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twg_000000042100 | specimen of the art of an AGASSIZ and WATERHOUSE HAWKINS in such a mortary old man, and his intellectual pride causes him to resolve at once upon a rival display. "Look at this skull, JOHN McLAUGHLIN," he says, referring to an object that he has found behind the ladder. "See thish fine, retreating brow, bulging chin, projecting occipital bone, and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042101 | these orifices of ears that musht've been stupen'sly long. It's the skull, JOHN McLAUGHLIN, of a twin-brother of the man who really wished--really wished, JOHN McLAUGHLIN--that he could be sat'shfied, sir, in his own mind, that CHARLES DICKENS was a Christian writer." "Why, thash's skull of a hog," explains Mr. McLAUGHLIN, with some contempt. "Twin-brother--all th'shame," says Mr. BUMSTEAD, as | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042102 | though that made no earthly difference. Once more, what a strange expedition is this! How strangely the eyes of the two men look, after two or three more applications to the antique flask; and how curiously Mr. Bumstead walks on tip-toe at times and takes short leaps now and then. "Lesh go now," says BUMSTEAD, after both have been asleep | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042103 | upon their feet several times; "I think th's snakes down here, JOHN McBUMSTEAD." "Wh'st! monkies, you mean,--dozens of black monkies, Mr. BUMPLIN," whispers OLD MORTARITY, clutching his arm as he sinks against him. "Noshir! Serp'nts!" insists Mr. BUMSTEAD, making futile attempts to open his umbrella with one hand. "Warzesmarrer with th' light?--ansh'r me t' once, Mac JOHNBUNKLIN!" In their swayings | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042104 | under the confusions and delusions of the vault, their lanterns have worked around to the neighborhoods of their spines, so that, whichever way they turn, the light is all behind them. Greatly agitated, as men are apt to be when surrounded by supernatural influences, they do not perceive the cause of this apparently unnatural illumination; and, upon turning round and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042105 | round in irregular circles, and still finding the light in the wrong place, they exhibit signs of great trepidation. "Warzemarrer wirra _light?_" repeats Mr. BUMSTEAD, spinning wildly until he brings up against the wall. "Ishgotb'witched, I b'lieve," pants Mr. McLAUGHLIN, whirling as frenziedly with his own lantern dangling behind him, and coming to an abrupt pause against the opposite wall. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042106 | Thus, each supported against the stones by a shoulder, they breathe hard for a moment, and then sink into a slumber in which they both slide down to the ground. Aroused by the shock, they sit up quite dazed, brush away the swarming snakes and monkies, are freshly alarmed by discovering that they are now actually sitting upon that perverse | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042107 | light behind them, and, by a simultaneous impulse, begin crawling about in search of the ladder. Unable to see anything with all the light behind him, but fancying that he discerns a gleam beyond a dark object near at hand, Mr. BUMSTEAD rises to a standing attitude by a series of complex manoeuvres, and plants a foot on something. "I'morth'larrer!" | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042108 | he cries, spiritedly. "Th'larrer's on me!" answers Mr. MCLAUGHLIN, in evidently great bewilderment. Then ensue a momentary wild struggle and muffled crash; for each gentleman, coming blindly upon the other, has taken the light glimmering at the other's back for the light at the top of the ladder, and, further mistaking the other in the dark for the ladder itself, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042109 | has attempted to climb him. Mr. BUMSTEAD, however, has got the first step; whereupon, Mr. MCLAUGHLIN, in resenting what he takes for the ladder's inexcusable familiarity, has twisted both himself and his equally deluded companion into a pretty hard fall. Another interval of hard breathing, and then the organist of Saint Cow's asks: "Di'you hear anything drop?" "Yshir, th'larrer got | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042110 | throwed, f'rimpudence to a gen'l'm'n," is the peevish return of OLD MORTARITY, who immediately falls asleep as he lies, with his lantern under his spine. In his sleep, he dreams that BUMSTEAD examines him closely, with a view to gaining some clue to the mystery of the light behind both their backs; and, on finding the lantern under him, and, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042111 | studying it profoundly for some time, is suddenly moved to feel along his own back. He dreams that BUMSTEAD thereupon finds his own lantern, and exclaims, after half an hour's analytical reflection, "It musht'ave slid round while JOHN MCLAUGHLIN was intosh'cated." Then, or soon after, the dreamer awakes, and can discern two Mr. BUMSTEADS seated upon the step-ladders, with a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042112 | lantern, baby-like, on each knee. "You two men are awake at last, eh?" say the organists, with peculiar smiles. "Yes, gentlemen," return the MCLAUGHLINS, with yawns. They ascend silently from the cellar, each believing that he is accompanied by two companions, and rendered moodily distrustful thereby. "Aina maina mona--Mike. Bassalone, bona--Strike!" sings a small, familiar voice, when they stand again | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042113 | above ground, and a stone whizzes between their heads. In another moment BUMSTEAD has the fell SMALLEY by the collar, and is shaking him like a yard of carpet. "You wretched little tarrier!" he cries in a fury, "you've been spying around to-night, to find out something about my Spiritualism that may be distorted to injure my Ritualistic standing." "I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042114 | ain't done nothing; and you jest drop me, or I'll knock spots out of yer!" carols the stony young child. "I jest come to have my aim at that old Beat there." "Attend to his case, then--his and his friend's, for he seems to have some one with him--and never let me see you two boys again." Thus Mr. BUMSTEAD, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042115 | as he releases the excited lad, and turns from the pauper burial-ground for a curious kind of pitching and running walk homeward. The strange expedition is at an end:-but _which_ end he is unable just then to decide. (_To be Continued._) * * * * * [Illustration: CLERKS ALL AWAY ON A SATURDAY FROLIC, WHICH ACCOUNTS FOR THE UNFORTUNATE POSITION | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042116 | OF THIS STOUT GENTLEMAN, WHO WAS LEFT ALONE TO LOCK UP HIS STORE.] * * * * * [Illustration: PUNCHINELLO CORRESPONDENCE.] ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. _Johnny_.--Yes, you may offer your arm to your pretty cousin in the country whenever you think she would like it, except when Mr. PUNCHINELLO is present. If that gallant gentleman is at hand, escort duty may, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042117 | with perfect propriety, be left to him. _Charles_ inquires whether his handwriting is good enough to qualify him for membership in a base ball club. We think he is all right on that score. _Glaucus._--We have never heard that Newport is a good place for gathering sea-shells, but we presume you can shell out there if you wish. _Chapeau_.--Hats will | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042118 | be worn on the head this season. It is not considered stylish to hang them on the ear, eyebrow, or coat collar. _Cit._--The correct dimensions of a Saratoga pocket-book have not been definitely decided. As to sending it, it is doubtful whether the rail-road companies would receive it as baggage. Perhaps you could charter a canal boat. _Aspirant_.--We cannot tell | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042119 | you the price of "bored" in Washington "for a few weeks." No doubt you could get liberally bored at a reasonable rate. _Sorosis_--It was very wrong for your husband to mention the muddy coffee. However, we advise you to attempt a settlement of such troubles without creating a public scandal. _Butcher Boy_.--You cannot succeed as a writer of "lite comidy" | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042120 | if you continue to weave such tragic spells. "The Lean Larder" would not be an attractive title for your play. _C. Drincarty_ submits the following problem: If one swallow don't make a summer, how many claret punches can a man take before fall? Will some of our ingenious readers offer a suitable solution? _Culturist_.--The potato has been grafted with great | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042121 | success on the cucumber tree in some of the Western States. The stock should be heated by a slow fire until the sap starts. The grafts should be boiled in a preparation known to science as vanilla cream. _Truth_.--Your information is not authentic. LOUIS NAPOLEON never played marbles in Central Park, nor took his little Nap in the vestibule of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042122 | WOOD'S Museum. _Fanny_ inquires whether "ballot girls" are wanted in New York. Wyoming is a better field for them than this city. _Maine Chance_ has been paying his _devoirs_ with great impartiality to two young ladies. One of them has red hair and a Roman nose, but the paternal income is very handsome. The other is witty and pretty, but | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042123 | can bring no rocks, except possibly "Rock the cradle." Recently he called on the golden girl, and a menial rudely repulsed him from the door. This hurt his feelings. He then went to the dwelling of the Fair, when a big dog attacked him "on purpose," and lacerated his trousers. He wants to know whether he has any remedy in | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042124 | the courts. His best way is the way home. _Rifleman_.--You are right; the rival guns--the Dreyse and the Chassepot--are also rifle-guns. Both of them are provided with needles, as you suppose, but, so far as there is any chance of their being put to the test under present circumstances, in Europe, it rather appears that both of them will prove | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042125 | Needless. _Piscator_.--No; the weak-fish is not so called on account of any supposed feebleness attributable to it. If you take a round of the markets one of these roaring hot days, your senses will tell you that the weakfish is sometimes very strong. * * * * * THE PLAYS AND SHOWS. As a good many persons know, LA GISELLE | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042126 | is a ballet whose hundred legs are nightly displayed on the stage of the GRAND OPERA HOUSE. The _Twelve Temptations_ have ceased to tempt, and the familiar legs of LUPE no longer allure. But in their place we have KATHI LANNER, and BERTHA LIND, and nearly a gross of assorted legs of the very best quality. Why do the women | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042127 | clamor for the ballot, when they have almost exclusive possession of the ballet? The latter is much nicer and more useful than the former. The average repeater can obtain only a dollar for his ballot, but the average ballet will find any quantity of enthusiastic admirers at one dollar and a half a head. Would any man pay KATHI LANNER | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042128 | a dollar for the privilege of seeing her with a ballot in her hand? On the other hand, lives there a man with eyes so dead that he would not cheerfully pay twice that sum to see her in the mazes of the ballet? But _La Giselle_? Certainly. I am coming to that in a moment. I have often thought | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042129 | that nature must have intended me for a writer of sermons. I have such a facility for beginning an article with a series of general remarks that have nothing whatever to do with the subject. Though how can any one be rationally expected to stick to anything in this weather, except, perhaps, the newly varnished surface of his desk? And | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042130 | how can even the firmest of resolutions be prevented from melting and vanishing away, with the thermometer at more degrees than one likes to mention? You remember the old proverb: "Man proposes, but his mother-in-law finally disposes." The bearing of this observation lies in its application. By the bye, I don't know a better application, in the present weather, than | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042131 | claret punch. Apply yourself continually to that cooling beverage, and apply it continually to your lips, and the result is a sort of reciprocity treat, whose results are much more certain than those of the reciprocity treaty, of which Congress has latterly had so much to say. To contemplate _La Giselle_ in all its bearings is a pleasure which is | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042132 | peculiarly appropriate to the season. KATHI LANNER and her companions may not be really cool, but they look as though they were. They remind one of the East Indian country houses that are built on posts, so as to allow a free circulation of air beneath the foundation. Anyhow, they look as if they took things coolly. (A joke might | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042133 | be made on the words coolly and Coolie. The reader may mix to his own taste. It's too hot for any one to make jokes for other people.) But _La Giselle_? Yes! yes! I am just ready to speak of it. _La Giselle_ is a grand ballet in which an elaborate plot is developed by the toes of some fifty | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042134 | young ladies. There is a young woman in it who loves a man, and there is another woman who also loves him, and another man who loves the first woman, and meddles and mars as though he were a professional philanthropist. The woman--the first woman, I mean--goes crazy down to the extremity of her feet, and dies, and then there | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042135 | are more women,--no; these last are disembodied spirits, with nothing but light skirts on,--who dance in graveyards, and make young men dance with them till they fall down exhausted, calling in vain for BROWN to take them home in carriages, and pay for their torn gloves. The first young woman, and a young man--not the other young man, you understand--does | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042136 | a good deal of--Well, in fact, things are rather mixed before the ballet comes to an end, but I know that it's a good thing, for FISK sits in his private box and applauds it, which he wouldn't do if he didn't. And now, having placed _La Giselle_ plainly before your mental vision, I desire to rise to a personal | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042137 | explanation. For the ensuing four weeks, the places, in PUNCHINELLO, which have heretofore known me, will know me no more. I am going to a quiet country place on Long Island to write war correspondence for the--well, I won't mention the name of the paper. You see the editor of the _Na----_ of the paper in question, I should say,--wants | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042138 | to have an independent and unprejudiced account of the great struggle on the Rhine--something that shall be different from any other account.--Down on Long Island, I shall be out of the reach of either French or Prussian influence, and will be able to describe events as they should be. I have made arrangements with the "Veteran Observer" of the _Times_ | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042139 | to take charge of this column during my absence. If he can only curb his natural tendency toward frivolity and jocoseness, I am in hopes that he will be able to draw his salary as promptly and efficiently as though he were a younger man. Remarking, therefore, in the words of _Kathleen Mavourneen_, that my absence "may be four weeks, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042140 | and it may be longer," I bid my readers a warm (thermometer one hundred and five degrees) farewell. MATADOR. * * * * * JUPITER BELLICOSUS. Truly, PUNCHINELLO, this is an age of progress. Wars of succession are no more. Absolutism must forever hang its head. Fling a glance at France; peer into Prussia, _Vox populi_ is the voice of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042141 | the King, and the voice of the king is therefore _vox Dei_. When a king speaks for his people he must speak sooth; what he says of other peoples must be taken with a grain of salt. Bearing this in mind, the apparent inconsistency between the regal rigmarole and the Imperial improvisation (these epithets are a tribute to the Republic) | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042142 | which I have received by our _special wire_ from Europe were addressed by the monarchs to their respective armies before the grand "wiring in" which is to follow. WILHELM KOENIG VON PRUSSEN. _Soldaten_: The Gaul is at our gates. _Vaterland_ is in danger: my _weiss_ is then for war. France, led by a despot, is about to desecrate the Rhine. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042143 | His imperial bees are swarming, but we shall send him back with his bees in his bonnet, and a bee's mark (BISMARCK) on the end of his nasal organ. France wars for conquest; Prussia never. When FREDERICK the Great captured Silesia from a Roman without any apparent pretext, was he not an instrument of Providence? When, in company with Austria, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042144 | we beat and bullied Denmark out of Schleswig-Holstein, were we not victorious, and is not that sufficient justification? When we afterwards beat this Austria, did it not serve her right? And when we absorbed Hanover, &c., was it not to protect them? Yes, our present object is the defence of our country and the capture of Alsace and Lorraine, which | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042145 | mere politeness prevented us from claiming hitherto. On, then, soldiers of Deutchland. Let our _law reign_ in Lorraine, for what is sauce for the Prussian goose should be Alsace for the Gallic gander. The God of battles is on the side of our just cause; Leipsic is looking at us, Waterloo is watching us. GOTT _und_ WILHELM, _sauerkraut und schnapps. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042146 | Vorwarts._ NAPOLEON, EMPEREUR DES FRANCAIS. _Soldats:_ True to your trust in me, I am about to lead you to slaughter. _L'Empire c'est la paix_. Prussia would place a poor and distant relative of mine on the throne of Spain, therefore must we recover the natural frontier of France, which lies upon the Rhine. The rhino is ready, and we are | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042147 | ready for the Rhine. Let my red republican subjects recall Valmy and Jemappes, and their generals KELLERMANN and DUMAURIOZ. Let every Frenchman kill a Prussian, every woman too _kill her man_. They did much for _la patrie_ in those days, but do _more ye to-day_. France wars for ideas only; Prussia for rapine. We have heard this Rhine-whine long enough; | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042148 | it has got into our heads at last. The spirit of my uncle has its eye upon you. Ambition was no part of his nature. His struggles were all for the good of France, "which he loved so much," as he himself said at his country-seat at St. Helena. Marshal, then, to the notes of the _Marseillaise_, which I now | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042149 | generously permit you to sing. The Gallic rooster shall "cackle, cackle, clap his wings and crow," _Unter der Linden_. Jena judges us, Auerstedt is _our status_. The Man of Destiny and December calls you. The God of armies (who marches with the strongest battalions) is with us. _La gloire et des Grenouilles_, France and fried potatoes. _L'Empire et moi et | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042150 | le prince Imperial. En avant marche!_ * * * * * A District that ought to be subject to Earthquakes. Rockland County. * * * * * [Illustration: THE CELESTIAL SCARECROW IN MASSACHUSETTS. IT CONSISTS OF A CHINESE GONG AND A LOT OF PUPPETS WORKED BY THE HANDS OF CAPITAL; AND SOME PERSONS THINK IT A GOOD JOKE.] * * | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042151 | * * * THE VULTURE'S CALL. Come--sisters--come! The din of arms is rising from the vale, Bright arms are glittering in the morning sun And trumpet tones are ringing in the gale! Hurrah-hurrah! As fast and far We hurry to behold the blithesome game of War! Haste--sisters--haste! The drums are booming, shrill fifes whistling clear, The scent of human blood | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042152 | is in the blast, And the load cannon stuns the startled ear. Away--away! To view the fray, For us a feast is spread when Man goes forth to slay. Rest--sisters--rest! Here on these blasted pines; and mark beneath How war's red whirlwind shakes earth's crazy breast And cumbers it with agony and death. Toil, soldiers, toil, Through war's turmoil, We | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042153 | Vultures gain the prize--we Vultures share the spoil. * * * * * Not Generally Known. The new three cent stamp smacks of the Revolution; containing, as it does, the portraits of two military heroes of that period. General WASHINGTON will be recognized at once, while in the background can be discerned that brilliant officer--General GREEN. * * * * | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042154 | * Our Future Millionaires. Once let the Celestials get our American way of doing business, and there will be plenty of China ASTORS among us. * * * * * THE POEMS OF THE CRADLE. CANTO II. "Hey! Diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle The cow jumped over the moon. The little dog laughed to see the sport, And | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042155 | the dish ran after the spoon." These were the classic expressions of the hilarious poet of a period far back in the vista of ages. How vividly they portray the exalted state of his mind; and how impressed the public must have been at the time; for did not the words become popular immediately, and have they not so continued | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042156 | to the present day? Every mother immediately seized upon the verse, and, setting it to music of her own, sang it as a cradle song to soothe the troubles of infanthood, and repeated it in great glee to the intelligent babe when in a crowing mood, as the poem most fitted for the infant's brain to comprehend. Papa, anxious to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042157 | watch the unfolding of the human mind, and its gradual development, would take the baby-prodigy in his arms, and with keen glance directed upon its face, repeat, in thrilling tones, the sublime words. With what joy would he remark and comment upon any gleam of intelligence, and again and again would he recite, in an impressive voice, those words so | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042158 | calculated to aid in bringing into blossom the bud of promise. But who can meditate upon the memorable stanzas, and not see, in fancy, the enthusiastic youth--the lover of melody and of nature--as he enters his dingy room, the ordinary abiding place of poetical geniuses. He sees his beloved fiddle, and his no less beloved feline friend, in loving conjunction; | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042159 | he bursts out rapturously with impetuous joy: "Hey! diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle!" He sees the two things dearest to his heart, and sees them both at one time! And he must be excused for his sudden night into the regions of classicism. No wonder that he immediately imagines the world to be as full of joy as | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042160 | he himself, and that he thinks "The cow jumped over the moon." Perhaps the sight was a sufficient re-moon-eration to him for his past troubles; and the exhilaration of his spirits caused him to dance, to cut pigeon-wings, and otherwise gaily disport himself; consequently, "The little dog laughed to see the sport," which every intelligent dog would have done, under | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042161 | the circumstances. Certainly, dear reader, you would have done so yourself. The hilariousness of the poet increasing, and his joyfulness expanding, his manifestations did not confine themselves to simple dancing-steps and an occasional pigeon-wing, but, inadvertently perhaps, he introduced the "can-can," and that explains why "The dish ran away with the spoon." For the end of his excited toe came | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042162 | in contact with his only dish and spoon, and propelled them to the other side of the room. As he does not tell us whether the dish remained whole after its escapade, we must conclude that it was broken, and that the dreadful accident caused, immediately, a damp to descend upon his effervescent spirits. In what better way could he | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042163 | give vent to his feelings than in descriptive verse? He could not shed his tears upon the paper and hand them around for inspection, or write a melancholy sonnet on the frailty of crockery, as a relief to his mind. No! he chose the course best fitted to command public attention, as the result proved. He told his tale--its cause | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042164 | and effect--in as few words as possible. Fortunate if other poets would only do the same! * * * * * An Ornithological Con. What bird does General PRIM most resemble? A Kingfisher. * * * * * [Illustration: NOTES ON THE FERRY. MR. CARAMEL, WHO IS OBSERVANT, CONTEMPLATIVE, AND GIVEN TO COMPARISON, ARRIVES AT THE CONCLUSION THAT SOME WOMEN | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042165 | ARE NICER THAN OTHERS.] * * * * * THE MISERIES OF A HANDSOME MAN. Ever since my earliest recollections I have been a victim to circumstances. Beauty, which others desire and try every means to obtain, to me has been a source of untold misery. From my infancy, when ugly women with horrid breaths would stop my nurse in | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042166 | the streets and insist upon kissing me--through my school-days, when the girls would pet me and offer me a share of their nuts and candies, and the boys laugh at me in consequence, and call me "gal-boy," squirt ink upon my face for beauty-spots, and present me with curl-papers and flowers for my hair--until the present, when I am denied | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042167 | introductions to young ladies and am put off on old women--I have suffered for my looks. In my boarding-house I am shunned as if I had the plague. When I enter the parlor or dining-room, I see the ladies look at each other with a knowing air, as much as to say, "Look at him!" And the answer is telegraphed | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042168 | back, "Ain't he handsome? but he knows it," as if I could help knowing it with every one telling me so fifty times a day; and husbands pay unusual attention to their wives when I am around, as if I were an ogre. I am naturally a modest man, made more so by my extreme sensitiveness to personal criticism; and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042169 | to be obliged to stand apparently unconscious, when I know I am being looked at and commented upon, is harrowing to my feelings. I feel sometimes as if I should drop down on the floor, but then folks would never stop laughing if I did, at what they would be pleased to term my extreme ladylikeness! I have actually prayed | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042170 | that I might get the small-pox, and once walked through the small-pox hospital for that purpose, but escaped unharmed. I suppose I must have been vaccinated. In fact, I know I have been, for how often have I looked at the scar on my arm, and wished it had been on my cheek, or at the end of my nose, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042171 | or, in fact, on any place where it might be considered a blemish. When I was a child I came near killing myself one night by going to bed with two large bottle-corks thrust into my nostrils, to make them large, like other boys'; and have made my mouth sore by stretching it with my fingers, or forcing melon-rinds into | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042172 | it, to enlarge it. But it was useless; perhaps the mouth might be sore for a couple of days, but its shape remained unaltered. Now that I am a man, I am as unfortunate as ever. My hair _will_ curl, even when shaved within half-an-inch of the scalp; my moustache will stay jet-black, although I sometimes wax the ends of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042173 | it with soap, and walk on the sunny side of Broadway; my teeth are perfect, and I never need a dentist; and my hands are shameful for a man,--so all my old-maid-aunts and bachelor-uncles say. My affections have been trifled with several times, "because," as they said, "when they had drawn me to the proposing point, I was too handsome | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042174 | to be good for anything as a husband--I did very well for a beau." Goodness! is it only ugly men that can marry? I want to marry and settle down; for I am so slighted in society that I look with envy upon homely or mis-shapen men. But who will have me? I put it to you, my friend, if | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042175 | it isn't a hard case. I want an intelligent and agreeable wife, and one that comes of a respectable family. I don't think I am asking too much, but it seems fate has determined such a one I can never have! I have either to remain single, or take one that is "ignorant and vulgar." That, of course, would be | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042176 | as much remarked upon as my appearance, so it cannot be thought of. I want to escape observation and criticism. I think strongly of emigrating to the Rocky Mountains, donning a rough garb, and digging for gold, in the hope of getting round-shouldered; or hiring myself out as a wood-chopper, in anticipation of a chip flying up and taking off | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042177 | part of my obnoxious nose. If there were no women around, I might escape notice out there. But if one happened to come along, I should be obliged to leave, for her eyes would ferret out my unfortunate peculiarities, and all my wounds would be opened afresh. Sometimes I think there is no spot on the globe where I would | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042178 | be welcomed; and I feel inclined to commit some desperate deed, that I may be arrested and confined out of the sight of man and woman-kind, until I am aged and bent enough to be presentable. * * * * * OUR PORTFOLIO. Passing down Chatham street the other day, PUNCHINELLO stopped in front of a window where hung a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042179 | highly-colored engraving of an Austrian sovereign engaged in the Easter ceremony of washing the feet of twelve old men and women. An Irishman at our side, who had been puzzling some time to comprehend the problem thus submitted to him, finally broke out: "An' may I ax ye, misther, to be koind enough to exshplain phat in the wurruld that | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042180 | owld roosther's doin'?" pointing to the figure of the kneeling monarch. "He is washing the feet of the ladies and gentlemen," mildly put in PUNCHINELLO. "Bedad," says PAT, "don't I see that for meself; but phatis he doin' it for?" "It is a ceremony of the Catholic Church," PUNCHINELLO explained, "typical of the washing of the feet of the Twelve | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042181 | Apostles." PAT eyed PUNCHINELLO askance with an expression which plainly enough said that he did not believe we had been reared to tell the truth strictly upon all occasions, and then added: "Bad cess to your manners, then, don't I know betther nor that; for haven't I been in the church these forty years, and sorrow a sowl ever washed | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042182 | _me_ feet!" * * * * * [Illustration: THE SITUATION IN EUROPE. INTO "BIZ" LOUIS NAP HE IS GOING, TO PAY OFF THE DEBTS THAT HE'S OWING; DETERMINED THAT HE WILL MAKE _his_ MARK, BY TAKING THE CHANGE OUT OF BISMARCK.] * * * * * FROM AN ANXIOUS MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTER. [Who is at a Watering Place.] NEW | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042183 | YORK, July , . MY DEAR DAUGHTER: How are you getting on, dear? Well, I hope, for you know I _do_ want to get you off, desperately. Thirty-seven, and still on my hands! Mr. GUSHER, of the Four-hundred-and-thirty-ninth Avenue, goes down next Saturday. He will hunt you up. Mr. GUSHER is a nice man--so sympathetic and kind; and has such | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042184 | a lovely moustache. Besides, my dear SOPHY, he has oceans of stamps. Quite true, my child, he hasn't much of anything else, but girls at thirty-seven must not have too sharp eyes, nor see too much. Do, dear, try and fix him if you can. Put all your little artifices into effect. Walk, if possible, by moonlight, and alone; that | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042185 | is, with him. Talk, as you know you can, of the sweets of love and the delights of home. Dwell on the felicities of love in a cottage, and if he doesn't see it, dilate on the article in a brown-stone front, with marble steps. Picture to him in the most glowing terms the joys of the fireside, with fond | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042186 | you by his side. If he hints that a fireside in July is slightly tepid, thoughtfully suggest that it is merely a figure of speech, and introduce an episode of cream to cool it. Quote vehemently from TENNYSON, and LONGFELLOW, and Mrs. BROWNING. Bring the artillery of your eyes to bear squarely on the mark. Remember that thirty-seven years and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042187 | an anxious mother are steadily looking down upon you. Cut SMIRCH. SMIRCH is a worthless fellow. Would you believe it? his father makes boot-pegs for a living. The house of WIGGINS cannot consort with the son of one who pegs along in life in this manner! Never. Banish SMIRCH. Don't let SMIRCH even look at your footprints on the beach. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042188 | Then there is Mr. BLUSTER. What is he? Who? Impertinent puppy! Pretended to own a corner-house on the Twenty-fifth Avenue, and wanted to know how _I_ should like it? Like it? I should like to see him in Sing-Sing! _He_ own a house?--a brass foundry more like, and that in his face! Keep a sharp eye on BLUSTER and his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042189 | blarney. He's what our neighbor GINGER calls a "beat," whatever that is--a squash, no doubt. Don't spare any pains, my dear, for a market. I was only twenty-six when I married the late lamented Mr. WIGGINS. And a dear good man he was--only I wish he had paid his bills at the corner groceries. How he _did_ love, my dear--that | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042190 | favorite demijohn in the corner! And then when he came home at night with such a smile--he'd been taking them all day. Don't fail to catch somebody. GUSHER, depend, is the man. Money is everything. Never mind what he hasn't got just under the hat. It is the pocket you must aim at. What is life and society--what New York--without | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042191 | money? Say you love him to distraction. Declare your existence is bound up in his. (Greenback binding.) Throw yourself at his feet at the opportune moment, and victory must be yours. Impale him at all hazards. Remember you are thirty-seven and well on in life. Your own loving MARIA ANASTASIA WIGGINS. * * * * * THE PUMP. An Old | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042192 | Story with a Modern Application. Like rifts of sunshine, her tresses Waved over her shoulders bare, And she flitted as light o'er the meadows, As an angel in the air. "O maid of the country, rest thee This village pump beside, And here thou shalt fill thy pitcher, Like REBECCA, the well beside!" But a voice from yonder window Through | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042193 | my shuddering senses ran, And these were its words: "MARIA-R! MA-RIA-R! don't-mind-that-man!" * * * * * [Illustration: LUCIFERS LITTLE GAME WITH HIS ROYAL PUPPETS.] * * * * * HIRAM GREEN'S EXPERIENCE AS AN EDITOR. Lively Times in the Editorial Sanctum.--The "Lait Gustise" handled Roughly. "Whooray! Whooray!" I exclaimed, rushin' into the kitchen door, one mornin' last spring, and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042194 | addressin' Mrs. GREEN. "I've been invited to edit the _Skeensboro Fish Horn_. Fame, madam, awaits your talented pardner." "Talented Lunkhead, you mean," said this interestin' femail; "you'd look sweet editin' a noose paper. So would H. WARD BEECHER dancin' 'shoo-fly' along with DAN BRYANT. Don't make a fool of yourself if you know anything, HIRAM, and respect your family." The | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042195 | above conversation was the prelude to my first and last experience in editin' a country paper. The editor of the "Fish Horn" went on a pleasure trip, to plant a rich ant who had died and left him some cash. Durin' his absence I run his paper for him. Seatin' my form on top of the nail keg, with shears | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042196 | and paste brush I prepared to show this ere community how to run a noosepaper. I writ the follerin' little squibs and put 'em in my first issue. "If a sertin lite complexion man wouldn't run his hands down into sugar barrels so often, when visitin' grosery stores, it would be money in the pocket of the Skeensboro merchants"-- "Query. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042197 | Wonder how a farmer in this town, whose name we will not rite, likes burnin' wood from his nabor's wood-pile?"-- "We would advise a sertin toothles old made to leave off paintin' her cheeks, and stop slanderin' her nabors. If she does so, she will be a more interestin' femail to have around."-- "Stop Thief.--If that Deekin, who trades at | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042198 | one of our grocery stores, and helps himself to ten cents worth of tobacker while buyin' one cents worth of pipes, will devide up his custom, it would be doing the square thing by the man who has kept him in tobacker for several years." These articles was like the bustin' of a lot of bombshells in this usually quiet | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000042199 | boro. The Deekins called a church meetin', and played a game of old sledge, to see who would call and demand satisfaction for the insult. As they all smoked, they couldn't tell who was hit, as their tobacker bill was small all around. Deekin PERKINS got beat when they come to "saw off." Said this pious man: "If old GREEN | 60 | gutenberg |
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