Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 11, June 11, 1870 by Various
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Various >> Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 11, June 11, 1870
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[Illustration: Vol. I No. 11.]
PUNCHINELLO
SATURDAY, JUNE 11, 1870.
PUBLISHED BY THE
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY,
83 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD,
By ORPHEUS C. KERR,
In this Number and will be continued Weekly
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* * * * *
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.
AN ADAPTATION.
BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.
[The American Press's Young Gentlemen, when taking their shady literary
walks among the Columns of Interesting Matter, have been known to
remark--with a glibness and grace, by Jove, greatly in excess of their
salaries--that the reason why we don't produce great works of
imagination in this country, as they do in other countries, is because
we haven't the genius, you know. They think--do they?--that the
bran-new localities, post-office addresses, and official titles,
characteristic of the United States of America, are rife with all the
grand old traditional suggestions so useful in helping along the
romantic interest of fiction. They think--do they?--that if an American
writer could write a Novel in the exact style of COLLINS, or TROLLOPE,
or DICKENS: only laying its scenes and having its characters in this
country; the work would be as romantically effective as one by COLLINS,
or TROLLOPE, or DICKENS; and that the possibly necessary incidental
mention of such native places as Schermerhorn Street, Dobb's Ferry, or
Chicago, _wouldn't_ disturb the nicest dramatic illusion of the
imaginative tale. Very well, then! All right! Just look here!--O A.P's
Young Gentlemen, just look here--]
CHAPTER I.
DAWNATION.
A modern American Ritualistic Spire! How can the modern American
Ritualistic Spire be here! The well-known tapering brown Spire, like a
closed umbrella on end? How can that be here? There is no rusty rim of a
shocking bad hat between the eye and that Spire in the real prospect.
What is the rusty rim that now intervenes, and confuses the vision of at
least one eye? It must be an intoxicated hat that wants to see, too. It
is so, for ritualistic choirs strike up, acolytes swing censers
dispensing the heavy odor of punch, and the ritualistic rector and his
gaudily robed assistants in alb, chasuble, maniple and tunicle, intone a
_Nux Vomica_ in gorgeous procession. Then come twenty young clergymen in
stoles and birettas, running after twenty marriageable young ladies of
the congregation who have sent them worked slippers. Then follow ten
thousand black monkies swarming all over everybody and up and down
everything, chattering like fiends. Still the Ritualistic Spire keeps
turning up in impossible places, and still the intervening rusty rim of
a hat inexplicably clouds one eye. There dawns a sensation as of
writhing grim figures of snakes in one's boots, and the intervening
rusty rim of the hat that was not in the original prospect takes a
snake-like--But stay! Is this the rim of my own hat tumbled all awry? I'
mushbe! A few reflective moments, not unrelieved by hiccups, mush be
d'voted to co'shider-ERATION of th' posh'bil'ty.
Nodding excessively to himself with unspeakable gravity, the gentleman
whose diluted mind has thus played the Dickens with him, slowly arises
to an upright position by a series of complicated manoeuvres with both
hands and feet; and, having carefully balanced himself on one leg, and
shaking his aggressive old hat still farther down over his left eye,
proceeds to take a cloudy view of his surroundings. He is in a room
going on one side to a bar, and on the other side to a pair of glass
doors and a window, through the broken panes of which various musty
cloth substitutes for glass ejaculate toward the outer Mulberry Street.
Tilted back in chairs against the wall, in various attitudes of
dislocation of the spine and compound fracture of the neck, are an
Alderman of the ward, an Assistant-Assessor, and the lady who keeps the
hotel. The first two are shapeless with a slumber defying every law of
comfortable anatomy; the last is dreamily attempting to light a stumpy
pipe with the wrong end of a match, and shedding tears, in the dim
morning ghastliness, at her repeated failures.
"Thry another," says this woman, rather thickly, to the gentleman
balanced on one leg, who is gazing at her and winking very much. "Have
another, wid some bitters."
He straightens himself extremely, to an imminent peril of falling over
backward, sways slightly to and fro, and becomes as severe in expression
of countenance as his one uncovered eye will allow.
The woman falls back in her chair again asleep, and he, walking with one
shoulder depressed, and a species of sidewise, running gait, approaches
and poises himself over her.
"What vision can _she_ have?" the man muses, with his hat now fully upon
the bridge of his nose. He smiles unexpectedly; as suddenly frowns with
great intensity; and involuntarily walks backward against the sleeping
Alderman. Him he abstractedly sits down upon, and then listens intently
for any casual remark he may make. But one word comes--
"Wairzernat'chal'zationc'tif'kits."
"Unintelligent!" mutters the man, weariedly; and, rising dejectedly from
the Alderman, lurches, with a crash, upon the Assistant-Assessor. Him he
shakes fiercely for being so bony to fall on, and then hearkens for a
suitable apology.
"Warzwaz-yourwifesincome-lash'--lash'-year?"
A thoughtful pause, partaking of a doze.
"Unintelligent!"
Complicatedly arising from the Assessor, with his hat now almost hanging
by an ear, the gentleman, after various futile but ingenious efforts to
face towards the door by turning his head alone that way, finally
succeeds by walking in a circle until the door is before him. Then, with
his whole countenance charged with almost scowling intensity of purpose,
though finding it difficult to keep his eyes very far open, he balances
himself with the utmost care, throws his shoulders back, steps out
daringly, and goes off at an acute slant toward the Alderman again.
Recovering himself by a tremendous effort of will and a few wild
backward movements, he steps out jauntily once more, and can not stop
himself until he has gone twice around a chair on his extreme left and
reached almost exactly the point from which he started the first time.
He pauses, panting, but with the scowl of determination still more
intense, and concentrated chiefly in his right eye. Very cautiously
extending his dexter hand, that he may not destroy the nicety of his
perpendicular balance, he points with a finger at the knob of the door,
and suffers his stronger eye to fasten firmly upon the same object. A
moment's balancing, to make sure, and then, in three irresistible,
rushing strides, he goes through the glass doors with a burst, without
stopping to turn the latch, strikes an ash-box on the edge of the
sidewalk, rebounds to a lamp-post, and then, with the irresistible rush
still on him, describes a hasty wavy line, marked by irregular
heel-strokes, up the street.
That same afternoon, the modern American Ritualistic Spire rises in
duplicate illusion before the multiplying vision of a traveller recently
off the ferry-boat, who, as though not satisfied with the length of his
journey, makes frequent and unexpected trials of its width. The bells
are ringing for vesper service; and, having fairly made the right door
at last, after repeatedly shooting past and falling short of it, he
reaches his place in the choir and performs voluntaries and
involuntaries upon the organ, in a manner not distinguishable from
almost any fashionable church-music of the period.
CHAPTER II.
A DEAN, AND A CHAP OR TWO ALSO.
Whosoever has noticed a party of those sedate and Germanesquely
philosophical animals, the pigs, scrambling precipitately under a gate
from out a cabbage-patch toward nightfall, may, perhaps, have observed,
that, immediately upon emerging from the sacred vegetable preserve, a
couple of the more elderly and designing of them assumed a sudden air of
abstracted musing, and reduced their progress to a most dignified and
leisurely walk, as though to convince the human beholder that their
recent proximity to the cabbages had been but the trivial accident of a
meditative stroll.
Similarly, service in the church being over, and divers persons of
piggish solemnity of aspect dispersing, two of the latter detach
themselves from the rest and try an easy lounge around toward a side
door of the building, as though willing to be taken by the outer world
for a couple of unimpeachable low-church gentlemen who merely happened
to be in that neighborhood at that hour for an airing.
The day and year are waning, and the setting sun casts a ruddy but not
warming light upon two figures under the arch of the side door; while
one of these figures locks the door, the other, who seems to have a
music book under his arm, comes out, with a strange, screwy motion, as
though through an opening much too narrow for him, and, having poised a
moment to nervously pull some imaginary object from his right boot and
hurl it madly from him, goes unexpectedly off with the precipitancy and
equilibriously concentric manner of a gentleman in his first private
essay on a tight-rope.
"Was that Mr. BUMSTEAD, SMYTHE?"
"It wasn't anybody else, your Reverence."
"Say 'his identity with the person mentioned scarcely comes within the
legitimate domain of doubt,' SMYTHE--to Father Dean, the younger of the
piggish persons softly interposes,
"Is Mr. BUMSTEAD unwell, SMYTHE?"
"He's got 'em bad to-night."
"Say 'incipient cerebral effusion marks him especially for its prey at
this vesper hour.' SMYTHE--to Father DEAN," again softly interposes Mr.
SIMPSON, the Gospeler.
"Mr. SIMPSON," pursues Father DEAN, whose name has been modified, by
various theological stages, from its original form of Paudean, to Pere
DEAN--Father DEAN, "I regret to hear that Mr. BUMSTEAD is so delicate in
health; you may stop at his boarding-house on your way home, and ask him
how he is, with my compliments." _Pax vobiscum_.
Shining so with a sense of his own benignity that the retiring sun gives
up all rivalry at once and instantly sets in despair, Father DEAN
departs to his dinner, and Mr. SIMPSON, the Gospeler, betakes himself
cheerily to the second-floor-back where Mr. BUMSTEAD lives. Mr. BUMSTEAD
is a shady-looking man of about six and twenty, with black hair and
whiskers of the window-brush school, and a face reminding you of the
BOURBONS. As, although lighting his lamp, he has, abstractedly, almost
covered it with his hat, his room is but imperfectly illuminated, and
you can just detect the accordeon on the window-sill, and, above the
mantel, an unfinished sketch of a school-girl. (There is no artistic
merit in this picture; in which, indeed, a simple triangle on end
represents the waist, another and slightly larger triangle the skirts,
and straight-lines with rake-like terminations the arms and hands.)
"Called to ask how you are, and offer Father DEAN'S compliments," says
the Gospeler.
"I'm allright, shir!" says Mr. BUMSTEAD, rising from the rug where he
has been temporarily reposing, and dropping his umbrella. He speaks
almost with ferocity.
"You are awaiting your nephew, EDWIN DROOD?"
"Yeshir." As he answers, Mr. BUMSTEAD leans languidly far across the
table, and seems vaguely amazed at the aspect of the lamp with his hat
upon it.
Mr. SIMPSON retires softly, stops to greet some one at the foot of the
stairs, and, in another moment, a young man fourteen years old enters
the room with his carpet-bag.
"My dear boys! My dear EDWINS!"
Thus speaking, Mr. BUMSTEAD sidles eagerly at the new comer, with open
arms, and, in falling upon his neck, does so too heavily, and bears him
with a crash to the ground.
"Oh, see here! this is played out, you know," ejaculates the nephew,
almost suffocated with travelling-shawl and BUMSTEAD.
Mr. BUMSTEAD rises from him slowly and with dignity.
"Excuse me, dear EDWIN, I thought there were two of you."
EDWIN DROOD regains his feet with alacrity and casts aside his shawl.
"Whatever you thought, uncle, I am still a single man, although your way
of coming down on a chap was enough to make me beside myself. Any grub,
JACK?"
With a check upon his enthusiasm and a sudden gloom of expression
amounting almost to a squint, Mr. BUMSTEAD motions with his whole right
side toward an adjacent room in which a table is spread, and leads the
way thither in a half-circle.
"Ah, this is prime!" cries the young fellow, rubbing his hands; the
while he realizes that Mr. BUMSTEAD'S squint is an attempt to include
both himself and the picture over the mantel in the next room in one
incredibly complicated look.
Not much is said during dinner, as the strength of the boarding-house
butter requires all the nephew's energies for single combat with it, and
the uncle is so absorbed in a dreamy effort to make a salad with his
hash and all the contents of the castor, that he can attend to nothing
else. At length the cloth is drawn, EDWIN produces some peanuts from his
pocket and passes some to Mr. BUMSTEAD, and the latter, with a wet towel
pinned about his head, drinks a great deal of water.
"This is Sissy's birthday, you know, JACK," says the nephew, with a
squint through the door and around the corner of the adjoining apartment
toward the crude picture over the mantel, "and, if our respective
respected parents hadn't bound us by will to marry, I'd be mad after
her."
Crack. On EDWIN DROOD'S part.
Hic. On Mr. BUMSTEAD'S part.
"Nobody's dictated a marriage for you, JACK. _You_ can choose for
yourself. Life for _you_ is still fraught with freedom's intoxicating--"
Mr. BUMSTEAD has suddenly become very pale, and perspires heavily on the
forehead.
"Good Heavens, JACK! I haven't hurt your feelings?"
Mr. BUMSTEAD makes a feeble pass at him with the water-decanter, and
smiles in a very ghastly manner.
"Lem me be a mis'able warning to you, EDWIN," says Mr. BUMSTEAD,
shedding tears.
The scared face of the younger recalls him to himself, and he adds:
"Don't mind me, my dear boys. It's cloves; you may notice them on my
breath. I take them for nerv'shness." Here he rises in a series of
trembles to his feet, and balances, still very pale, on one leg.
"You want cheering up," says EDWIN DROOD, kindly.
"Yesh--cheering up. Let's go and walk in the graveyard," says Mr.
BUMSTEAD.
"By all means. You won't mind my slipping out for half a minute to the
Alms House to leave a few gum-drops for Sissy? Rather spoony, JACK."
Mr. BUMSTEAD almost loses his balance in an imprudent attempt to wink
archly, and says, "Norring-half-sh'-shweet-'n-life." He is very thick
with EDWIN DROOD, for he loves him.
"Well, let's skedaddle, then."
Mr. BUMSTEAD very carefully poises himself on both feet, puts on his hat
over the wet towel, gives a sudden horrified glance downward toward one
of his boots, and leaps frantically over an object.
"Why, that was only my cane," says EDWIN.
Mr. BUMSTEAD breathes hard, and leans heavily on his nephew as they go
out together.
(_To be Continued._)
* * * * *
~JUMBLES~
PUNCHINELLO has heard, of course, of the good time coming. It has not
come yet. It won't come till the stars sing together in the morning,
after going home, like festive young men, early. It won't come till
Chicago has got its growth in population, morals and ministers. It won't
come till the women are all angels, and men are all honest and wise; not
until politicians and retailers learn to tell the truth. You may think
the Millennium a long way off. Perhaps so. But mighty revolutions are
sometimes wrought in a mighty fast time. Many a fast man has been known
to turn over a new leaf in a single night, and forever afterwards be
slow. Such a thing is dreadful to contemplate, but it has been. Many a
vain woman has seen the folly of her ways at a glance, and at once gone
back on them. This is _not_ dreadful to contemplate, since to go back on
folly is to go onward in wisdom. The female sex is not often guilty of
this eccentricity, but instances have been known. It is that which fills
the proud bosom of man with hope and consolation, and makes him feel
really that woman is coming; which is all the more evident since she
began her "movement." The good time coming is nowhere definitely named
in the almanacs. The goings and comings of the heavenly bodies, from the
humble star to the huge planet, are calculated with the facility of the
cut of the newest fashion; and the revolutions of dynasties can be fixed
upon with tolerable certainty; but the period of the good time coming is
lost in the mists of doubt and the vapors of uncertainty. It is very
sure in expectancy, like the making of matrimonial matches. Everybody is
looking for it, but nobody sees it. The sharpest of eyes only discern
the bluest and gloomiest objects. But PUNCHINELLO may reasonably expect
to see, feel and know, this good time. The coming will yet be to it the
time come. Perhaps it will be when it visits two hundred thousand
readers weekly, when mothers sigh, children cry, and fathers well-nigh
die for it. At all events, somewhen or other--it may be the former
period, but possibly the latter--the good time _will_ come. And great
will be the coming thereof, with no discount to the biggest or richest
man out.
What a luxury is Hope! It springs eternal in the human breast. Rather an
awkward place for a spring, but as poets know more than other people, no
doubt it is all right. Hope is an institution. What is the White House,
or the Capitol at Washington, to Hope? What is the Central Park, or
Boston Common, or the Big Organ, to Hope? Not much--not anything, like
the man's religion, to speak of. Hope bears up many a man, though it
pays no bills to the grocer, milliner, tailor, or market man. It is the
vertebra which steadies him plumb up to a positive perpendicular. A
hopeless man or woman--how fearful! They very soon become
round-shouldered, limp and weak, and drink little but unsizable sighs,
and feed on all manner of dark and unhealthy things. It is TODD'S
deliberate opinion that if a cent can't be laid up, Hope should. Hope
with empty pockets is rich compared to wealth with "nary a" hope. Hope
is a good thing to have about the house. It always comes handy, and is
acceptable even to company. So believes, and he acts on the faith, does
