Project Gutenberg's Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 9, May 28, 1870, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 9, May 28, 1870 Author: Various Release Date: November 7, 2003 [EBook #10013] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCHINELLO, VOL. 1, NO. 9 *** Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Steve Schulze and PG Distributed Proofreaders CONANT'S PATENT BINDERS FOR "PUNCHINELLO," to preserve the paper for binding, will be sent, post-paid, on receipt of One Dollar, by PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING CO., 83 Nassau Street, New-York City. TO NEWS-DEALERS. PUNCHINELLO'S MONTHLY. THE FIVE NUMBERS FOR APRIL Bound in a Handsome Cover, IS NOW READY. Price Fifty Cents. THE TRADE SUPPLIED BY THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY. Who are now prepared to receive Orders. HARRISON BRADFORD & CO.'S STEEL PENS. These pens are of a finer quality, more durable, and cheaper than any other Pen in the market. Special attention is called to the following grades, as being better suited for business purposes than any Pen manufactured. The "505," "22," and the "Anti- Corrosive." We recommend for bank and office use. D. APPLETON & CO., Sole Agents for United States. PUNCHINELLO Vol. 1. No. 9. SATURDAY, MAY 28, 1870. PUBLISHED BY THE PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY, 83 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK. Will Shortly appear: Our New Serial, Written expressly for Punchinello, by ORPHEUS C. KERR, Entitled, "The Mystery of Mr. E. Drood." To be continued weekly during this year. APPLICATIONS FOR ADVERTISING IN "PUNCHINELLO" SHOULD BE ADDRESSED TO J. NICKINSON, Room No. 4, 83 NASSAU STREET. OF THE UNITED STATES. No. 240 Broadway, New-York. POLICIES NON-FORFEITABLE. All Policies Entitled to Participation in Profits. Dividends Declared Annually. JAMES D. REYMERT, President. ASHER S. MILLS, Secretary. THOMAS H. WHITE. M.D., Medical Examiner. ACTIVE AGENTS WANTED. Mercantile Library, Clinton Hall, Astor Place New-York. This is now the largest circulating Library In America, the number of volumes on its shelves being 114,000. About 1000 volumes are added each month; and very large purchases are made of all new and popular works. Books are delivered at members' residences for five cents each delivery. TERMS OF MEMBERSHIP: TO CLERKS, $1 Initiation, $3 Annual Dues. TO OTHERS, $5 a year. SUBSCRIPTIONS TAKEN FOR SIX MONTHS. BRANCH OFFICES NO. 76 CEDAR STREET, NEW- YORK, AND AT Yonkers, Norwalk, Stamford, and Elizabeth Notice to Ladies. DIBBLE, Of 854 Broadway, Has just received a large assortment of all the latest styles of Chignons, Chatelaines, etc., FROM PARIS, Comprising the following beautiful varieties: La Coquette, La Plenitude, Le Bouquet, La Sirene, L'Imperatrice etc. At prices varying from $2 upward AGENTS WANTED In every town, county, and State, to canvass for HENRY WARD BEECHER'S great weekly paper, with which is GIVEN AWAY that superb and world-renowned work of art, "Marshall's Household Engraving of Washington." The best paper and the grandest engraving In America. Agents report "making $20 in half a day." "Sales easier than books, and profits greater." Ladies or gentlemen desiring immediate or largely remunerative employment should apply at once. Book canvassers, and all soliciting agents will find more money in this than in anything else. It is something entirely new, being an unprecedented combination and very taking. Send for circular and terms to J. B. 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With a large and varied experience in the management and publication of a paper of the class herewith submitted, and with the still more positive advantage of an Ample Capital to justify the undertaking, the PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING CO. OF THE CITY OF NEW-YORK, Presents to the public for approval, the NEW ILLUSTRATED HUMOROUS GEO. B. BOWLEND, DRAUGHTSMAN AND DESIGNER, 160 FULTON STREET, Room No. 11. NEW-YORK. AND SATIRICAL WEEKLY PAPER, PUNCHINELLO, The first number of which was issued under date of April 2. PUNCHINELLO will be entirely original; humorous and witty without vulgarity, and satirical without malice. It will be printed on a superior tinted paper of sixteen pages, size 13 by 9, and will be for sale by all respectable newsdealers who have the judgment to know a good thing when they see it, or by subscription from this office. ORIGINAL ARTICLES, Suitable for the paper, and Original Designs, or suggestive ideas or sketches for illustrations, upon the topics of the day, are always acceptable, and will be paid for liberally. Terms: One copy, per year, in advance - $4.00 Single copies, ten cents. A specimen copy will be mailed free upon the receipt of ten cents. One copy, with the Riverside Magazine, or any other magazine or paper, price, $2.50, for - 5.50 One copy, with any magazine or paper, price, $4, for - 7.00 All communications, remittances, etc., to be addressed to PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING CO., No. 83 Nassau Street, NEW-YORK P.O. Box, 2783. (For terms to Clubs, see 16th page.) WEVILL & HAMMAR, Wood Engravers, No. 208 BROADWAY, NEW-YORK. J. NICKINSON begs to announce to the friends of "PUNCHINELLO" residing in the country, that, for their convenience, he has made arrangements by which, on receipt of the price of ANY STANDARD BOOK PUBLISHED, the same will be forwarded, postage paid. Parties desiring Catalogues of any of our Publishing Houses can have the same forwarded by inclosing two stamps. OFFICE OF PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING CO. 83 Nassau Street. [P.O. Box 2783.] Thomas J. Rayner & Co., 29 LIBERTY STREET, New-York, MANUFACTURERS OF THE Finest Cigars made in the United States. All sizes and styles. Prices very moderate. Samples sent to any responsible house. Also importers of the "FUSBOS" BRAND, Equal in quality to the best of the Havana market, and from ten to twenty per cent cheaper. Restaurant, Bar, Hotel, and Saloon trade will save money by calling at 29 LIBERTY STREET. AT THE MERCANTILE LIBRARY. Mr. Nottmuch, (to Clerk in Library.) "I SEE BY YOUR CIRCULAR THAT VISITORS OF DISTINCTION HAVE FREE ACCESS TO YOUR READING- ROOM, AND AS I HAVE CONTRIBUTED A STORY TO THE 'WAYERLY MAGAZINE,'" etc. Nottmuch, (having obtained access to the reading-room.) "A VERY PRETTY GIRL, THAT SUPERINTENDENT! HAS SHE PERUSED MY STORY, OR DO I DAZZLE HER WITH MY LOOKS? HA! SHE RISES!—." Lady Superintendent. (blandly but firmly). "EXCUSE ME, SIR, BUT IT'S AGAINST THE RULES FOR GENTLEMEN TO PLACE THEIR FEET ON CHAIRS." HIGH NOTES BY OUR MUSICAL CRITIC. PUNCHINELLO'S critic, always the friend of fair-play, resents the insinuation that Mr. CARL ROSA has been a careless director of Opera. The truth is that Mr. ROSA has not produced the smallest work without a great deal of Preparation. FLOTOW'S Shadow is to be brought out in London. It will not stand the ghost of a chance unless well mounted. Music light and sketchy; remarkable for a Chorus of Fishermen, well known as the "Shad oh! song." Lohengrin has had a run of eight nights at Brussels, with average receipts of little less than four thousand francs. This sort of tune is the only one in the music of the Future which managers can understand. Nevertheless Herr WAGNER is not out of spirits. Intent upon laying the foundations of future wealth and fame, he can lay Low and Grin. Brussels gold will serve him as well as Rheingold. The difference between BACH'S music find a music-box is yet an unsettled conundrum. Such is likely to be the fate of the question raised with so much temper over the Passion Music of that great man by the English critics. Shame on all critics that condemn MOZART as a fogy and BACH as a nuisance. Of course it is going back on BACH with a vengeance, but what sympathy can exist between the old fuguemakers and the modern high-flyers? LATEST NEWS ITEMS. A SHEFFIELD paper has been prosecuted for asserting that the Prince of Wales was a fast young man. The prosecution was withdrawn as soon as the editor confessed that the Prince was loose. The Treasury Department is much distressed by the great genius for smuggling displayed by the Chinese immigrants. They secrete opium in all sorts of wonderful places, and so worry the custom-house officers dreadfully. Several children have been arrested for bringing their "poppies" over with them, and feeling in favor of the offenders ran so high that a number of women were fined for having a share in laud'n'm. The bull fights in London have come to a mournful conclusion. The bulls refused to take part, and the principal combatant instead of being all Matted O'er with the blood of his taurine victims, has been sent to prison for trying to Pick a Door lock. The Last of the Piegans is travelling East, on his way to Philadelphia, to see "SHERIDAN'S Ride." He was away from home when PHILIP was there, and is very anxious to know the young man when he sees him again. Hence his laudable anxiety to study the picture. The Fenian Army. If the Fenians send an army to aid the Red river insurgents, it may probably be the only "BIEL" work they will attempt this year. WHAT I KNOW ABOUT PROTECTION. DEAR PUNCHINELLO: Having skilfully illuminated Free Trade, I now proceed to elucidate Protection. You see when we reach Protection, the boot is on the other leg; you make the conundrums then, and the other man tries to guess them. There are many kinds of protection; there's the kind which a State's prison-keeper gives to one of his birds; the kind which a black-and-tan terrier, or a freshly-imported Chinaman, extends to a good fat rat; the kind which a pious young man offers to a fair and tender damsel, when he places his arm around her dainty waist, and gently absorbs the dew of innocence from her rosy lips, (that idea, is, I think, plagiarized from TENNYSON,) and the kind which a delicate mother-in-law, blessed with nerves, pours out upon her son-in-law. But I leave the discussion of such things to weaker birds, and soar myself to a higher kind, i.e., that Protection which is diametrically opposed to Free Trade. Protection, in this sense, is—well, let me follow my own admirable example, and illustrate: You own a coal mine in Pennsylvania, which contains tolerably poor coal, with which you mix a proper amount of stone, and then sell the mixture for a high price. ICHABOD BLUE-NOSE owns a coal mine in Nova Scotia, which furnishes good coal; he puts no slate in it, and yet sells it at a low figure. You reflect that with such opposition you will never manage to dispose of all your stone, so you apply to Congress, and have a high tariff put on coal. That's Protection. Metaphysically defined, Protection is the natural right, inherent in every American citizen, to obtain money in large quantities for goods of small qualities. Protection is not a natural production; it was invented about the time taxes were, though it must be admitted that those very annoying articles appeared very early in the history of the human race. I've no doubt that ADAM levied taxes, though it's very doubtful if he could put as many things in a tax levy as a New York politician can. Certainly there was a very high tariff on apples in his day—so high that humanity has not yet succeeded in paying off the duty on the one ADAM ate. ABRAHAM paid taxes, and, as he was his own Senate and House, doubtless he passed a tariff bill to suit himself, and had any quantity of Protection. I have always regretted that NOAH didn't pass a bill protecting native industry, because he could have enforced it, and had no wrangling about it. There are one or two points about Protection which a wayfaring man, even if people labor under the impression that he is a fool, can understand. If you are JOHN SMITH and own a coal mine or an iron mill, you go to Washington, see your Congressman, (by see I mean look at him, of course,) donate large sums of money to certain poor, but honest men, who adorn the lobby of the House, while they are waiting for generous patrons like unto you, then go home and calmly await the result. Your representative makes a speech, the exordium of which is Patriotism, the peroration of which is Star-Spangled Banner, and the central plum of which is your coal mine or iron mill. Your poor and honest friends wear out several pairs of shoes, the tariff bill is passed, your mine or mill is abundantly protected, and the country is saved. If, on the other hand, you are JOHN BROWN, and raise cabbages and turnips on a farm, you are allowed to pay high prices for SMITH'S coal or iron, but you expect no Protection, and you've a sure thing of getting what you expect. Of course you don't imagine that I shall explain the details of this profound subject. There are only two men in this country who think they can do that, and each one of those says that the other is an idiot. As a rule, figures can't lie; but look out for the exceptions when you run across the subject of Protection. The very same figures have an ugly way of proving both sides of a question. You run down a fact, and think you've got it, but, before you know it, it has slipped, like the "little joker," over to the other side. Personally, I am a Protectionist. Formerly I indulged in that monstrous absurdity, Free Trade, but then I was an importer; now, being a manufacturer, the scales have fallen from my eyes, and I am of the straitest sect a Protectionist. You can't give me too much of it. Of course I can't see why pig-iron should be protected, and pigs not. I think every native production should be cared for, and that there should be an excessively high tariff on foreign food. In that case poor REVERDY JOHNSON would have been compelled to have passed a Lenten season at Halifax, until he had eradicated from his system the rich English dinners, before he could have entered this favored land. And MOTLEY—bless me, he has eaten so much that I don't believe he could get it out of his body if he fasted for the remainder of his natural life. I am informed, however, that Protection does us one injury. All the World says that there is a Parsee in our land, who is loaded with rupees, but who is unable to spend them here because of our protective system, and what all the World says, you know, must be true. However, there are 40,000,000 of us, and, if Congress will make all Americans buy my patent door-knobs, the Parsee can go to—Hindostan. I don't think any thing more can be said about Protection. Any body who doesn't understand it now had better go to Washington, and listen to the debate on scrap-iron. That will sharpen his wits. Pig-iron, of course, is interesting, but then that's a light and airy subject. Hear the debate on scrap-iron, by all means. LOT. A LITERARY VAMPIRE. No greater mistake was ever made than the supposition that PUNCHINELLO is to be assailed with impunity by rival publications. It is well known that he never courted controversies or quarrels, and his best friends understand perfectly his love for a peaceable career. But when that flippant sheet, known as Rees's American Encyclopedia, comes out with a violent attack upon PUNCHINELLO'S past life and present course, the assault is such as would provoke a retort from any honest man. The vile insinuation that PUNCHINELLO is printed and published for the sole purpose of making money out of its subscribers and the reading public in general, is too mendacious for refutation; and when the reckless editor of the periodical in question gravely announces that he can never read PUNCHINELLO without laughing at its contents, it will be readily seen that he goes so far as to make use of the truth to serve his wicked purposes. But the descent which this shameless conductor of a journal, confessedly the organ of our ignorant masses, has made into the private life of PUNCHINELLO, is without precedent. He states that for the first fourteen years of his life, PUNCHINELLO was, to all intents and purposes, a person of little or no fortune, and that he depended entirely upon his parents for support; that, until he had reached his fifth birthday, he had absolutely no knowledge of English literature, and was entirely ignorant of even the rudiments of the classics; that he never paid one cent of income tax at that period of his life; and that his belief in the fundamental principles of political economy was, at that time, doubted by all who knew him best! Are such statements as these to be submitted to by a man of honor? Never! PUNCHINELLO dares the recreant editor of the dirty sheet to do his worst! Of that base man he could tell much which would render him unfit for the association of any person living, but he forbears. This much, however, he will say. It is well known that the said calumniator did, at many periods of his life, make use of the services of a calceolarius. Think of that, freemen of America! He has often been known to submit to indignities, such as nose-pulling from the hands of a common tonsor, and has been frequently in such a condition that he could not appear in public without the assistance of a sartor! Is it fitting that a high-toned journalist should engage in petty recriminations with such a one? "Revenge," says JAMES MURDOCK, "is the sweetest morsel cooked in its own gravy, with sauce moyennaise." "Yes," said Dean SWIFT, "and let us have some, and a little gin, say five fingers, and a trifle of milk." Thus it is that we regard the editor of the Encyclopedia. CARLYLE remarks, "Many a vessel, (for if not a Vessel, then surely we, or our progenitors, in counting ships, and the assumptive floatative mechanisms of anterior and past ages; or as the Assyrians [under-estimating the force of the correlative elements] declared a bridging, or a going over [not of seas merely, but of those chaotic gaps of the mind] are all wrong enough indeed,) has never got there." We also think of that editor in this way, and trust that enough has been said to make it plain that PUNCHINELLO is not to be attacked with impunity by every little journal of the day. Encouraging for Travellers. The managers of a leading railroad announce that they take passengers "to all principal points of the West without change." Such unusual liberality, at a time when Change is so scarce with many people, ought to insure for that railroad a great success. Alike, but Different. Poetry sometimes has a Ring in it. So has a pig's nose. THE PLAYS AND SHOWS. ilitary dramas might, as a rule, be called with equal propriety millinery dramas. In other words, their success is generally due to their costumes. In this respect they afford a marked contrast to ballet spectacles. The latter give us inanity without clothes; the former, inanity in particularly gorgeous clothes. Which, again, leads to the further remark that the difference between the two styles of inanity is, after all, a clothes thing. This is a joke. The Lancers, now running at WALLACK'S, (a proceeding which implies no want of bravery on the part of that distinguished corps,) is, however, unlike most military dramas, inasmuch as it is a bright and brilliant play. Moreover, it is acted by the best members of the Company in their very best manner. Miss LOUISA MOORE, whose golden hair and silvery voice become an actress of genuine mettle as well as gentle grace, is ESTELLE, the heroine; Miss EMILY MESTAYER is the Commanding Sister of Col. EPÉE who is personated by Mr. FISHER; Mr. WYNDHAM is the Graceless Private, who, having spent his last penny, enlists in the Lancers and spends vast sums in beneficiary beer in company with his comrades; Mr. WILLIAMSON is the Kindly Sergeant; Mr. RINGGOLD is the Genial Artist, whose velvet coat suggests that he has recently managed a Starr opera bouffe enterprise; and Mr. STODDART is happy in the congenial character of a Clumsy Trumpeter. If any speculative manager pretends that he has a better hypothetical cast in his eye than the present cast of the Lancers, let him be given to the surgical tormentors to be operated upon for malignant strabismus. The curtain rises upon the Genial Artist searching for his friend, the Graceless Private, in the empty jugs and glasses at the Golden Sun Inn. To him enters the Clumsy Trumpeter. Genial Artist. "Where can he be? It—it must, and yet—" Clumsy Trumpeter (without Stoddart's usual oath.) "He's got 'em. Hallo! friend. Do you want any thing?" Genial Artist. "Yes—no—that is—or rather it isn't—" (Exit, while Trumpeter makes faces at the gallery.) Enter ESTELLE and her maid, disguised as peasants, and pursued by a troop of lancers. All the Lancers. "Let me kiss 'em." Both the Girls. "Scr-r-r-r-e-e-e-ch." (Enter Graceless Private.) Graceless Private. "I will protect you. Get out, all you fellows." (They get out.) A flirtation between the Private and ESTELLE is at once begun, from which it appears that she came to catch a glimpse of the Colonel, who wants to marry her. She and the Private sit on the table, and fall instantaneously in love. As soon as they are well in, the Lancers return, and ESTELLE flies. Graceless Private, having no money, pays for the co-inebriation of the entire corps, and while engaged in this praiseworthy occupation is found by the Genial Artist, who makes him promise to attend a ball at a neighboring château. Enter Kindly Sergeant, who arrests the Graceless Private, and puts him in the guard-house. Curtain falls amid faces from STODDART (without his usual oath) and applause from the audience. Veteran Play-goer. "Well, I've seen STODDART in every thing he has played this year, and this is the first time he has failed to swear on every ineligible occasion." Young Lady who frequents Wallack's. "Who is that Clumsy Trumpeter? I don't know him." Accompanying Young Man. "Why, don't you know STODDART?" Young Lady. "Nonsense; that isn't STODDART. Why, he hasn't sworn once." Fast Young Man. "STODDART isn't himself to-night. He hasn't the spirit to swear. Did you hear the good thing he said Monday night about Miss MOORE? It was devilish good. Says he—" (Repeats an indelicate joke.) Irate Old Gentleman who overhears the story. "If he said that, sir, he ought to have been hissed off the stage, sir; and turned out of the company, sir! It was an insult to an estimable lady, and an outrage on the audience, sir!" The second act takes place in the salon of ESTELLE. The Colonel and his Commanding Sister lay siege to ESTELLE'S heart. Graceless Private, in evening dress, countermines the Colonel's forces and routs them, wading deeper than before in the exhilarating surf of love, hand in hand with ESTELLE. (This metaphor has been leased for a term of years to a distinguished hydropathic poet.) Clumsy Trumpeter drops books and things all over the room, and recognises the Graceless Private. Finally the Colonel and the latter quarrel, and go out in the back yard to fight, where the Private is wounded in the arm. The Colonel returns and announces the result to ESTELLE, who swoons, or at all events, makes an admirable feint of so doing. Curtain. Fast Young Man. "STODDART didn't try his good joke to-night. He'll say something yet, though, before the play is over." Every body Else. "Did you ever see better acting than WYNDHAM'S and Miss MOORE'S? And how capitally FISHER and Miss MESTAYER are playing? STODDART positively hasn't sworn yet. What can be the matter with him?" Inquiring Maiden, to her travelled lover. "Are the uniforms just like those of the real French Lancers?" Travelled Lover. "Very nearly. There is one button too many on the front of the Colonel's coat. I know the regiment well. It's the crack artillery regiment in the French service." Act III. shows us the Graceless Private brought before the Colonel for examination. He feigns drunkenness, but the Colonel suspects him of having been his adversary at the ball. ESTELLE visits the Colonel in order to save her Private lover. He is proved to have broken his arrest, and is sentenced to death. ESTELLE offers to marry the Colonel if he will pardon the Private. The latter's discharge arrives in the nick of time, and as he is thus beyond the reach of the Colonel's vengeance, he graciously pardons him, and joins his hand to that of ESTELLE. He remarks—or ought to—"Bless you, my children." Every body suddenly finds out that every body else is noble and generous. And so the curtain falls upon a happy garrison, including a Trumpeter who has not sworn a single oath. One Half of the Audience. "How do you like it? I like it so much." The Other Half. "I like it immensely." Chorus from Every body. "Why didn't STODDART swear?" Answering Echo from the Tipperary Hills. "Because WALLACK has told him that the public won't stand it any longer." And the public is right. Mr. STODDART is an exceptionally able actor, but of late he has grown intolerably coarse and vulgar while on the stage. His profanity has disgraced himself and the theatre, and his gratuitous insult to an estimable lady, who had the misfortune to appear in the same scene with him on Monday night, should have secured his instant dismissal from the company, and his perpetual banishment to Tammany or Tony Pastor's. Let him turn over a new leaf at once. He does not swear in the present play, and the fact is creditable to him. He is a gentleman in private life; let him be a gentleman on the stage. By so doing he will soon be recognized as one of the best comedians of the day. And PUNCHINELLO will be the first to praise him when he lays aside the unnecessary vulgarity with which he has latterly bid for the applause of the gallery. MATADOR. THE RELIGION OF TEMPERANCE. Says Poet to Parson—To save men from drinking, Not many religions are good to my thinking; To be sure a good Baptist a man of true grace is, But a Hard Shell, my brother's the hardest of cases. Your Shouter's too noisy for temperance talking, Your Come-outer too harsh for right temperate walking. A Quaker's not steady enough on his beam-ends, And a Shaker is bad for delirium tremens. But of all the hard drinkers religion has warmed, To my mind the most hopeful's the German Reformed. THE PET DOGS OF NEW-YORK PRESENT THEIR COMPLIMENTS, WITH THE ABOVE CUT, TO MR. BERGH, AND REQUEST THAT HE WILL CUR-TAIL THE SPORTS OF THOUGHTLESS CHILDREN WHO INSIST UPON PLAYING AT "HORSE" WITH THEM. Logical. One PULLMAN, who preaches the "milk of the word," (not without gin, PUNCHINELLO supposes,) declares that the BIBLE is full of lies. Well, according to his own view of it, PULLMAN must be full of Scripture. The Real Fact. Mr. COLFAX, says the Cincinnati Gazette, intends to call his new-born son CASABLANCA, the Vice-President having once "stood on a burning deck," etc. PUNCHINELLO discovers a shrewder reason. The plain English for Casablanca is White-House. Concealed Weapons. Detroit drunkards, says an exchange, use a stocking with a stone in it to avoid arrest—just as if a hat "with a brick in it" were not enough! Written With a Steal Pen. So great is the habit among editors of cribbing from each other, that if one were to write an article about an egg another would immediately Poach it. The Battle of Hastings. The fight between the Commercial Advertiser and THEODORE TILTON. Triumphs of the Chisel. The Wall street "busts." Good judges pronounce them Per Phidias. What an Asthmatic Artist can not Draw. A long breath. "The American Working-woman's Union" Most Sought After. MARRIAGE. The Latest Edition of "Shoo! Fly." "MOSQUITO" at Niblo's. THE CONGRESSMAN TO HIS CRITICS. Well, talk, if you like; I suppose it's your way; Each citizen, surely, should say all his say; I did just so, when I'd nothing to do; And if I felt like doing so, why shouldn't you! It's republican, pleasant, and safe, to find fault; If a man can't do that, why he's not worth his salt. And never, since critics (and fleas) learned their powers, Was a country more blest with such vermin than ours. You've learned much about your old friend, it is said; The farther I'm from you, the plainer I'm read! When "one of the people" comes here to make laws, The "people" disown him. Now, what is the cause? You say I'm not "dignified." Well, friends—are you? My language, my manners, are rough, it is true; My tones, and my jokes, (since you say it,) are coarse; But very few streams rise above their own source. If we're all "politicians," and they are such trash As you have declared them, why were you so rash As to give us your votes? What! will nobody "run" But a "mere politician?" Why, then we're undone! Come, come—this is nonsense! Be fair, my good sirs! Let us look at this question. Suppose it occurs That a long, prosy speech is about to be made; If you say, "Stay and hear it," must you be obeyed? But ours is a "serious business." True! And so are some other things serious, too! Such as courtships, and dinners, and headaches, and blues, And sight-seeing friends, whom 'tis death[1] to refuse! Now, many of us (though it should not be said!) Are really stupid, and haven't much head. We don't take that view of our duty that you do; We're often so bothered we don't know what to do! Our votes look decided—as though we did know; But that's because BUTLER or SCHENCK voted so. Such points may come up, in the course of the day, As would puzzle the Seraphim some, I should say! Besides, gentle friends! did you ever think so? Perhaps we are paying you all that we owe. If you want better service, why send better men, And be better yourselves. It will all be right, then. [1] Political death, of course. Come on, Ladies! An Anti-mustache movement has begun in Boston. PUNCHINELLO to explain that it begins altogether with the ladies, and is, of course, Right Against the mustaches. For Lunatics Only. The latest whim of the Lunatics in one of the Indiana Asylums is the notion that they can design and build opera-houses. Well, we have lots of crazy architecture, and more than one gentleman has acknowledged himself insane for investing in opera-houses. But PUNCHINELLO thinks that the tastes of the insane would be better encouraged if directed to the building of Courts of Justice. Every Court-house thus constructed, would be a monument to the Plea of Insanity. GLIMPSES OF FORTUNE. You may not think so, my dear PUNCHINELLO, but it is true. I have had them. I am not one of your bloated aristocrats—just at the present moment—but I know as well as any one what WHITTIER meant when he said "it might have been." As an instance of this, I will just state that it has not been a very long time since, in looking over the columns of one of our principal dailies, I saw something among the personals which seemed to touch my interests in, a very decided way. I often look over the "Personals," for I know well the connection between fortune and the Press. I have not forgotten the success of A.T. STEWART and many other millionaires, and their dependence on the newspapers—but never until that day had I seen any thing in that mystic column which could possibly be construed to apply to inc. As for the rest of the paper, I knew that there was nothing to interest me there. You see I was after Fortune. The advertisement to which I refer road as follows: "If the gentleman in a dark hat and gray pantaloons, who, in a Broadway stage, one day last week, passed up the fare for a lady with blue eyes and high-heeled boots, will call at 831 Dash street, second floor, he will hear of something to his advantage. A.R.R." Now, it so happened, that during the whole of the preceding week I had worn a black hat and gray pantaloons; indeed, I had them on yet, and, to tell the truth, I had no others. Therefore, this part of the case was all clear enough. There was no reason why the gentleman inquired for should not be me. I had certainly ridden in a stage in the last week, and I remember very well that I passed up the fare for lady with blue eyes. I performed a similar service for several ladies; but one of them, I am sure, had blue eyes. As to the high-heeled boots I suppose she wore them, but how was I to know that? At all events it would be a piece of the most culpable indifference to my welfare to neglect this chance. Fortune! and through a lady, too! To think of it! The promised advantage might be great or small, but whatever it was, it would be most welcome. And the honor, too! A piece of positive advantage for an act of manly gallantry! I immediately put on that black hat, and with those identical gray trowsers upon my legs, I strode down to 321 Dash street, and mounted instantly to the second floor. As there was but one entrance door from the stair-way on this floor, I felt certain that I had found the right place. The business of Mr. A.R.R. was evidently a very profitable one, for his room was quite full of people. I inquired of a boy for the author of the notice I held in my hand, (I had carefully cut it from the paper,) and was informed that this was the right place, and that the gentleman would see me in a few moments. I took a seat and regarded the persons who were standing and sitting about the room. They were all men, and in a few minutes I discovered, to my great surprise, that they all wore black hats and gray pantaloons! I must admit, that when I made this discovery, I experienced a very peculiar sensation, as if some one had suddenly dropped a little ice-water down my back. Was it possible that all these men were here in answer to that advertisement, which I considered addressed to me alone? There were all sorts of them; old gentlemen with heads grayer than their pants; young fellows who looked like clerks; and middle-aged men, who seemed like very respectable heads of families. Was it possible that each one of those individuals had, in the last week, passed up the fare of a blue-eyed lady with high-heeled boots? And did each one of them expect to enjoy that advantage for which I came here? One thing was certain; they did not announce to each other their business, but looked at their watches and tapped their boots, and knitted their brows as if each one of them had come on very particular business, which had nothing to do with the affairs of the general crowd. But all those gray trowsers! There was no concealing them. A door, leading into an adjoining room, now opened quickly, and Mr. A.R.R. made his appearance. No one doubted that he was the man, for he bowed politely, and seemed to expect the company. He was a tall, thin, and well-dressed man, and held in his hand a small package. Instantly upon his appearance every man in the room stuck his thumb and forefinger into his vest pocket, and pulling out a little piece of printed paper, said, "Sir, I called—" A.R.R. waved his hand. "Gentlemen," said he, "I know why you called, and you will allow me to remark—" "But look here," said a tall man with a blue cravat. "I think that I am the person you want to see, and as I am in a hurry, I would like to see you for a few minutes in private." Dozens of angry eyes were now directed upon this presumptuous individual, and dozens of angry voices were about to break forth when the benign A.R.R. again waved his hand. "Gentlemen," said he, "I wish to see you all. No one more than another. I have reason to believe that every one of you is the person to whom that advertisement referred. I see you are all gentlemen, and you would not have made your appearance here had you not fulfilled the conditions mentioned in the paper." Here was a smothered hum, which seemed to precede a general outbreak, but A.R.R., blandly smiling, continued: "Gentlemen, do not become impatient. What I have to say is to the advantage of every one of you. You all move in good society—I can see that—and you therefore are well aware of some of the penalties of social pleasures and high living. Consequently, gentlemen," and now he spoke very fast, as if fearful of interruption, "you must have, all of you, experienced some of the evils of indigestion, and it is to relieve these that I have prepared my Binocular Barberry Bitters—" A roar of rage here broke forth from every man of us, and a rush was made towards the smiling impostor, but he quickly slipped through the door behind him, and locked it in our faces. And then, before we could rush from the room where we had been so shamefully duped, the head of A.R.R. appeared at a little window in the partition-wall, and he called out: "Gentlemen, this mixture is, as my initials declare, a Radical Relief, and retails at one dollar per bottle, I hope you will take some of my circulars home with you," and he threw among the crowd the package of circulars which he had held in his hand. This, O friend PUNCHINELLO, was only one of my Glimpses of Fortune. I may yet see the jade more nearly. IMPECUNE. "COMPARISONS ARE ODIOUS." Fond Mother. "YES, HE'S A PRETTY GOOD BOY, BUT HE DON'T TAKE TO HIS LETTERS." Squire. "WELL, HE OUGHTER, FOR HIS MOUTH IS LIKE THE SLIT OF A POST-OFFICE BOX." A TABLEAU OF THE DAY. GENERAL DANA, WHO HAS BROUGHT THE FIRE OF THE "SUN" TO BEAR UPON EVERY BODY, NOW BEGINS TO REALIZE THE FORCE OF THE PROVERB—"FOLKS WHO LIVE IN GLASS HOUSES SHOULD NOT THROW STONES." THE INDIAN QUESTION. [AS VIEWED IN THE WEST.] This is our business, understand! You Eastern folks, with tempers bland All get your views at second-hand. We are the ones that take the brunt Of every lively Indian-hunt, So don't be angry if we're blunt. If any body's scalped it's us! So we've a well-earned right to cuss, And you've no right to make a fuss. Talk as you please about their "rights;" That don't include their coming nights, And cutting out our lungs and lights. You get your wife and children shot! (Here it might happen, like us not,) You'll make your mind up on the spot. "Humanity" 's played out for you! You've got some active work to do; No doubt you'll see it well put through. Until you've settled that small bill, (As honorable debtors will,) We fancy you will not keep still. You will admit the tender plea Of "broken faith;" but when you see Your Red Skin, you won't let him be! Just so with us. We don't go back Of our affair! We were not slack In justice to this Devil's pack! They settle with the wrong concern; And as they never, never'll learn, We shoot 'em, and don't care a dern! EDITORIAL WASHING-DAY IN NEW-YORK.