Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 2, April 9, 1870
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Various >> Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 2, April 9, 1870
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* * * * *
V. H. to Punchinello.
The following letter, received by the French cable, explains itself. After
the perusal of it, America warms toward France:
HAUTEVILLE PARK, March 25,1870.
To THE EDITOR OF THE PUNCHINELLO:
MONSIEUR: The advance copy of your journal has stormed my heart. I owe it
one happy day.
Europe trembles. They light their torches sinister, those trans-alpine
vacillationists. The church, already less tranquil, dis-segregates itself.
We laugh.
To your journal there is a future, and there will be a past.
The age has its pulsations, and it never forgets.
I, too, remember.
There is also blood. Upon it already glitters the dust of glory.
Monsieur! I salute you and your _confreres_!
Accept my homage and my emotion.
VICTOR HUGO.
THE HABITS OF GREAT MEN.
"Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time."
Almost since the world began, people have been interested in and
entertained by gossip respecting the personal habits and individual
idiosyncrasies of popular writers and orators. It is a universal and
undying characteristic of human nature. No age has been exempt from it from
PLINY'S time down to BEECHER'S. It may suitably be called the scarlet-fever
of curiosity, and rash indeed must be the writer who refuses or neglects to
furnish any food for the scandal-monger's maw. While we deprecate in the
strongest terms the custom which persists in lifting the veil of
personality from the forehead of the great, respect for traditional usages
and obligation to the present, as well as veneration for the future, impels
us to reveal some things that are not generally known concerning the men
who are playing "leading business" on the world's great stage of to-day.
For instance, mankind is generally ignorant of the fact that Mr. SUMNER
bathes twice a day in a compound, two thirds of which is water and one
third milk, and that he dictates most of his speeches to a stenographer
while reclining in the bath-tub. WENDELL PHILLIPS is said to have written
the greater portion of his famous lecture on "The Lost Arts" on the backs
of old envelopes while waiting for a train in the Boston depot. Mr. GEORGE
W. CURTIS prepares his mind for writing by sleeping with his head encased
in a nightcap lined with leaves of lavender and rose. GRANT, it is said,
accomplishes most of his writing while under the influence of either opium
or chloroform, which will account for the soothing character of his state
papers. WALT WHITMAN writes most of his poetry in the dissecting-room of
the Medical College, where he has a desk fitted up in close proximity to
the operating table. Mr. DANA is said to write most of his editorials in
one of the parlors of the Manhattan Club, arrayed in black broadcloth from
the sole of his head to the crown of his foot, his hands encased in corn-
colored kids, a piece of chewing-gum in his mouth, and a bottle of Cherry
Pectoral by his side. The report that he eats fish every morning for his
breakfast is untrue: he rejects FISH. COLFAX writes all his speeches and
lectures with his feet in hot water, and his head wrapped in a moist towel.
His greatest vice, next to being Vice-President, is to insist upon having
his writing desk in front of a mirror. BUTLER accomplishes most of his
literary labor over a dish of soup, which he absorbs through the medium of
two of his favorite weapons, thus keeping both his hands employed, and
dictating to an amanuensis every time his mouth enjoys a vacation. BEECHER
has several methods by which he prepares his mind to write a sermon: By
riding up and down Broadway on the top of a stage; visiting the Academy of
Anatomy, or spending a few hours at the Bloomingdale Retreat. Neither
HOLMES nor WHITTIER are able to write a line of poetry until they are
brought in contact with the blood of freshly-slain animals; while, on the
other hand, LONGFELLOW'S only dissipation previous to poetic effort, is a
dish of baked beans. FORNEY vexes his gigantic intellect with iced water
and tobacco, (of the latter, "two papers, both daily.") Mr. TILTON composes
as he reposes in his night-dress, with his hair powdered and "a strawberry
mark upon his left arm." Mr. PARTON writes with his toes, his hands being
employed meanwhile knitting hoods for the destitute children of Alaska. Mr.
P. is a philanthropist. BAYARD TAYLOR writes only in his sleep or while in
a trance state--notwithstanding the fact that he lives in the State of
Pennsylvania. He will then dictate enough to require the services of three
or four stenographers, and in the morning is ready to attend to the
laborious and exacting duties attached to the position of stockholder in
the New-York _Tribune_. Mr. GREELEY conceives some of his most
brilliant editorial articles while churning the mercurial milk of the
Chappaqua farm into butter; or vexing the gracious grain with the flying
flail; or listening to the pensive murmurings of the plaintive pigs, and
the whispered cadences of the kindly cattle. RICHARD GRANT WHITE can't
write, it is said, until a towel moistened with Cologne water is applied to
his nostrils. Sometimes, however, he varies the monotony of this method by
riding several miles in a Third Avenue car, which produces a similar
effect. OAKEY HALL writes his best things while riding on horseback in
Central Park; his saddle being arranged with a writing-desk accompaniment;
and while OAKEY dashes off the sentences, his horse furnishes the Stops.
And just here we propose to stop furnishing further revelations concerning
the men whose deeds have made their names famous in current national and
local history.
* * * * *
[Illustration: GOSSIP IN A SCHOOL-HOUSE.
_Teacher_. "WELL, MINNIE, HAVE YOU ANY THING NEW AT HOME?"
_Interesting Scholar_. "OH! YES; WE'VE SMALL-POX, AND 'LAPSING FEVER,
AN MEASLES, AND WHOOPING-COUGH."
(_Tableau expressive of consternation_.)]
* * * * *
Taking the Cue.
There is a strong disposition among those of our diplomats who may be able
to talk a little "pigeon English," to obtain the Chinese position left
vacant by Mr. BURLINGAME. Most of these gentlemen can point the Moral of
the matter--the sixty thousand dollars a year--but whether any of them
would adorn the Tail, is quite another affair.
* * * * *
Questions for H.G.
Is not the _Tribune_ influenced by its negrophilism in denouncing
PIERRE BONAPARTE as an assassin? Had the victim been a BLANC instead of a
NOIR, would Mr. GREELEY have felt quite as much sympathy for him?
* * * * *
APROPOS OF THE "ONEIDA."--The windiest excuses of the day are those of
EYRE.
* * * * *
ARRAH WHAT DOES HE MANE AT ALL?
_Scene. The White House_.
ULYSSES ASLEEP. CUBA, ROONEY, AND FISH OUTSIDE ON THE LOBBY.
ROONEY _Loquitur_.
ULYSSES asthore! Good lord, don't he snore!
ULYSSES! ULYSSES, my boy!
There's company here, must see you, me dear,
In spite of this Spanish kill-joy.
This Minister FISH, who, had he his wish,
Wud put your ould ROONEY down-stairs.
Ay, faith if he dar, but betther by far
The sinner was sayin' his pray'rs.
Arrah what does he mane at all?
Now, ULICK S. GRANT, it's your own self I want,
To patiently listen, mavrone,
To what I've to say, in a fatherly way,
As if you wor child ov my own.
For shure is it time, in prose or in rhyme,
That somebody spoke up, who dar'.
ULYSSES awake! for Liberty's sake,
It's braykin our hearts you are.
Arrah what do you mane at all?
Och, wirrasthrue vo! it's bitther to know
The work that goes an in your name;
The murdher an' ruin, that others are doin'
Whilst you have to showlder the shame!
The grief that is ours, whin you, by the Pow'rs,
Seem traytin it all like a joke,
Like NAYRO, the thief, whin Room was in grief,
That fiddled away in the smoke!
Arrah what do you mane at all?
Och, wake up, ochone! Your innimies groan
The words that cut deep as a sword:
"He's greedy for goold, an by its slaves rooled
ULYSSES is false to his word.
See poor Cuba there, all tatthered and bare;
For months at his doore she has stud;
Not a word he replies to her sobs or her sighs,
Nor cares for her tears or her blood!
Arrah what does he mane at all?"
Musha, what's that you say? "Sind the ould fool away."
I'm disturbin' your rest wid my prate;
There's Minister FISH, to consult if I wish,
Who attinds to all matthers of state.
An' Cuba, she too, wid her hulabaloo,
May just as well bundle an' go;
You won't hear us now, wid our murtherin row,
You'll sleep it out whether or no!
Arrah what do we mane at all?
Ah! then, by my sowl, this thratemint is foul--
To put your best frinds to the blush;
An' wor you sinsare, in what you sed there
We'd tie up your whistle, my thrush!
But ULICK, machree, you can't desave me,
By sayin' the word you don't mane;
Or make her beleeve who stands at me sleeve,
In FISH an' his Castles in Spane.
Arrah what do you mane at all?
'Tis late in the day to talk in that way;
We've had ministhers dishes galore,
An' laste to my taste, at the blundherin faste,
The sauce ov that fish one, asthore.
No, ULICK, alan! the work that's in han'
Must be done by yourself, if at all.
Your cooks, by my troth, are burnin' the broth,
We smell it out here in the hall!
Arrah what do you mane at all?
No, ULICK, my boy, rise up to our joy,
An' make a clane sweep ov the crowd
Of tinkerin tools, an' blundherin fools,
That put your wits undher a cloud.
Rise up in your might, an' sthrike for the right!
Let England an' Spain hear us talk;
Give FISH his conjay, an' ROONEY will stay;
You'll then see who's cock ov the walk!
Arrah what do you mane at all?
Lave Britain alone; if she won't pay, mavrone,
She's puttin' her head into debt.
If I know the books, the way the thing looks,
She'll pay us, wid intherest, yet!
Ay, faith he did say, so wise in his day--
That noble ould Graycian, PHILANDER--
That sauce for the goose, if well kept for use,
Was just as good sauce for the gandher!
Arrah what did he mane at all?
But Spain, the ould wulf, for her tricks in the Gulf,
Her robbery, murdher, and worse,
_Her_ debt, she must see, is put down C.O.D.,
Wid Cuba relaysed from her curse.
Ay, FISH, you may sweat, an' SUMNER may threat,
An' burst his crack'd head in the row;
The People have spoke, that's fire an' not smoke!
An' this must be finished, an' now.
Arrah what do you mane at all?
Och! ULICK, awake, for Liberty's sake!
If not for your ROONEY, asthore;
The Godiss is here, but thrimbles wid fear
Ov the cowld-blooded Thing at the doore.
She sez that your name a by-word of shame
Will be to the nations onborn,
If you lie there anmov'd whilst the flag that you lov'd
Is flouted by Spaniards wid scorn.
Arrah what do you mane at all?
She sez, an' wid grief, her love for the chief,
That fought neath her bannir so long,
Will turn into hate, that will cling to the fate
Ov him who now sides wid the wrong.
She sez ov all woes that misery knows,
The grief ov the wronger's the worst
Who houlds back his ban' from a sufferin' lan'
An' laves her to tyrants accurs'd!
Arrah what do you mane at all?
Ah! _that_ stirs your blood; I thought that it wud.
Your rizin', me bouchal; it's done!
Go on wid your pray'rs! I'm kickin' down-stairs
This ould Spanish mack'rel, for fun.
Sweet Liberty here, and Cuba, my dear!
You'll stay for the bite an' the sup?
An' pardon my joy; since I've woke up the boy
I don't know what ind ov me's up!
Arrah what did he mane at all?
* * * * *
Travellers' Tales.
No one now believes that DR. LIVINGSTONE was burnt for sorcery. The
originator of the report could have made a more plausible story by
asserting that LIVINGSTONE refused to marry the daughter of an African
chief, and was consequently put to death. This would have been strictly in
accordance with the customs of the African aristocracy, and would also have
called forth general admiration for the man who preferred to burn rather
than to marry.
* * * * *
City Hamlets vs. Rural Ditto.
The leading cities of late have grown almost wild with excitement over
their HAMLETS; but in country localities, the hamlets are marked for
quietude, and a refreshing freedom from all that is stagey, except,
perhaps, stage-coaches.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE NEW-YORK ANTI-ORANGE-PEEL AND BANANA-SKIN ASSOCIATION,
AS THEY APPEAR IN THEIR GREAT HUMANITARIAN FEAT OF CLEARING THE
SIDE-WALKS.]
ORANGE-PEEL, ET. CETERA.
PUNCHINELLO, ever ready to hail with acclamation all that is for the
welfare of his fellow-men, is delighted to learn that an
"Anti-Orange-peel-and-Banana-skin Association" has been organized in the
city of New-York. The great number of severe accidents annually caused by
the idiotic custom of casting orange-peel and such other lubricious
integuments recklessly about the side-walks, has long furnished a topic for
public animadversion. Some of our leading citizens have taken the matter in
hand--or, to speak more correctly, on foot. The picture at the top of this
page gives a life-like representation of the Association referred to,
engaged in their benevolent work of removing from the side-walk with their
Boots all such fragments as might tend to the development of Slippers. The
Association has PUNCHINELLO'S best wishes. The Orange-Outangs who render
the side-walks dangerous have his worst.
* * * * *
HAMLET FROM A RURAL POINT.
The Great FECHTER as HAMLET has given us another proof of the brilliant
imagination of Mr. DICKENS. The play is so well known that a synopsis of it
is unnecessary. Yet a few words on the subject.
An economical mother in high society permits baked meats left from a
funeral festival to be served at a subsequent entertainment. Her son takes
umbrage at this; becomes morose and sullen; affects spiritualism and
private theatricals. This leads to serious family difficulties, culminating
in a domestic broil of unusual violence. The intellectual aim of the piece
is to show the extraordinary loquacity of a Danish Prince. The moral
inculcated by it is, "Spare the rod and spoil the child." It is replete
with quotations from the best authors, and contains many passages of marked
ability. Its literary merit is unquestionable, though it lacks the vivacity
of BOUCICAULT, and possesses no situation of such intense interest as the
scene in ROSINA MEADOWS where the heroine starts for Boston.
Mr. FECHTER presents HAMLET as a perfect "flaxy;" partly in deference to
the present popularity of the tint, and partly to show a marked contrast
with his OTHELLO, which character he always makes up as a male brunette.
His countenance is of great breadth and flexibility, ranging in its full
compass from the Placid Babe to the Outraged Congressman. His voice extends
from B flat _profundo_ to the _ut de poitrine piccolo_. The
emotional nature of HAMLET gives him opportunity to exhibit both of these
wonderful organs, and in _tutta forza_ passages, where he forces them
to their utmost power, the effect is exhilarating.
Mr. FECHTER is polished. He does not hesitate to correct the sometimes rude
and occasionally offensive remarks of HAMLET. Mr. FECHTER is refined. He
permits "no maggots in a dead dog." He substitutes "trichinae in
prospective pork." Fashionable patrons will appreciate this. They cherish
poodles, particularly post-mortem; they disdain swine. Mr. FECHTER is
polite. He excludes "the insolence of office," and "the cutpurse of the
empire and the rule." Collector BAILEY'S "fetch" sits in front. Mr. FECHTER
is fastidious. He omits the prefatory remarks to "assume a virtue," but
urges his mother to seek relief in Chicago. Considering her frivolous
conduct and the acrid colloquy consequent upon the comparison of
photographs, this is filial as well as affectionate.
Minor actors must, of course, be precluded from liberties with the text;
but presuming the alterations in question to be the result of a
consultation with Mr. DICKENS, we must rejoice that SHAKESPEARE is being
toned to good society. We commend the improved readings to the delicate
susceptibilities of the community.
Mr. FECHTER is a great genius. Distinguished talent is occasionally needed
to elevate the national taste. How we have outraged theatrical proprieties
by applauding WALLACK and BOOTH and DAVENPORT! FORREST, forget us. FECHTER,
forgive us.
* * * * *
Epitaph on a Defunct Boarding-House.
Peace to its Hashes!
* * * * *
Apropos of Small-salaried Husbands, who have Extravagant Wives.
"A little earning is a dangerous thing."
* * * * *
The Mormon's Motto
Bring 'em Young.
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR EFFICIENT NAVY DEPARTMENT.
_Admiral Porter_. The Queen has taken your Jack. You never
_could_ protect your Jack, Mr. Secretary.
(And they go on with their little game, never heeding the signal of
distress from the Oneida.)]
* * * * *
[blank page]
JUMBLES.
[Illustration]
Truth to tell, I _don't_ like neighbors. I _do_ like
civilization. The trouble is, neighbors are not always civilized.
PUNCHINELLO will be impressed with the fact before becoming a single
weekling. The first floor may be ever so nice, quiet, well-dressed, proper
folks--but those dreadful musical people in the attic! I hate musical
people; that is, when in the chrysalis state of learning. Practice makes
perfect, indeed; but practice also makes a great deal of noise. Noise is
another of my constitutional dislikes. If these matters must be divided,
give me the melody, and whoever else will, may take the noise. The truth
is, my dear PUNCHINELLO--and I may as well begin calling you what the
public will do one of these early days--there is nothing like notes. But
bank-notes are my weakness. My weakness in that direction is, I may
confidently state, very strong. The ladies are not the only greenbacks that
are accepted at sight; and acceptable to it. The bank on which I should
like to dwell--do you not guess it?--is the auriferous National. Those
musical neighbors-how they do play, though! But, to borrow from Mr. SLANG,
my queer neighbor opposite, they have about played out. Our gentlemanly
landlord--all landlords are so very gentlemanly, kind, good, and
considerate--Mr. GRABB, says it don't pay to keep such tenants.
"Mr. GRABB, pay--pray, why don't it pay?"
"Why, Mr. TODD, why, sir--because _they_ don't pay. D'ye see it, Mr.
TODD?"
Mr. TODD did see it.
"Music hath charms," and all that fine thing; but it can't evidently charm
a landlord, as at present constructed, into the faith that the notes of a
fiddle, a clarionet, a bugle, or a trombone are negotiable at the corner
grocery, or in Wall and State streets.
Going from bars to banks is a distance. But when I go anywhere, I like to
have it distant. The enjoyment is invariably greater. It saves my tailors,
hatters, restaurant keepers, and some others, the expense and trouble of
too much correspondence. Such isn't good for the brain--especially where it
is small, and easily overtaxed. "Distance lends enchantment to the view."
May I ask, is or was distance in the brokerage line that it lent
enchantment to the view? and what might possibly have been the conditions
on which the loan was made? The man who leaves his country for its (and
his) good has an especial fondness for the distant. The further off the
nearer he feels like home. Australia is an El Dorado--the antipodes a
celestial region. The intervening sea is one over which the most
penetrating of argus-eyed policemen or sheriffs, can not see. Australia--is
it not the land of gold? Who that has poached a pile does not gravitate
there, as the needle to the pole? Of course, I do not mean the
sewing-machine needle.
Some people think California greater. I don't. The greatness of a country
does not in all cases turn on its great rogues. New-York and Washington may
not assent; but, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, isn't it so? These may give it character,
but of the sort nobody is anxious to carry in his pocket as a wedge by
which to enter good, genteel society. "Character," says a leading mind, "is
every thing." Quite true; and if of the right sort, will take a man
speedily to the noose. Biddy can get the most stunning of characters at the
first corner for half a week's wages or--stealings. As a general thing, I
don't believe in characters, and for the reason that a large portion of my
acquaintances--I go into society a great deal--do not appear to have a bit
of the article. They say it is unnecessary; that "society" don't demand it;
and that to have it is like travelling with baggage which is mere rubbish.
My elastic but excellent friend JENKINS says the only sense that can be put
on society market to practical advantage is the uncommon scamp. Common
sense, so-called, is a drug. Old Mr. MATTEROFACT--who heeds him or his?
He's always pushed into the corner, or crowded to the back seat. Sensible
people, the world being judges, are a mistake. They were born and educated
that way. They don't definitely belong anywhere. Trespassers, interlopers,
impertinents-why should they be tolerated? Doesn't CONGRESSMAN SURFACE, of
the Forty-fourth District, rule the roast? Isn't Mrs. SIMPLE the pattern
Woman of the Swell-Front avenue? Who so charming as Widow MILKWATER? Common
sense might have done once, but that was when the world was younger and yet
more old-fashioned. It isn't available now. Rust never shines. Out upon it,
or let it get out. The best place, I would suggest, is out of town--and in
the woods. Strangers always make people feel uncomfortable.
Need I hint just now that it is Lent? Lent is suggestive. It suggests some
of my best books. Books are the best of friends. They are honest. They say
what they feel, and feel what they say. Like other blessings, too, they
often take to wings and fly; and it proves to be a fly that never returns.
A good book is a joy forever. The only sad thing about it is, that it keeps
lent all the time--not so much piously as profanely. Am I my brother's
keeper? No. But my brother is quite too often a keeper of mine--of mine own
choice authors. The best of friends are, of course--like the best of
steaks--rather rare. Like honest men they count only one in ten
thousand--an extremely small per cent in a commercial point of view.
Books--what should we do without them? What may we not do with them, if it
were not for the season of Lent?
I am something of a politician. My friends do not think I am. But they are
prejudiced--friends always are. I go, on principle, for the greatest good
of the greatest number. You know that humble, initial figure. I confess to
a love of loaves and fishes. A nice French loaf, and a delicious salmon in
the suburbs of green peas--who wouldn't be a politician about that time? I
have run for office--and at least half a dozen times. But, bless you, I
never caught it. Some big, burly, brainless cur of a fellow was always
ahead of me. Very queer in politics--the less the head the more one gets
ahead. A head is little or nothing; but face, cheek, assurance--such is
much; is every thing. What are politics but audacity? what professions of
public good but pretences for private pap? I like politics. Politics,
however, don't seem to like me. I call myself a patriot; but, strangely
enough, or otherwise, I have never been called to fill a patriot's
office--say for $5000 and upward per year. As for a patriot's grave--it's a
fine thing, no doubt, but I have never regarded it as my "mission" to fill
that. It affects one's activity and usefulness, and cuts off going to
FECHTER BOOTH, _Frou-Frou_, the _Twelve Temptations_, and opera.
I declined all such honors during the war, and on principle; the principal
thing being that I had no taste for lead and iron. Iron, I know, is good
for the blood; but taken in bullets, it lessens instead of increases the
circulation. These metals are quite too much for a delicate stomach. Shells
as a drink I like; shells as bombs I do _not_ like. They are
unhealthy. As a beverage I can surround it several times a day, and bless
the climate that grows it, and the cask that makes it. But of shells, as of
company, I prefer to make my choice. I, too, have my choice of office. I am
strong and can draw well. My _forte_ is drawing salary. That may not
be the highest form of art, but it is unquestionably artful. Moreover, it
is the one mankind, if it could, would cultivate with the most assiduity.
It is the plaster every man would put to his back.