Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 32, November 5, 1870

Chapter IV: Canto IX

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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."

* * * * *

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.]

* * * * *

_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.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

"AT A PRIVATE THEATRE IN THIS CITY MR. J--N SM--TH RECENTLY MADE HIS _début_ 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.

* * * * *

_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.

_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,

---------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------

* * * * * *

---------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------

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.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

_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.

Time: 4 o'clock P.M.

_Mr. Quickly_. "HALLO! SLOWCOME, RARE HAPPINESS TO SEE YOU THIS TIME O' DAY."

_Mr. Slowcome_. "YAAS: BEEN ASLEEP SINCE YESTERDAY, BUT MUST EXERCISE A LITTLE FOR THE DINNER PARTY AT DELMONICO'S, YOU KNOW."]

GEO. W. WHEAT & CO, PRINTERS, No. 8 SPRUCE STREET.

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Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 32, November 5, 1870Chapter IV: Canto IX

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