Chapter XXII: A Confused State of Things

The principal office of the Comic Paper was one of those amazingly unsympathetic rooms in which the walls, windows and doors all have a stiff, unsalient aspect of the most hard-finished indifference to every emotion of humanity, and a perfectly rigid insensibility to the pleasures or pains of the tenants within their impassive shelter. In the whole configuration of the heartless, uncharacterized place there was not one gracious inequality to lean against; not a ledge to rest elbow upon; not a panel, not even a stove-pipe hole, to become dearly familiar to the wistful eye; not so much as a genial crack in the plastering, or a companionable rattle in a casement, or a little human obstinacy in a door to base some kind of an acquaintance upon and make one less lonely. Through the grim, untwinkling windows, gaping sullenly the wrong way with iron shutters, came a discouraged light, strained through the narrow intervals of the dusty roofs above, to discover a large coffin-colored desk surmounted by ghastly busts of HERVEY, KEBLE and BLAIR;[3] a smaller desk, over which hung a picture of the Tomb of WASHINGTON, and at which sat a pallid assistant-editor in deep mourning, opening the comic contributions received by last mail; a still smaller desk, for the nominal writer of subscription-wrappers; files of the _Evangelist_, _Observer_ and _Christian Union_ hanging along the wall; a dead carpet of churchyard-green on the floor; and a print of Mr. PARKE GODWIN just above the mantel of momumental marble.

Upon finding themselves in this temple of Momus, and observing that its peculiar arrangement of sunshine made their complexions look as though they had been dead a few days, Gospeler SIMPSON and the Flowerpot involuntarily spoke in whispers behind their hands.

"Does that room belong to your establishment, also, BENTHAM?" whispered the Gospeler, pointing rather fearfully, as he spoke, towards a side-door leading apparently into an adjoining' apartment.

"Yes," was the low response.

"Is there--is there anybody dead in there?" whispered Mr. SIMPSON, tremulously.

"No.--Not yet"

"Then," whispered the Ritualistic clergyman, "you might step in there, Miss POTTS, and have your interview with Miss PENDRAGON, whom Mr. BENTHAM will, I am sure, cause to be summoned from up-stairs."

The assistant-editor of the Comic Paper stealing softly from the office to call the other young lady down, Mr. JEREMY BENTHAM made a sign that FLORA should follow him to the supplementary room indicated; his low-spirited manner being as though he had said: "If you wish to look at the body, miss, I will now show you the way."

Leaving the Gospeler lost in dark abstraction near the black mantel, the Flowerpot allowed the sexton of the establishment to conduct her funereally into the place assigned for her interview, and stopped aghast before a huge black object standing therein.

"What's this?" she gasped, almost hysterically.

"Only a safe," said Mr. BENTHAM, with inexplicable bitterness of tone. "Merely our fire-and-burglar-proof receptacle for the money constantly pouring in from first-class American Comic journalism."--Here Mr. BENTHAM slapped his forehead passionately, checked something like a sob in his throat, and abruptly returned to the main office.

Scarcely, however, had he closed the door of communication behind him, when another door, opening from the hall, was noiselessly unlatched, and MAGNOLIA PENDRAGON glided into the arms of her friend.

"FLORA!" murmured the Southern girl, "I can scarcely credit my eyes! It seems so long since we last met! You've been getting a new bonnet, I see."

"It's like an absurd dream!" responded the Flowerpot, wonderingly caressing her. "I've thought of you and your poor, ridiculous brother twenty times a day. How much you must have gone through here! Are they wearing skirts full, or scant, this season?"

"About medium, dear. But how do you happen to be here, in Mr. BENTHAM'S office?"

In answer to this question, FLORA related all that bad happened at Bumsteadville and since her flight from thence; concluding by warning MAGNOLIA, that her possession of a black alpaca waist, slightly worn, had subjected her to the ominous suspicion of the Ritualistic organist.

"I scorn and defy the suspicions of that enemy of the persecuted South, and high-handed wooer of exclusively Northern women!" exclaimed Miss PENDRAGON, vehemently. "Is this Mr. BENTHAM married?"

"I suppose not."

"Is he visiting any one?"

"I shouldn't think so, dear."

"Then," added MAGNOLIA, thoughtfully, "if dear Mr. DIBBLE approves, he might be a friend to MONTGOMERY and myself; and, by being so near us, protect us both from Mr. BUMSTEAD. Just think, dear FLORA, what heaps of sorrow I should endure, if that base man's suspicion about my alpaca waist should be only a pretence, to frighten me into ultimately receiving his addresses."

"I don't think there's any danger, love," said Miss POTTS, rather sharply.

"Why, FLORA precious?"

"Oh, because he's so absurdly fastidious, you know, about regularity of features in women."

"More than he is about brains, I should think, dear, from what you tell me of his making love to you."

Here both young ladies trembled very much, and said they never, never would have believed it of each other; and were only reconciled when FLORA sobbed that she was a poor unmarried orphan, and Miss PENDRAGON moaned piteously that an unwedded Southern girl without money had better go away somewhere in the desert, with her crushed brother, and die at once for their down-trodden section. Then, indeed, they embraced tearfully; and, in proof of the perfect restoration of their devoted friendship, agreed never to marry if they could avoid it, and told each other the prices of all their best clothes.

"You _won't_ tell your brother that I've been here?" said the Flowerpot. "I'm so absurdly afraid that he can't help blaming me for causing some of his trouble."

"Can't I tell him, even if it would serve to amuse him in his desolation?" asked the sister, persuasively. "I want to see him smile again, just as he does some days when a hand-organ-man's monkey climbs up to our windows from the street."

"Well, you _may_ tell him, then, you absurd thing!" returned FLORA, blushing; and, with another embrace, they parted, and the deeply momentous interview was over.

(_To be Continued._)

[Footnote 3: Author of "The Grave."]

* * * * *

IN THE LIBRARY.

_Jones, (reading.)_ "THE GLASS OF FASHION AND THE MOULD OF FORM, THE OBSERVED OF ALL OBSERVERS."

_Jenkins, (with enthusiasm.)_ "PERFECT DESCRIPTION OF MY WIFE!"

IN THE GARDEN.

THIS IS MRS. JENKINS, IN HER MORNING TOILETTE.]

* * * * *

OFFICE SEEKING.[4]

BY ICHABOD BOGGS,

THE NEW AMERICAN POET.

PREFATORY NOTE.--The reader is requested to judge the following production mildly, as it is the first effort of a youthful genius (16 years old in looks and feeling, 42 by the family bible and census.) The author has felt that America should have a new kind of verse of its own, and he thinks he here offers one which has never been used by any other mortal poet. It is called the duodekameter. Perhaps it may be proper to add that the following is _poetry_.

I.

You see everybody in our town was running around, getting fat jobs
and positions, and picking up a million dollars or so,
So I felt it incumbent on me
To shake myself up, and see if there wasn't a good butter firkin, well
filled, loafing around idle, in which could conveniently locate my
centre of gravity, and so I said to myself, I'll go
To Washington and see,
Says ICHABOD BOGGS, says I.

II.

Now, don't you see, you might just as well ask for a big position at
first, and then take what you can get,
At least that has been my rule so far,
For, as I says to myself, if you can only get a very high position, with
a sort of nabob's salary, and lots of perquisites running in
annually, you needn't do anything, you bet,
But puff at your cigar,
Says ICHABOD BOGGS, says I.

III.

So I put on my best clothes, and a sort of a big blue necktie,
and shortly thereafter showed myself to Mr. GRANT,
And said that there had been quite enough
Of this giving away big offices to people who hadn't big reputations,
and that he had other fish to fry, and that, as he wouldn't give the
Custom House to my son, I'd take it myself, and then I stopped,
and he looked, "I shan't,"
But all he said was--puff,
Says General GRANT, says he.

IV.

Then all the smoke got in my nose, and I sneezed and snorted a bit,
and then I just simply remarked and said
That he needn't go and get into a huff,
And if he didn't like to give me that office, couldn't he make me
Minister to England, as I was a big feeder, or if that didn't suit,
why, if he'd do it, I wouldn't object to being Minister to Cuba,
when the Cubans had been all killed, and were thoroughly dead?
But all be said was--puff,
Says General GRANT, says he.

V.

Well, then I got kind of discouraged, but I thought that I'd better try
again, and not get up so far,
But ask for what he'd give beyond doubt,
So I asked for a position as night watchman at the Navy Yard, and
thought I'd get it, and he'd answer my request, for I'd noticed that
his Havana was gradually growing smaller, and he did answer me,
just as he'd thrown away the end of his cigar,
He simply said, "Get out!"
Says General GRANT, says he.

VI.

So I got out, as fast as a pair of legs, with a number twelve boot
kicking at the place where they're joined, would permit,
And wandered off, just about as far
As I conveniently could, and then I sat down on a milestone and raised
my voice to Heaven, and cried aloud, that, weather permitting,
General GRANT should never, _never_, NEVER, go back to the White
House, not if I could help it,
To puff on his cigar,
Said ICHABOD BOGGS, said I.

[Footnote 4: We hope none of our readers will labor under the impression that we look upon the above effusion as a poetical one, but, in this day of many isms, it may happen that the above style may become prevalent, and we think it our duty to present everything that is new. EDS.]

* * * * *

2.02 TO HARNESS.

Mr. Punchinello on the Turf.

History relates that the era of Horse-racing commenced about the year 680 B. C., but it was some time after that when Mr. PUNCHINELLO made his _debut_ as a candidate for the honors of the turf. To put the matter more concisely, it is just six days since he drove his horse "Creeping Peter" on the track at Monmouth Park, Long Branch. The only object which Mr. P. had in view, when he purchased his celebrated trotter and put him into training, was the improvement of the breed of American horses. While our BONNERS, VANDERBILTS and GRANTS are devoting all their surplus time and means to this great end, Mr. P., in placing the name of his yellow horse in the hands of the poolseller, would scorn to have a less noble aim.

But this great object need not interfere with others of less importance, and therefore Mr. P. will not deny that, after having exhibited to his friends and the sporting fraternity in general, his little investment in fancy horseflesh, he made up a very satisfactory betting-book.

Now Mr. P. believed,--and events proved him to be correct,--that when his friends and the sporting fraternity saw his horse, they would bet heavily against him. Mr. P., however, in all the pride of amateur ownership, bet quite as heavily _upon_ his noble steed. His friends and the above-mentioned fraternity chuckled and winked behind his back, but although Mr. P. heard them chuckle and knew that they were winking, his belief in his final success never wavered. Any ordinary observer might be expected to remark that Creeping Peter was not entirely without blemish. Besides being spavined and having three of his hoofs injured by sand-crack, he had poll-evil, fistulas, malanders, ring-bone, capped hock, curb, splint, and several other maladies which made him a very suitable horse for the general public to bet against.

But Mr. P.'s courage never quailed!

When he made his appearance on the track (for he drove his horse himself) he was the object of general attention. The following view (from a photograph by ROCKWOOD) gives an excellent idea of the horse and driver.

Nearly everybody on the ground advised Mr. P. to leave his cloth in the stable, for it would certainly interfere with the speed of his horse and probably get wrapped up in the wheels and cause an accident. But Mr. P. would listen to nothing of the sort. He told everybody that he wasn't going to catch cold in his knees, even if he lost the race, and that he was perfectly willing to run the risk of accidents.

For the benefit of his readers, however, Mr. P. will lift up this heavily shotted lap-cloth and show what was under it.

Here is arranged a steam-engine, which drives the wheels of the vehicle, and which will of course propel the whole turnout, horse and all, at a great rate of speed.

It will now be easily perceived why Mr. P. persisted in keeping his lap-cloth over his knees.

The entries were as follows:

ROBERT BONNER'S b. h. Dexter.
DEREN O. SUE'S b. m. Lady Thorn.
PUNCHINELLO'S y. h. Creeping Peter.

When the word was given, the horses all got off well and Dexter immediately took the lead,--buzzing through the air like a humming-top,--followed closely by Lady Thorn, her nose just lapping his off jaw. For the first few seconds Mr. P. fell behind, owing to his fires not yet being properly under way, but the water soon bubbled merrily in his boiler, and his wheels began to revolve with great rapidity. And now he sped merrily. Never did the war trumpet inspire the fiery charger, or hounds and horn excite the mettled hunter, as the steam-engine in his rear woke all the energies of Creeping Peter.

Swift as revolving pin-wheels or rapid peg-top, those spavins, those ring-bones, those bulbous hocks, those sand-cracked hoofs and those rattling ribs went whistling o'er the track. Mid the shouts and yells of the excited multitude he passed Lady Thorn, overtook Dexter and shot ahead of him! But he cannot stand that tremendous pace, and down goes Creeping Peter on his knees. Every man who had bet against him set up a howl of rapture, but Mr. P. never relaxed a muscle, and on went Creeping Peter, just as fast as ever, his horny bones dashing away the sand and gravel like spray from the cut-water of a scudding yacht, and, amid the wildest clamor, he shot past the judges' stand on his nose and one leg, making his mile in two minutes and two seconds!

It is needless to dwell upon the results of this race.

Mr. P. now owes no man anything, nor is he even indebted to his noble steed. Behold his testimony to the merits of that valuable animal!

* * * * *

Something Original In Suicide.

An item in an evening paper states that "a man near Syracuse recently cut his throat with a scythe."

Well, certainly this was a new Mowed of doing the business, although, as it was the first instance of the kind on record, it cannot properly be said that the business was done _à la mowed_.

* * * * *

Jocular and Ocular.

Can the public be properly said to have looked forward to SEEBACH?

* * * * *

ANNA DICKINSON.

One bright October morning in the year 1828, a lone lorn woman by the name of GUMMIDGE might have been seen standing at the corner of a wheat-field where two cross-roads met and embraced. She was weeping violently. Ever and anon she would raise her head and gaze mysteriously in the direction of a cloud of dust which moved slowly over the hill toward the town. Her name was FATIMA. FATIMA GUMMIDGE. "Sister ANNIE," she cried, "what do you see?" But sister ANNIE was far away. She was not there. She was attending an agricultural fair in the beautiful young state of Kansas.

Thus gracefully do we introduce our heroine upon the scene. The reader will be able to judge, from this, whether we are familiar with the literature of our day, or not. He will be able to form a complimentary opinion of our culture. He will perceive that we are acquainted with the writings of Messrs. JAMES, and DICKENS, and BLUEBEARD. There is nothing like impressing your reader with an adequate sense of your ability for laborious research, when you are doing biography for a high-toned journal.

At what period in her career our illustrious victim applied to the Legislature to change her name from GUMMIDGE to DICKINSON, we are unable to discover. There is no record of the event in the musty tomes we have waded through at the Astor Library in search of reliable data. One thing must be apparent, even to the most violently prejudiced and brutish bigot--namely, that Miss DICKINSON no longer confesses to the name of GUMMIDGE. However disrespectful this may be to the memory of Mrs. GUMMIDGE'S father--but on reflection is it not possible that Mrs. GUMMIDGE'S maiden name was DICKINSON? There may be something in this. Let us see. Mrs. GUMMIDGE was born of the brain of Mr. C. DICKENS. Mr. DICKENS may be said to be the father of the whole GUMMIDGE family. This, of course, includes GUMMIDGE _père_. GUMMIDGE _père_ was therefore DICKENS' son. Hence the name of DICKENSON. Very good, so far. Now--

But it is unnecessary to press the argument. If the prejudiced bigot is not yet convinced, nothing would convince him short of a horse-whipping.

The poet, when he wrote "Thou wilt come no more, gentle ANNIE," was clearly laboring under a mistake. If he had written "Thou wilt be sure to come again next season, gentle ANNIE," he would have hit it. Lecture committees know this. Miss DICKINSON earns her living by lecturing. Occasionally she takes a turn at scrubbing pavements, or going to hear WENDELL PHILLIPS on "The Lost Arts," or other violent exertion, but her best hold is lecturing. She has followed the business ever since she was a girl, and twenty-four (24) years of steady application have made her no longer a Timid Young Thing. She is not afraid of audiences any more.

It is a favorite recreation of the moral boot-blacks and pious newsboys of New York to gather in the evening on the steps of Mr. FROTHINGHAM'S church, and scare each other with thrilling stories of the gentle ANNIE'S fierce exploits and deeds of daring. Among the best authenticated of these (stripped of the ornate figures of speech with which the pious newsboys are wont to embellish the simple facts) are the following:

1. In the memorable canvass of 1848, Miss DICKINSON stumped the mining districts of Pennsylvania for FRED DOUGLASS, and was shot at by the infuriated miners forty-two times, the bullets whistling through her back hair to that extent that her chignon looked like a section of suction-hose when the campaign was over.

2. Near the close of the rebellion, Miss DICKINSON wrote to JEFF DAVIS that she was going to raise a regiment and go for him. Peace followed promptly.

3. In the year 1867 she published a book.

4. In the year 1868 she went to California overland, by railroad, alone.

5. In the year 1869 she attended a lecture by OLIVE LOGAN, and further showed her fearless nature by embracing Miss LOGAN tempestuously, and offering to marry her.

6. At various times during her career she has received and successfully done battle with 14,624 proposals of marriage, 14,600 of which were made to her _in the city of Chicago!!!_

These evidences of her courage are sufficient to show what she is equal to, under any emergency. We are now waiting to hear of a seventh act of bravery on her part which will distance all the above; when she shall have announced that she is prepared to lecture on "CHARLES DICKENS" she will have given the last convincing proof that she is equal to _anything_ terrible.

(Should Mr. PUNCHINELLO object that this biographical sketch is desultory and "wandering," let him try, himself, to write the biography of a lady who is incessantly and frantically roaming from one end of the country to the other, and if he don't wander it will be a wonder.)

* * * * *

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT!--HEIRS WANTED!

NEW YORK, Oct. 1, 1870.

We, the undersigned, as representatives of the family of the decedent, hereby call upon all heirs of the late RICHARD COEUR DE LION, who may be residing in or near this locality, to meet at the Astor House, in New York, on the fifteenth of this present month of October, to take measures for the recovery of such portion of the estate of said LION as is known to have legally descended to his heirs in this country. This property, to which it will be easy to prove that we, the undersigned, together with the other members of our family, are the lineal heirs, is believed to consist mainly of the two hundred thousand byzants assured to the said LION by SALADIN after the capitulation of Acre. This sum, which we have reason to believe was duly paid by said SALADIN at the time appointed, when reduced from golden byzants into greenbacks, and compound-interest at seven _per centum_ for the term of six hundred and seventy-nine years calculated thereupon, will be found to amount to upwards of one hundred and seventy thousand million dollars. When the ransom money of twenty-five hundred Saracens, slain by said LION to enforce the speedy payment of the principal of this sum by the said SALADIN, shall have been deducted and paid to such heirs and survivors of said Saracens as may immediately present their claims, the remainder will be divided, (as soon as the necessary legal measures shall be taken,) among the heirs and descendants of said LION in this country.

The immediate object of the meeting, which is now called by the undersigned, is the collection of sufficient funds from said heirs and descendants to defray the expenses of a committee (composed of the undersigned) who shall be charged with the duty of visiting England, Normandy and Palestine, and obtaining such evidence and such copies of record in relation to this portion of the estate of the said LION, as shall make necessary a speedy and equitable division of paid property among the members of the family in this country.

Lineal heirs who may not be able to attend this meeting in person will have their interests taken in charge by the undersigned, on the receipt of twenty-five dollars, which will be due from each heir as the primary instalment on account of necessary expenses.

Punctual attention to this notice is requested.

(Signed)

JACOB RICHARDS,
PETER MCCURDY,
EBENEZER LYONS.
JAMES MCLEON,
L. J. O'LYNN,
HENRY RICHARDSON,
Rev. THOS. DICK,
DICK E. DICKQUE DOUT.

* * * * *

RECOGNITION OF NILSSON.

Not that we mean to "patronize," fair Swede;
No, no, indeed!
'Tis homage, honest homage that we bring;
For you can sing!

Pray, do not think we build you any throne
On _skill_ alone;
There's nothing regal in a music box--
In simple _vox_!

But when an ardent spirit warms the strain--
When it is plain
The artist feels the passion of the scene--
She's then our Queen!

But, dear CHRISTINA! we should still declare
The Fates unfair,
Unless she lived as chastely as the rose;
As NILSSON does!

Still, still we hesitate!--We will confess,
(For _you'd_ not guess!)
We'd have her--that the likeness be complete--
Young, fair, and sweet!

In fine, (and now we'll tell you everything,)
If she can sing,
And act, and feel, and look, and _be_ like you,
Why, that will do!

* * * * *

* * * * *

A New Pierian Spring.

The Principal of the "Student's Home," at V------, N.Y., advertising the advantages of his school, makes the following telling appeal, which we should think would be hard to resist by such as find study interfere with digestion.

"COME TO V------. Its Mineral Water strengthens the body, and its Seminary the mind."

The hope of eventually leaving those classic shades in such a state of two-fold invigoration, should prove inspiring to the dyspeptic and studious.

Whether this constant cramming of the mind and purging of the body be the true secret of longevity as well as of scholarship, we know not; we should judge, however, from the appearance and conversation of students in general, that a system directly the reverse of the above mentioned process would be more certain of turning out the real article.

* * * * *

Spare Us!

Nor only is everybody's attention directed towards Paris, but the English Sparrows appear to be gradually Worming themselves into public estimation. They have been picking away so vigorously, since they were brought over here, that some of them are now able to pick their way across Broadway, in the muddiest weather. In course of time, we suppose the worms will disappear, and then, when these poor birds have nothing else to pick, they will go out to pic-nics. Come, arouse then, friends of the sparrow! Fetch out your bread and your grain, and fear not that these little twitterers will ever over-burden the city.

* * * * *

A Gourd of Honor(!)

The latest, and most important news from Spain is that SICKLES has been furnished with a guard by the government.

Some things are managed better in Spain than in this country. SICKLES should have been placed under guard, here, many a year ago, to keep him out of mischief.

* * * * *

"Carpe Diem."

The following telegraphic item is a remarkable instance of the exactness with which news can be transmitted by the submarine cable:

"LONDON, September 16. Mr. CHARLES REED, member of Parliament for Hackney, to-day unveiled the monument to ALEXANDER DEFOE, at Bunhill Fields. The monument in practically one to ROBINSON CRUSOE."

With the triffing exception of calling ROBINSON DEFOE ALEXANDER DEFOE, (and that is a pardonable error, considering that ALEXANDER SELKIRK was the prototype of DANIEL CRUSOE,) the above item is perfectly satisfactory. All the more so, if one pays attention to the date, and remembers that September 16 fell upon a FRIDAY.

* * * * *

BY TELEGRAPH FROM VARIOUS PARTS OF THE WORLD.

[Special Correspondence of Punchinello.]

BERLIN, October 15.--In a conversation with King WILLIAM, yesterday, he said that he relied upon the growing taste in Hoboken for Bavarian beer to destroy the sympathy of the United States with the French Republic.

METZ, October 12.--While examining the fortifications to-day with BISMARCK, I lent him my cigar-holder, and he told me that Prussia would refuse to entertain any propositions tending to peace until the Schleswig-Holstein question was definitely settled.

STRASBOURG, October 14--Among the priceless volumes destroyed in the library here, was a full set of ABBOTT'S NAPOLEON histories. They were all presentation copies from the author, with autograph inscriptions. The regret expressed at their destruction is deep-felt and universal.

WINDSOR, Oct. 16th.--I came up to-day with VICTORIA from Balmoral. She was engaged during most of the trip in reading HORACE GREELEY'S "What I Know About Farming," with which she is much delighted. She said she thought the satire was finer than SWIFT'S, and wondered the people did not insist upon GREELEY'S being Governor.

ROME, Oct. 15.--Talking this morning with the Pope, who took breakfast with me, His Holiness said he had accepted JAMES GORDON BENNETT'S invitation to come to Washington Heights on a visit, and wanted to know whether I thought he would be expected to wear his tiara during meals. I told him that I thought it would not be obligatory.

DUBLIN, Oct. 16.--The Irish Republic was to-day proclaimed at Cork, with GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN as Emperor. The Fenians say they would prefer a constitutional monarchy.

PARIS, Oct. 15.--General CLUSERET assured me to-day that though Minister WASHBURNE speaks French better than a native, yet he has not entirely forgotten what little English he used to know, and further, that he is confident it is not that gentleman's intention to make himself Dictator of France by a _coup d' état_.

LONG BRANCH, Oct. 22--While smoking to-day with GRANT, I asked him what he thought of the European complication, and he answered with a most expressive silence.

* * * * *

_Liberty._ "HALT!" ]

* * * * *

HIRAM GREEN IN GOTHAM.

The venerable "Lait Gustise" sees the Sights, under Perplexing Difficulties.

The native borned Gothamite mite have notissed, a short time since, a venerable lookin' ex-Statesman, dressed in a becomin' soot of clothes and a slick lookin' white hat.

The a-four-said honest old man carried a bloo cotton umbreller in one hand, and an acksminister carpet bag in t'other. He had jest arroven to the meetropolis on a North River steambote. The reader has probly gessed by this time, that the man in question was the subscriber.

If he hasen't so surmised, I would inform him that it was. Jess so. Arrivin' at a well-known tavern, where hash is provided for man and beast, I handed my carpet bag over the counter.

The clerk at the offis put on rather more airs than a Revenoo offiser. In fact, he was so full of airs I got a vilent cold standin' in his pressence.

"Shan't I take that anshient circus tent?" said he, pintin' to my umbreller, "and lock it up in the safe?"

I made no reply to this onmanerly interogetory, but strikin' an attitude of pain, give him one of those gazes which BEN BUTLER allers makes tell, in tryin' criminal cases.

I looked at that clerk cross-eyed, and it made him squirm.

I wasen't blind--not much.

That clerk wanted to steel _that_ umbreller, to send to HORRIS GREELEY, so the Filosifer could keep the reign storms of Tammany from spatterin' his white cote.

I understood his little dodge and nipped it.

"Snowball," said I, addressin' a dark skinned individual with a white apern, while I was seated at the dinner table, "what in the deuce makes all your dishes so small?"

"Dem is for one pusson, sah," said he. "Dat is an indiwidual butter dish, sah. Dem is indiwidual vegetable dishes--and dat's an indiwidual salt-cellar, sah," said he, pintin' to each piece of crockery.

I was hungry, and the crockery was soon empty.

Seein' a platter of ice cream down the table aways, I got up onto my feet, and havin' a good long arm, reached for it.

It was awful cold, and sot my stumps to achin'.

I got one holler tooth full of the stuff.

"Snowball," said I, "look here."

"Well, sah?" he replied.

"I've got my tooth full of that cold puddin'," said I, pintin' to the dish; "please bring me an individual toothpick, so I can dig it out." He vanished. I coulden't wait, so I undertook to dig it out with my fork.

A man opposite me, who thot heed play smart, sent word to the tavern-keeper that I was swollerin' his forks.

Up comes the tavern-keeper, and ketchin' holt of my cote coller, shaked me out in the middle of the dinin'-room floor.

"What in thunder are you about?" says I.

"Old man," says he, "them forks cost $9.00 a dozen. How many have you swallered?"

"Not a gol darned fork," hollered I as loud as I could screem. Gittin' onto my feet, I pulled off my cote and vest, and if I didn't make the fur fly, and give that 'ere tavern-keeper the nisest little polishin' off mortal man ever become acquainted with, then I don't understand the roodiments of the English prize ring.

At Central Park, that hily cultivated forrest, the sharpers tried to chissel me.

Just as I approched the gate which leads into the Park, a fansy lookin' feller with short hair and plad briches stopt me and says: "Unkle, you'r fair."

"You're a man of excellent judgment," I replide; "I think I am pooty good lookin' for a man of my years."

"You don't undertand me, sir," he agin said. "Come down with your stamps."

"My which?" said I, turnin' a little red in the face.

"Your gate money," he replied, tryin' to shove me back. "We charge $1.00 for goin' in here."

"You do, do you?" said I, wavin' my umbreller over his head threatenin' manner. "When our goverment resooms speshie payment agin maybe I'le send you a silver dollar with a hole into it, and maybe I won't; it will depend a good deal on the pertater crop."

I was very much agitated. Pullin' out my silver watch I says: "My sweet sented Plumbob, if you don't histe your butes away from that gate in 2 seconds I'le bust your biler with this 'ere bunch of bones," and I tickled the end of his probocis with my fist, as I gently rubbed it under his smeller.

He saw heed caught a Tarter, in fact, a regular Tarter emetic, and he slunk away rather sudden.

I had sent too many of such skinamelinks to the clay banks when I was Gustice of the Peece to allow 'em to fool me much.

I visited WOOD'S Museum to see the wacks figgers and things.

The statutes of the 12 Apostles attracted my attention.

"And this," said a ministerial long-faced lookin' man, with a white choker, "is the last supper.--What a sagacious eye has PETER got--How doubtful THOMAS looks--MATTHEW is in deep thought, probly thinkin' of the times he was a fisherman. What a _longin'_ look in that astoot eye," said he, nudgin' me with his gold-headed cane.

"Yes," said I, "he is probly _longin'_ for that 'ere dish of ham and eggs, in the middle of the table."

"Look at SIMON," he continered. "See! his eye rests upon his rite hand, which is closed beside him on the table. His lips are parted as if he was going to say--

"SIMON says thumbs up," I quickly replide, interruptin' him. I diden't mean anything disrespectful to nobody, but that 'ere man flew into a vilent rage.

"Can it be, that a soul so devoid of poetry lives in this age?" said he. "My venerable friend, I blush for you--yes, I blush for you, you are devoid of sentiment."

"Look here, Captin," said I, "you may be a good preacher and all that sort of thing. Excuse me for sayin' it, you hain't a BEECHER--Skarcely. H. WARD soots me--He is chock full of sentiment--at the same time he can relish a joak ekal to the best of us. Mix a little sunshine with that gloomy lookin' countenance of yours. Don't let people of the world think they must draw down their faces and colaps, because a man joaks about a lot of wacks figgers dressed up in 6 penny caliker. Them's the kind of sentiment which ales me every time." Sayin' which I storked contemptously out of the wacks figger department.

I shall remain a few days in the big city, friend PUNCHINELLO, and if the citizens of New York insist on givin' me a reception at the City Hall, I will submit to the sacrifice, especially if the vitels are well cookt. Ewers on a scare up,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

_Lait Gustice of the Peece._

* * * * *

THE CENSUS ENUMERATOR'S PLAINT.

The names that these newspapers call us
Are hardest of all to surmount,
They say Mayor HALL may o'erhaul us;
He claims that our count is no 'count.

I never had any such trouble
In registering voters down South,
I set every nigger down double
And put the whites down in the mouth.

But here they're so very exacting
They kick up a row, don't you know?
Though under instructions we're acting
In playing our figures "for low."

I try to play Sharpe in these matters,
I dodge all the bricks and spittoons--
(Curse that bull-dog! he's torn to tatters
The seat of my best pantaloons!)

A tailor refused me admission,
And said he "vould shoot mit his gun,"
So I, out of Shear opposition,
Counted him and eight others for one.

While not in the habit of swearing,
I can't but be slightly profane
To hear these New Yorkers declaring
Their names have been taken in vain.

* * * * *

The most appropriate kind of dish on which to serve up Horseflesh

A Charger.

* * * * *

_Bubbs_. "DOES YOUR SISTER NETTIE EVER TALK ABOUT ME?"

_Little Rose_. "OH, YES! I HEARD HER TELL MA, YESTERDAY, YOU HAD SUCH A BEAUTIFUL NECK, SO LONG THAT IT WOULD DO TO TIE IN A DOUBLE BOW-KNOT!"]

* * * * *

BY GEORGE!

(_Concluded_.)

LAKE GEORGE, N. Y., Sept. 12.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: "SLUKER," continued the long-haired man in an absent-minded manner, "was a _corker_! there is no mistake about that.

Like the Ghost at BOOTH'S, he was a terror to the peaceful Hamlet. He was always getting up shindys without the slightest provocation, and was evidently possessed of the unpleasant ambition, as well as ability, to whale the entire township in detachments of one.

Things got to be so bad after a while that the bark was rubbed off every tree in town on account of the people incontinently shinning up them whenever SLUKER came in sight.

It was no unusual thing to see business entirely suspended for hours, while SLUKER marched up and down the main street, whistling, with his hands in his pockets, and every soul in the place, from the minister down, roosting as high as they could get, six on a branch, sometimes.

Matters went on in this way until one day a little incident occurred that somewhat discouraged this gentle youth. He had just returned from a discussion with a butcher, (from the effects of which the latter now sleeps in the valley,) when a party of his fellow-townsmen entered the store in which he was loafing, and ordered a coil of half-inch rope from New York by the morning's train.

It was the Overland route that SLUKER took for California, and when his aged mother heard that three eyes had been gouged out in one day in the Golden City, she wept tears of joy. Her fond heart told her that the perilous journey was over, and her darling boy was safe.

After ten years of a brilliant career he bethought him again of the place of his birth. His heart yearned for the gentle delights,--the heavy laden trees--of his boyhood's home. He said he must go.

His friends said he must go, too. In fact they had already appointed a select and vigilant Committee to see him safely on his way.

In some respects SLUKER came back an altered man. The stamp of change was on his noble face, indeed it had been stamped on itself, until it looked like a wax doll under a hot stove. But he still retained his warlike spirit.

There was not so much chance of indulging it now, however. The Fire Company had disbanded, and nearly every one had grown rich enough to own a shot-gun. There was only one chance left.

He joined the Presbyterian Choir.

Not that he had much of a voice, though he used to play 'Comin' thro' the Rye' oh the fiddle sometimes, until he got it going _through him_ so much he couldn't draw a note.

Nobody would have taken them if he had.

Well, SLUKER had a pretty warm time of it in the Choir, and enjoyed himself very much, until they got a new Organist who pitched every thing in 'high C,' which was this young man's strong lead.

As the Choir always sang in G, of coarse, there was a row the first Sunday, and it was generally understood that SLUKER was going to fix MIDDLERIB that night.

When the evening service commenced, and the Choir was about to begin, the congregation were startled by an ominous click in the gallery, and looking up, they beheld SLUKER covering the Organist's second shirt-stud with his revolver.

"Give us G, Mr. MIDDLERIB, if you please!" he said blandly.

But the pirate on the high C's refused to Gee, and Whoa was the natural result.

The confusion that followed was terrible: SLUKER fired at everybody. MIDDLERIB hit him with the music stool. The soprano was thrown over the railing, and somebody turned off the gas.

In the ensuing darkness every one skirmished for themselves. SLUKER took off his boots and hunted for MIDDLERIB in his stocking feet.

Suddenly he heard a single note on the 'high C.' He groped his way to the keyboard, but there was no one there.

The solution rushed upon him,--MIDDLERIB must be _in_ the organ.

He crept round to the handle and bore his weight on it.

It was too true; the unhappy wretch had cut a hole in the bellows and crawled in. But for his ruling passion he would have escaped.

There were a few muffled groans as the handle slowly descended upon the doomed man, and as the breath rushed out of his body into his favorite pipe, the wild 'high C of agony that ran through the sacred edifice told them that all was over.

Let us draw a vail over the horrid picture."

* * *

I was very much interested in this story, very much indeed, and so I jostled the long-haired man--who was about falling asleep--and asked him if anything was done to this wicked SLUKER.

He looked at me reproachfully. "What's the matter with you, my friend?" he said, in the same melancholy voice. "Don't you know who I am? I write for the _Ledger_, and whenever 'I draw a vail, etc.,' that ends it, that does!"

As we stepped from the steamer to the landing, I observed a youth of about six summers dressed in the most elaborately agonizing manner. He had two Schutzenfest targets in his cuffs; in one hand he held an enormous cane, in the other a cigar, and through an eyeglass he gazed at the ankles on the gang-plank with an air of patient weariness with this slow old world that was very touching.

"Where," I exclaimed as I surveyed this show-card of a fast generation, "O! where have our _children_ vanished? Take from childhood the sparkling water of its purity--the sugar of its innocent affections--its ardent but refreshing spirits--and what, ah! what have we left?"

"Nothing," said the melancholy voice at my elbow. "Absolutely nothing save the mint and the straw!"

And he was right, my dear PUNCHINELLO, he was right.

SAGINAW DODD.

* * * * *

"SOLEMN SILENCE."

Perhaps very few persons--and especially very few members of the Republican party--are aware that a monument to ABRAHAM LINCOLN has at last been completed, and that it has been placed on the site allotted for it in Union Square. It is very creditable to the Republican Party that they exercised such control over their feelings when the day for unveiling the LINCOLN Monument arrived. Some parties might have made a demonstration on the occasion of post-mortuary honors being accorded to a leader whom they professed to worship while he lived, and whom they demi-deified after his death. No such extravagant folly can be laid at the door of the Republican Party. "Let bygones be bygones" is their motto. They allowed their "sham ABRAHAM," in heroic bronze, to be hoisted on to his pedestal in Union Square in solitude and silence. That was commendable. A live ass is better than a dead lion; and so the Republican Party, who consider themselves very much alive, went to look after their daily thistles and left their dead lion in charge of a policeman.

* * * * *

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.

LOTTA is lithe; (which is alliterative,) pretty, piquant, and addicted to the banjo. The latter characteristic is inseparable from her. In whatever situation the dramatist may place her, whether in a London drawing-room or a Cockney kitchen, whether on an Algerian battle-field or in a California mining-camp, she is certain to produce the inevitable banjo, and to sing the irrepressible comic song. In fact, her plays are written not for LOTTA, but for LOTTA'S banjo. The dramatist takes the presence of the banjo as the central fact of his drama, and weaves his plot around it. His play is made on the model of that celebrated drama written to introduce Mr. CRUMMLES'S pump and tubs. Thus does he preserve the sacred unity of LOTTA and the banjo.

_Heart's Ease_--in which she is now playing at NIBLO'S Garden, is plainly born of the banjo, and lives for that melodious instrument alone. The author said to himself, "A California mining-camp would be a nice place for a banjo solo." Wherefore he conceived the camp, with a chorus of red-shirted miners. Wherefore too, he created a comic Yankee who should be eccentric enough to bring a banjo to the camp, and a lover who should be charmed by its touching strains. It required a prologue and three acts to enable him to successfully introduce the banjo. In a somewhat condensed form, these acts and this prologue are here set forth.