"--Which I have observed," explains MCLAUGHLIN, nodding.

"--And started immediately for Egypt, in Illinois," continues Mr. DROOD. "There I went into railroading; am engaged to a nice little girl there; and came back two days ago to explain myself all around, returning here, I saw JOHN MCLAUGHLIN first, who told me that a certain Mr. CLEWS was here to unravel the Mystery about me, and persuaded me to let Mr. CLEWS work you into another visit to the cellar the Pauper Burial Ground, and there appear to you as my own ghost, before finally revealing myself as I now do."

The glassy eyes of the Ritualistic organist are fixed upon him in a most uncomfortable manner, but no comment comes.

"And I, Mr. BUMSTEAD," says the old lawyer, "must apologize to you for having indulged a wrong suspicion. Possibly you were rather rash in charging everybody else with assassination and larceny, and offering to marry my ward upon the strength of her dislike to you; but we'll say no more of those things now. Miss POTTS has consented to become Mrs. PENDRAGON; Miss PENDRAGON is the betrothed of Rev. Mr. SIMPSON,--"

"--Miss CAROWTHERS honors me with a matrimonial preference," interpolates Judge SWEENEY, gallantly bowing to that spinster.--

"--Breachy Mr. BLODGETT!" sighs the lady, to herself.--

"--And three weddings will help us to forget everything but that which is bright and pleasant," concludes the lawyer.

Next steps to the front Mr. TRACEY CLEWS, with his surprising head of hair, and archly remarks:

"I believe you take me for a literary man, Mr. BUMSTEAD."

"What is that to me, sir? _I've_ no money to lend," returns the organist, with marked uneasiness.

"To tell you the truth," proceeds the author of "The Amateur Detective," --"to tell you the whole truth, I have been playing the detective with you by order of Mr. DIBBLE, and hope you will excuse my practice upon you."

"He is my clerk," explains Mr. DIBBLE.

Whereupon Mr. TRACEY CLEWS dexterously whips off his brush of red hair, and stands revealed as Mr. BLADAMS.

Merely waiting to granulate one more clove, Mr. BUMSTEAD settles the rope about his neck anew, squints around under the wet towel in a curiously ghastly manner, and thus addresses the meeting:--

"Ladies and gen'l'men--I've listened to y'r impudence with patience, and on any other 'casion would be happy to see y'all safe home. At present, however, Mr. BENTHAM and I desire to be left alone, if 'ts all th' same t' you. You can come for the bodies in th' morning."

"BENTHAM! BENTHAM!" calls the Gospeler, "I can't see you acting in that way, old friend. Come home with me to-night, and we'll talk of starting a Religious Weekly together. That's your only successful American Comic Paper."

"By Jove! so it is!" bawls JEREMY BENTHAM, like one possessed. "I never thought of that before! I'm with you, my boy." And, hastily slipping the rope from his neck, he hurries to his friend's side.

"And you, Uncle JACK--look at this!" exclaims Mr. E. DROOD, bringing from behind his back and presenting to the melancholy organist a thing that looks, at first glance, like an incredibly slim little black girl, headless, with no waist at all, and balanced on one leg.

Mr. BUMSTEAD reaches for it mechanically; a look of intelligence comes into his glassy eyes; then they fairly flame.

"ALLIE!" he cries, dancing ecstatically.

It is the Umbrella--old familiar bone-handle, brass ferrule--in a bran-new dress of alpaca!

All gaze at him with unspeakable emotion, as, with the rope cast from him, he pats his dear old friend, opens her half way, shuts her again, and the while smiles with ineffable tenderness.

Suddenly a shriek--the voice of FLORA--breaks the silence:--

"It rains!--oh, my complexion!"

"Rains?" thunders the regenerated BUMSTEAD, in a tone of inconceivable triumph. "So it does. Now then, ALLIE, do your duty;" and, with a softly wooing, hospitable air, he opens the umbrella and holds it high over his head.

By a common instinct they all swarm in upon him, craning their heads far over each other's shoulders to secure a share of the Providential shelter. The glare of the great bonfire falls upon the scene; the rain pours down in torrents: they crowd in upon him on all sides, until what was once a stately Ritualistic man resembles some tremendous monster with seventeen wriggling bodies, thirty-four legs, and an alpaca canopy above all.

THE END.

* * * * *

THE RACE OF THE DAUNTLESS AND CAMBRIA.

Punchinello's Sporting Special went down to Sandy Hook last week to supervise the race between the _Dauntless_ and the _Cambria_. The affair was consequently a great success.

Attired in white corduroy breeches, a blue velvet waistcoat, and a light boating-jacket of yellow flannel, your reporter left the Battery at 6 hrs. 22 m, and 5 secs, on Friday morning, and steamed slowly down the bay in the editorial row-boat _Punchinelletto_, which was manned by an individual of remarkable oar-acular powers. So highly was he gifted indeed in this respect, that your special was enabled to predict the result of the aquatic gambols with perfect accuracy, as it afterward appeared. Having got the yachts in position, he gave Messrs. BENNETT and ASHBURY an audience, in which it was settled by your representative that, owing to a split in the _Cambria's_ club-topsail, both parties should carry their block-headed jibs; and the contest was begun.

In his anxiety to see fair play, however, your reporter at first innocently took the lead, shooting off, at the given signal, far in advance of the two yachts. His surprise was therefore great when the latter suddenly hove to on their beam-ends, and declared an armistice, to permit of Mr. ASHBURY'S publishing the following:

_Card_.

Much as I appreciate the kindness and attention extended to me on all previous occasions in these waters, I must still politely insist that the _Punchinelletto_ relinquish her natural and perhaps unavoidable tendency to take the wind out of everybody's sails, and submit to remain in the wake of these yachts during the continuance of the race. And I hereby challenge all fast-sailing yachts of over 100 tons burthen, and under 50, to a 15-mile race dead to windward and back again alive.

(Signed) ASHBURY.

Upon this your reporter manned the yard-arms, fired a salute of 100 guns, and directed the Oar-acular to back water; thereby giving the _Dauntless_ the lead, which she retained up to the end of the race. By the clever management of her Tacks she succeeded in completely Nailing the _Cambria_. On the home-stretch, however, the latter began "eating up" on her to such an alarming degree, that it was feared the provisions of the Dauntless would not hold out. By putting the crew on half-rations of champagne and sponge-cake this awful calamity was averted.

Excited by the presence of danger, your reporter forgot his habitual caution, and giving his Oar-ist a hearing, made all sail for the mark-boat. The tow-line was passed from the bows aft, and there attached to the boat-hook, held by your representative. Upon this impromptu clothes-line was crowded all the canvas, velvet, linen, and other dry-goods appertaining to the gallant captain and his self-sacrificing crew. The latter gentleman might have been seen under this gay cloud of drapery working fitfully but energetically to and fro. But 't was all in vain! The _Dauntless_ passed the mark-boat, and the race was won. Won? But by whom?

The daily papers, with their usual inaccuracy, have made it appear that the _Dauntless_ was the winner, but among thinking men there is but one opinion in regard to the matter, an opinion fully explained and corroborated in the following, published by Mr. ASHBURY, immediately on the _Punchinelletto_ passing the mark-boat:

_Card_.

I take this opportunity of saying that whatever misunderstanding may have arisen in the early part of this race as to the position of the _Punchinelletto_, it is now but just to admit that she has shown herself worthy, both in point of speed and management, to take rank among the first-class yachts of the fleet, and I hereby challenge, &c., &c.

(Signed) ASHBURY.

This was further supplemented by a

_Card_ from Mr. BENNETT.

In token of my concurrence in the brilliant success of the _Punchinelletto_, and my personal esteem for her commander, I hereby beg to place at his disposal my yacht _Dauntless_, together with all her stores, ordnance, by-laws, and small arms.

(Signed) BENNETT.

In reply to both of which your reporter circulated the following:

_Reply_.

It is my express desire that no public mention shall be made of the part by which the _Dauntless_ was permitted apparently to win the race. It is the duty of him who might have been victor to display a magnanimous spirit to those who in that case would have been the vanquished. I must, however, regret that circumstances of a peculiar nature prevent my availing myself of Mr. BENNETT's kind offer. Though this will not stand in the way of my accepting with pleasure--nay, even with alacrity--the $250 silver cup appointed for the winner of to-day's race, as the just meed of one who, though of a naturally retiring disposition, is forced on the present occasion to acknowledge himself _facile princeps_.

(Signed) Sporting Spec, _vice_ PUNCHINELLO.

After waiting for Mr. BENNETT'S gig, or water-buggy, to row up and award the prize, your special nodded majestically to the Oar-acular, who thereupon steamed slowly up the bay again, arriving at the Battery in the rosy dawn.

* * * * *

PRUSSIA'S POSITION PHILOSOPHICALLY PUT.

German metaphysicians have settled so completely to the satisfaction of their countrymen that "being" and "not being" are identical, that this may serve to explain how, while holding possession of her share in the partition of Poland, Prussia professes to be virtuously indignant at France for retaining Alsace and Lorraine.

* * * * *

OUT OF THE PAN INTO THE FIRE.

What with BISMARCK'S pangerrmanism, the CZAR'S panslavism, NAPOLEON'S panlatinism, the spread of pantheism, the threatened metamorphosis of pantalettes into pantaloons, ANDREWS' pantarchy, and Fox's pantomime, the old régime seems going precipitately to pot.

* * * * *

A JUDICIOUS JEW.

Such was the one who wished to contract for the sweepings of Steinway Hall when he heard that NILSSON showered throughout the room her precious tones.

* * * * *

EXIT "SUN."

The newsboys in the streets no longer cry _The Sun_, with stentorian voices, but in gentle whispers, fearing to disturb the repose of that waning luminary.

* * * * *

TAPPING THE TILL.

Is there any connection between the quite common offence in New York of "tapping the till," and the nomination of a Mr. TAPPAN for Comptroller by the JOHN REAL Democracy?

* * * * *

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS

Pretty _Fräulein_ Margarat asks me to go to church with her. She is not a New Yorker--or, as Webster would probably say,--a New Yorkeress. She is rural in her ways and thoughts, a daisy of the fields. Never having seen the interior of a city church, she asks me to go with her to any Protestant church that I may select. So we go to the shrine of St. APOLLOS, which, I am told, is regarded as one of the most fashionable houses in the city.

It is a matinee service that we elect to attend. A long procession of carriages is drawn up beside the building as we enter, and I recognize in the coachmen the familiar faces that wait outside the ACADEMY on opera nights. The organ overture is already begun, and the audience is rapidly assembling. We enter the parquette--I should say, the body of the church--and, standing in picturesque attitudes against the wall, wait for the coming of the usher. We continue to wait. Evidently the usher, in common with his kind, despises those who are not holders of reserved seats. He welcomes with a smile the owners of private boxes--pews, I mean--and shows them politely up the aisle; but for us, who have not even an order from the mana--, sexton, I should say--he has neither smile nor glance.

By and by I pluck up courage and pluck him by the sleeve. So, with a severe air of suppressed indignation, he shows us to a couple of ineligible seats, where the draft disarranges MARGARET'S hair, and the charity children drop books of the op--, that is to say, prayer-books, and molasses candy in unpleasant proximity to our helpless feet.

Neither MARGARET nor I possess a libret--, a prayer-book I mean. However, that is a matter of no consequence, as we are both familiar with the dialog--, or rather the service. The organist having ended his overture, the service begins. Not even the wretched method of the tenor--I refer of course to the clerk--and his miserably affected execution of the recitative passages, can mar the beauty of the words. The audience evidently feels their solemn import. The young lady and the young male person who sit immediately in front of me clasp surreptitious hands as they bow their heads to repeat the confession that they are miserable sinners, and she whispers by no means softly to him of the "frightful bonnets the SMITH girls have on." Presently the recitative of the clerk is succeeded by a contest in chanting--probably for the championship--by two rival choruses of shrill-voiced boys, who hurl alternate verses of the Psalms at one another with the fiercest intensity. MARGARET is betrayed into an inadvertent competition with them, by reading a verse aloud, as had been her custom elsewhere, but the charity children smile aloud at her, and the usher frowns, so she sits down again with reddened cheeks.

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.