Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 34, November 19, 1870

Chapter II: Part 2

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"Madam," says I, swellin up with accumulated rage, "langwish and rip and tare things as much as you mindter--you cant stuff this ere ballit box with illegal votes as long as Ime boss of it--that's what's the matter--and I want you to understand I mean bizzinezs."

At this they all started for the door, remarkin that I was an "old fool," "mouskiter," etketary &c.

"When the 16th commendment passes," said sweet ELIZER HEMPIHL, who is too pooty to be caught in sich company, "we will call for your skalp, old man."

"Which topnot," was my reply, "wouldent furnish hair enough for a false eyebrow."

I see they was goin, so I said:--

"My week-minded and misgided femails, hold your hosses a minnit, until an old statesman, who has served his country for 4 yeer as Gustise of the Peece, says a few remarks to you."

"When woman was taken out of man's ribs, it wasent calkilated she should lower herself by mixin into such dirty bizziness, as you are up to to-day. Woman in her natural element, is jest one of the _soothinest_ institutions in this ere land, which flows with milk-punch and houey-sope, and what poor miserable critters man would be without her.

"Who would nuss our offspring, if it wasent for wimmen?

"Who would cheer our fireside, if it wasent for wimmen?

"Who would cook our vittles, if it wasent for wimmen?

"And who would haul off our butes nites, when we come home tired and demoralized, after havin a sett-to with lager-beer and sweitzer?

"Agin, I remark, if it wasent for woman in her onadulterated state, before she had been made a tarnal fool of by these ere despoilers of man's happiness, MASKALINE WIMMEN, man would be a poor shiftless koot.

"Therefore, I say, go hum and resoom your abnormal condition. Get back into your own harniss, and don't undertake to assoom the bifurkated garments. It haint your forte, no more'n it is some of our public offishals to keep from steelin."

I rattled away at 'em in this stile, ontil I beheld the last pair of femail bifurkaters skoot for home, when I subsided into a chair, and with my bandanner hankerchief wiped the perspiration from my noble brow.

After Ide partially recovered my ekanimity, I agin resoomed my offishal duties, but I couldent help thinkin that if wimmen made such a confounded hullabalo about votin, as they is now doin, tryin to vote; them air leaders, who air goin about the country like Internal Revenoo offisers, seekin that they may gobble up somebody, will have a pile to anser for, when woman becomes a component part of the body polertick.

Owe! woman, woman, how sweet you be,
When you're dressed up to kill,
I hope the time ile never see,
When man's place you all fill.

Take the advice of one which knows,
& try to shun the evil,
To see a woman in man's close
Looks wusser nor the d---l.

Which is the opinion of your humbley sarvent,

HIRAM GREEN, ESQ.,

_Lait Gustise of the Peece._

* * * * *

FRESH FROM THE FLOWERY KINGDOM.

The world is justly indignant at the accounts of the Chinese massacres of the missionaries who have perilled their lives in going so far to teach them Christianity. Recently, for example, a young lady teacher from Boston was so terribly stoned by some of the unregenerate little pig-tailed fiends in Canton, that she died the next day. It is dreadful to think how savage the instincts of the heathen are.

P.S.--Since the above was set up in type, MR. PUNCHINELLO has learned that the Canton in which this occurrence took place is not in China, but is a thriving village in Norfolk county, Massachusetts, about eighteen miles from Boston, and that the assailants were consequently not pig-tailed heathen, but genuine Christian children, who, in a few years, will belong to the cultivated voters of Massachusetts. This action, consequently, was not dictated by unregenerate barbarism, but was intended simply as a protest (rough, we confess, but effectual, we trust) against these new-fangled ideas of women's rights. What business have women to be trying to teach? Let them stay at home, and if they want to know anything, ask their husbands, there; and if they are unmarried, let them wait until they get husbands. We must not let our natural gallantry interfere with our reverence and respect for the rights of ignorance, which will eventually vote.

* * * * *

A THRICE BLESSED CITY.

There is a city in Illinois called St. Genevieve. By some hocus-pocus known to accomplished politicians, this city has had no Mayor since the 4th of June, 1867. In the absence of definite information upon the subject, we take it for granted that St. Genevieve must be a most delightful place to live in, and specially so, because, as we are further informed, they have no Aldermen there either. More delightful still, as there is nobody authorized to assess taxes, the fortunate inhabitants do not pay any. Of course, if this state of primitive bliss could last, Mr. PUNCHINELLO would make immediate arrangements to remove to St. Genevieve; but the courts have ordered the citizens to elect a Mayor immediately, so that this little heaven upon earth will soon have ceased to exist.

* * * * *

_Aspiring Author._ "Ah! You have read my essay? I hope the verdict is Favorable."

_Editor._ "O yes, all Right,--Acquitted on the ground of insanity."]

* * * * *

OUR PORTFOLIO.

The French Republic dying of Gas.--Good Sense for Gambetta. TOURS, SIXTH WEEK OF THE REPUBLIC, 1870.

Dear PUNCHINELLO:

There is gloom everywhere; applications to serve in the ranks have diminished, and the price of pocket-handkerchiefs has increased. JULES FAVRE writes, under cover of confidence, to the _prefect_ here, that since the interview of which I gave you an account he has had a severe attack of gumboils, and despairs of softening the heart of BISMARCK. I stole the letter for the purpose of copying it, but it was stolen from me in turn by a nefarious emissary of the London _Times,_ who has not however, dared to use it. The greatest activity is manifested in the making of balloons. The administration labors under the delusion that gas and oiled silk may yet prove the Palladium of French liberty. I have remonstrated unavailingiy against this singular infatuation. I held up to the Rump Council now sitting in this city the example of VICTOR HUGO as a fearful warning. He came from Guernsey under a pressure of gas; he entered Paris with the volatile essence oozing from every hair on his head; he loaded the artillery of his rhetoric with gas; he blazed, away at the Germans with gas, and yet, unable to get rid of such afflatus fast enough, he exploded in the very midst of his pyrotechnics, and now lies high and dry on "this bank and shoal of time" like a venerable rhinoceros extinguished by its own snorting. I am sorry to say it, but the great peril of France at this moment is gas. Touching GAMBETTA. Ah! yes, touching GAMBETTA. You may have heard that he has issued a proclamation or two. There are depths in the soul of a Frenchman, where the inspiration of mighty words breeds like "flies in the shambles." Such a soul has GAMBETTA. He is all language. If you were to cut him up in little bits and put each atom under a microscope, you would find in every molecule the text of some proclamation. The genii of syntax and prosody are his guardian angels, and the love of "gabble" is the be-all and the end-all of his political existence. He loves not GARIBALDI. He would have done violence to his grandmother rather than consent to the invitation of the Italian liberator. For short, he calls him "GARRY." Standing in front of the Hotel de Ville, talking to a group of eager listeners, with his arms wildly gesticulating and his nose contemptuously curling towards the empyrean, he asks:

"Who is this GARRY? What is he? Why is he--?"

"Stop," I calmly interpollate, "profane not the high calling of the Italian hero with frivolous conundrums."

"Jerk that monster out of my sight!" roared GAMBETTA to a _sergent de ville_, and pointing his long, skinny fore-finger full at me.

I turned mournfully upon the crowd, and asked in a plaintive tone:--

"You hear what he says. Do lunatic asylums exist in vain? Men of Tours, is there a 'jerkist' among you?"

They must have observed that my feelings were moved, for they came between me and the officer, as if to protect the latter. 'Twas a kind movement, but useless; as I couldn't have hurt him.

"Monsieur GAMBETTA," I then went on to say, "don't you think that this horrible epidemic of gas, that is now filling with its deleterious effluvia the brains and the throat of the French Government, ought to be stopped? Don't you think, Monsieur GAMBETTA, that you, yourself, could cut off your supply-pipe for a while and still have enough to light up with on public occasions?"

I rested my right fore-finger upon one side of my nose and struck an attitude of interrogation while putting these questions. The Minister's face turned to an ashen hue, and then the blood came coursing back like lava to the Crater's surface, without breaking through.

"Fiends seize the man, is a minister of France to be insulted in his own capital?"

"Friend, calm yourself," I said: "Don't let the crabs run through your brain like that. Cool off. Take those hot coppers out of your pantaloons and fan yourself a little. That's what's the matter with France, to-day. You Frenchmen fizzle, and crack, and shoot up into the air, and otherwise get away with yourselves so fast, that no wonder the Germans can't always find you when they go for you. Take my advice. Stop running red-hot pokers down your backs. Drink more Vichy water and less brandy. Keep your sky-rockets till next year. Lock your 'language' up in the dictionary. Send VICTOR HUGO back to England. Tie a church steeple round GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN'S neck, and sink him off Toulon. Burn all your proclamations. Throw rhetoric to the dogs. Put a head on the government that ain't full of torpedoes. Present a solid front to the enemy. Simmer down generally, and talk reason to BISMARCK, and, on the honor of PUNCHINELLO, I can solemnly assure you that things won't be so 'speckled' as they now are."

Saying which, I gathered the drapery of my duster gracefully about me, and left.

DICK TINTO.

* * * * *

THE SHE THAT IS TO BE.

By a Prominent Member of Sorosis.

--She stood! The hurrying clouds wild drove--
--The purpling aspect of the air...!
While her wild contour symbolized
The Unity of Hope's Despair!

And shall not We, when Life's short span,
Enveloping the Yet-To-Be--
Smiling candescent?--Nay?--Ah! well!
BE THAT OUR FUTURE DESTINY!!

* * * * *

POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO XI.

Little Bo-Peep has lost his sheep,
And don't know where to find them.
Let them alone and they'll come home,
And bring their tails behind them.

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-fé_ 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.

* * * * *

"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.

* * * * *

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 trichinæ, 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."

_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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Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 34, November 19, 1870Chapter II: Part 2

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