Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 14, July 2, 1870 by Various
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Various >> Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 14, July 2, 1870
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and PG Distributed Proofreaders
[Illustration: Vol. I. No. 14.]
PUNCHINELLO
SATURDAY, JULY 2, 1870.
PUBLISHED BY THE
PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY.
83 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD,
By ORPHEUS C. KERR,
Continued in this Number.
[Sidenote: See 15th Page for Extra Premiums.]
* * * * *
NOW READY.
The July Number of
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* * * * *
ERIE RAILWAY.
TRAINS LEAVE DEPOTS
Foot of Chambers Street
and
Foot of Twenty-Third Street,
AS FOLLOWS:
Through Express Trains leave Chambers Street at 8 A.M., 10 A.M.,
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and the 7:00 P.M. train from New York to Rochester, Buffalo and Cincinnati.
An Emigrant train leaves daily at 7:30 P.M.
FOR PORT JERVIS AND WAY, *11:30 A.M., and 4:30 P.M., (Twenty-third Street,
*11:15 A.M. and 4:15 P.M.)
FOR MIDDLETOWN AND WAY, at 3:30 P.M.,(Twenty-third Street, 3:15 P.M.); and,
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7:45 A.M., 3:15 and 4:15 P.M.)
FOR SUFFERN AND WAY, 5:00 P.M. and 6:00 P.M. (Twenty-third Street, 4:45 and
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FOR PATERSON AND WAY, from Twenty-third Street Depot, at 6:45, 10:15 and
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205 Chambers Street.
Cor. 125th Street & Third Ave., Harlem.
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Depots, foot of Chambers Street and foot
of Twenty-third Street, New York.
3 Exchange Place.
Long Dock Depot, Jersey City,
And of the Agents at the principal Hotels
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May 2D, 1870.
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and at
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C. H. KING, M. D. _Asst-Med. Ex._
Each Agent in direct communication with the New York Office.
* * * * *
DICKENS
The homage of our world to thee,
O Matchless Scribe! when thou wert here,
Was all that's loving in a Laugh,
And all that's tender in a Tear.
So, if with quiv'ring lip we name
The fellow Mortal who Departs,
A Smile shall call him back again,
To live Immortal In our Hearts.
O. C. K.
* * * * *
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.
AN ADAPTATION.
BY ORPHEUS C. KERR,
CHAPTER VII.
MORE CONFIDENCES THAN ONE.
"You and your sister have been insured, of course," said the Gospeler to
MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON, as they returned from escorting Mr. SCHENCK.
"Of course," echoed MONTGOMERY, with a suppressed moan. "He is our
guardian, and has trampled us into a couple of policies. We had to
yield, or excess of Boreal conversation would have made us maniacs."
"You speak bitterly for one so young," observed the Reverend OCTAVIUS
SIMPSON. "Is it derangement of the stomach, or have you known sorrow?"
"Heaps of sorrow," answered the young man. "You may be aware, sir, that
my sister and I belong to a fine old heavily mortgaged Southern
family--the PENRUTHERSES and MUNCHAUSENS of Chipmunk Court House,
Virginia, are our relatives--and that SHERMAN marched through us during
the late southward projection of certain of your Northern military
scorpions. After our father's felo-desease, ensuing remotely from an
overstrain in attempting to lift a large mortgage, our mother gave us a
step-father of Northern birth, who tried to amend our constitutions and
reconstruct us."
"Dreadful!" murmured the Gospeler.
"We hated him! MAGNOLIA threw her scissors at him several times. My
sister, sir, does not know what fear is. She would fight a lion;
inheriting the spirit from our father, who, I have heard said,
frequently fought a tiger. She can fire a gun and pick off a State
Senator as well as any man in all the South. Our mother died. A few
mornings thereafter our step-father was found dead in his bed, and the
doctors said he died of a pair of scissors which he must have swallowed
accidentally in his youth, and which were found, after his death, to
have worked themselves several inches out of his side, near the heart."
"Swallowed a pair of scissors!" exclaimed the Reverend OCTAVIUS.
"He might have had a stitch in his side at the time, you know, and
wanted to cut it," explained MONTGOMERY. "At any rate, after that we
became wards of Mr. SCHENCK, up North here. And now let me ask you, sir,
is this Mr. EDWIN DROOD a student with you?"
"No. He is visiting his uncle, Mr. BUMSTEAD," answered the Gospeler, who
could not free his mind from the horrible thought that his young
companion's fearless sister might have been in some way acscissory to
the sudden cutting off of her step-father's career.
"Is Miss FLORA POTTS his sister?"
Mr. SIMPSON told the story of the betrothal of the young couple by their
respective departed parents.
"Oh, _that's_ the game, eh?" said MONTGOMERY. "I understand now his
whispering to me that he wished he was dead." In a moment afterwards
they re-entered the house in Gospeler's Gulch.
The air was slightly laden with the odor of cloves as they went into the
parlor, and Mr. BUMSTEAD was at the piano, accompanying the Flowerpot
while she sang. Executing without notes, and with his stony gaze fixed
intently between the nose and chin of the singer, Mr. BUMSTEAD had a
certain mesmeric appearance of controlling the words coming out of the
rosy mouth. Standing beside Miss POTTS was MAGNOLIA PENDRAGON, seemingly
fascinated, as it were, by the BUMSTEAD method of playing, in which the
performer's fingers performed almost as frequently upon the woodwork of
the instrument as upon the keys. Mr. PENDRAGON surveyed the group with
an arm resting on the mantel; Mr. SIMPSON took a chair by his maternal
nut-cracker, and Mr. DROOD stealthily practiced with his ball on a chair
behind the sofa.
The Flowerpot was singing a neat thing by LONGFELLOW about the Evening
Star, and seemed to experience the most remarkable psychological effects
from Mr. BUMSTEAD'S wooden variations and extraordinary stare at the
lower part of her countenance. Thus, she twitched her plump shoulders
strangely, and sang--
"Just a-bove yon sandy bar,
As the day grows faint--(te-hee-he-he!)
Lonely and lovely a single--(now do-o-n't!)
Lights the air with"--(sto-o-op! It tickles--)
Convulsively giggling and exclaiming, alternately, Miss POTTS abruptly
ended her beautiful bronchial noise with violent distortion of
countenance, as though there were a spider in her mouth, and sank upon a
chair in a condition almost hysterical.
"Your playing has made SISSY nervous, JACK," said EDWIN DROOD, hastily
concealing his ball and coming forward. "I noticed, myself, that you
played more than half the notes in the air, or on the music-rack,
without touching the keys at all."
"That is because I am not accustomed to playing upon two pianos at
once," answered BUMSTEAD, who, at that very moment, was industriously
playing the rest of the air some inches from the nearest key.
"He couldn't make _me_ nervous!" exclaimed Miss PENDRAGON, decidedly.
They bore the excited Flowerpot, (who still tittered a little, and was
nervously feeling her throat,) to the window, for air; and when they
came back Mr. BUMSTEAD was gone. "There, Sissy," said EDWIN DROOD,
"you've driven him away; and I'm half afraid he feels unpleasantly
confused about it; for he's got out of the rear door of the house by
mistake, and I can hear him trying to find his way home in the
back-yard."
The two young men escorted Miss CAROWTHERS and the two young ladies to
the door of the Alms-House, and there bade them good-night; but, at a
yet later hour, FLORA POTTS and the new pupil still conversed in the
chamber which they were to occupy conjointly.
After discussing the fashions with great excitement; asking each other
just exactly what each gave for every article she wore; and successively
practicing male-discouraging, male-encouraging, and chronically-in-different
expressions of face in the mirror (as all good young ladies always do
preparatory to their evening prayers,) the lovely twain made solemn
nightcap-oath of eternal friendship to each other, and then, of course,
began picking the men to pieces.
"Who is this Mr. BUMSTEAD?" asked MAGNOLIA, who was now looking much
like a ghost.
"He's that absurd EDDY'S ridiculous uncle, and my music-teacher,"
answered the Flowerpot, also presenting an emaciated appearance.
"You do not love him?" queried MAGNOLIA.
"Now go 'wa-a-ay! How perfectly disgusting!" protested FLORA.
"You know that he loves you!"
"Do-o-n't!" pleaded Miss POTTS, nervously. "You'll make me fidgetty
again, just thinking of to-night. It was too perfectly absurd."
"What was?"
"Why, _he_ was,--Mr. BUMSTEAD. It gave me the funniest feeling! It was
as though some one was trying to see through you, you know."
"My child!" exclaimed Miss PENDRAGON, dropping her cheek-distenders upon
the bureau, "you speak strangely. Has that man gained any power over
you?"
"No, dear," returned FLORA, wiping off a part of her left eyebrow with
cold cream. "But didn't you see? He was looking right down my throat all
the time I was singing, until it actually tickled me!"
"Does he always do so?"
"Oh, I don't know what he always does!" whimpered the nervous Flowerpot.
"Oh, he's such an utterly ridiculous creature! Sometimes when we're in
company together, and I smell cloves, and look at him, I think that I
see the lid of his right eye drop over the ball and tremble at me in the
strangest manner. And sometimes his eyes seem fixed motionless in his
head, as they did to-night, and he'll appear to wander off into a kind
of dream, and feel about in the air with his right arm as though he
wanted to hug somebody. Oh! my throat begins to tickle again! Oh, stay
with me, and be my absurdly ridiculous friend!"
The dark-featured Southern linen spectre leaned soothingly above the
other linen spectre, with a bottle of camphor in her hand, near the
bureau upon which the back-hair of both was piled; and in the flash of
her black eyes, and the defiant flirt of the kid-gloves dipped in
glycerine which she was drawing on her hands, lurked death by lightning
and other harsh usage for whomsoever of the male sex should ever be
caught looking down in the mouth again.
CHAPTER VIII.
A DAGGERY TYPE OF FORTALKRAPHY.
The two young gentlemen, having seen their blooming charges safely
within the door of the Alms-House, and vainly endeavored to look through
the keyhole at them going up-stairs, scuffle away together with that
sensation of blended imbecility and irascibility which is equally
characteristic of callow youth and inexperienced Thomas Cats when
retiring together from the society of female friends who seem to be
still on the fence as regards their ultimate preferences.
"Do you bore your friends here long, Mr. DROOD?" inquired MONTGOMERY; as
who should say: Maouiw-ow-ooo-sp't! sp't!
"Not this time, Secesh," is the answer; as though it were observed,
ooo-ooo-sp't! "I leave for New York again to-morrow; but shall be off
and on again in Bumsteadville until midsummer, when I go to Egypt,
Illinois, to be an engineer on a railroad. The stamps left me by my
father are all in the stock of that road, and the Mr. BUMSTEAD whom you
saw to-night is my uncle and guardian."
"Mr. SIMPSON informs me that you are destined to assume the expenses of
Miss POTTS, when you're old enough," remarks MONTGOMERY, his eyes
shining quite greenly in the moonlight.
"Well, perhaps you'd like to make something out of it," says EDWIN,
whose orbs have assumed a yellowish glitter. "Perhaps you Southern
Confederacies didn't get quite enough of it at Gettysburgh and Five
Forks."
"We had the exquisite pleasure of killing a few thousand Yankee
free-lovers," intimates MONTGOMERY, with a hollow laugh.
"Ah, yes, I remember--at Andersonville," suggests EDWIN DROOD, beginning
to roll back his sleeves.
"This is your magnanimity to the conquered, is it!" exclaims MONTGOMERY,
scornfully. "I don't pretend to have your advantages, Mr. DROOD, and
I've scarcely had any more education than an American Humorist; but
where I come from, if a carpet-bagger should talk as you do, the cost of
his funeral would be but a trifle."
"I can prepare you, at shortest notice, for something very neat and
tasteful in the silver-trimmed rosewood line, with plated handles,
dark-complexioned Ku-klux," returns Mr. DROOD, preparing to pull off his
coat.
"Who would have believed," soliloquizes MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON, "that even
a scalawag Northern spoon-thief, like our scurrilous contemporary, would
get so mad at being reminded that he must be married some day!"
"Whoever says that I'm mad," is the answer, "lies deliberately wilfully,
wickedly, with naked intent to defame and malign."
But here a heavy hand suddenly smites EDWIN in the back, almost snapping
his head off, and there stands spectrally between them Mr. BUMSTEAD, who
has but recently found his way out of the back-yard in Gospeler's Gulch,
by removing at least two yards of picket fence from the wrong place, and
wears upon his head a gingham sun-bonnet, which, in his hurried
departure through the hall of the Gospeler's house, he has mistaken for
his own hat. Sustaining himself against the fierce evening breeze by
holding firmly to both shoulders of his nephew, this striking apparition
regards the two young men with as much austerity as is consistent with
the flapping of the cape of his sun-bonnet.
"Gentlelemons," he says, with painful syllabic distinctness, "can I
believe my ears? Are you already making journalists of yourselves?"
They hang their heads in shame under the merciless but just accusation.
"Here you are," continues BUMSTEAD, "a quartette of young fellows who
should all be friends. NEDS, NEDS! I am ashamed of you! MONTGOMERIES,
you should not let your angry passions rise; for your little hands were
never made to bark and bite." After this, Mr. BUMSTEAD seems lost for a
moment, and reclines upon his nephew, with his eyes closed in
meditation. "But let's all five of us go up to my room," he finally
adds, "and restore friendship with lemon tea. It is time for the North
and South to be reconciled over something hot. Come."
Leaning upon both of them now, and pushing them into a walk, he
exquisitely turns the refrain of the rejected National Hymn--
"'Twas by a mistake that we lost Bull Bun,
When we all skedaddled to Washington,
And we'll all drink atone blind,
Johnny fill up the bowl?"
Thus he artfully employs music to soothe their sectional animosities,
and only skips into the air once as they walk, with a "Whoop! That was
something _like_ a snake!"
Arriving in his room, the door of which he has had some trouble in
opening, on account of the knob having wandered in his absence to the
wrong side, Mr. BUMSTEAD indicates a bottle of lemon tea, with some
glasses, on the table, accidentally places the lamp so that it shines
directly upon EDWIN'S triangular sketch of FLORA over the mantel, and,
taking his umbrella under his arm, smiles horribly at his young guests
from out his sun-bonnet.
"Do you recognize that picture, PENDRAGONS?" he asks, after the two have
drunk fierily at each other. "Do you notice its stereoscopic effect of
being double?"
"Ah," says MONTGOMERY, critically, "a good deal in the style of
HENNESSY, or WINSLOW HOMER, I should say. Something in the school-slate
method."
"It's by EDWINS, there!" explains Mr. BUMSTEAD, triumphantly. "Just look
at him as he sits there both together, with all his happiness cut out
for him, and his dislike of Southerners his only fault."
"If I could only draw Miss PENDRAGON, now," says EDWIN DROOD, rather
flattered, "I might do better. A good sharp nose and Southern complexion
help wonderfully in the expression of a picture."
"Perhaps my sister would prefer to choose her own artist," remarks
MONTGOMERY, to whom Mr. BUMSTEAD has just poured out some more lemon
tea.
"Say a Southern one, for instance, who might use some of the flying
colors that were always warranted to run when our boys got after yours
in the late war," responds EDWIN, to whom his attentive uncle has also
poured out some more lemon tea for his cold.
"For instance--at Fredericksburgh," observes MONTGOMERY.
"I was thinking of Fort Donelson," returns EDWIN.
The conservative BUMSTEAD strives anxiously to allay the irritation of
his young guests by prodding first one and then the other with his
umbrella; and, in an attempt to hold both of them and the picture behind
him in one commanding glance under his sun-bonnet, presents a phase of
strabismus seldom attained by human eyes.
"If I only had you down where I come from, Mr. DROOD," cries MONTGOMERY,
tickled into ungovernable wrath by the ferule of the umbrella, I'd tar
and feather you like a Yankee teacher, and then burn you like a
freedman's church."
"Oh!--if you only had me _there_, you'd do so," cries EDWIN DROOD,
springing to his feet as the umbrella tortures his ribs. "_If_, eh?
Pooh, pooh, my young fellow, I perceive that you are a mere Cincinnati
Editor."
The degrading epithet goads PENDRAGON to fury, and, after throwing his
remaining lemon tea about equally upon EDWIN and the sun-bonnet, he
extracts the sugar from the bottom of the glass with his fingers, and
uses the goblet to ward off a last approach of the umbrella.
"EDWINS! MONTGOMERIES!" exclaims Mr. BUMSTEAD, opening the umbrella
between them so suddenly that each is grazed on the nose by a whalebone
rib, "I command you to end this Congressional debate at once. I never
saw four such young men before! MONTGOMERIES, put up your penknife
thizinstant!"
Pushing aside the barrier of alpaca and whalebone from under his chin,
MONTGOMERY dashes wildly from the house, tears madly back to Gospeler's
Gulch, and astounds the Gospeler by his appearance.
"Oh, Mr. SIMPSON," he cries, as he is conducted to the door of his own
room, "I believe that I, too, inherit some tigerish qualities from that
tiger my father is said to have fought so often. I've had a political
discussion with Mr. DROOD in Mr. BUMSTEAD'S apartments, and, if I'd
stayed there a moment longer, I reckon I should have murdered somebody
in a moment of Emotional Insanity."
The Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON makes him unclose his clenched fist, in
which there appears to be one or two cloves, and then says: "I am
shocked to hear this, Mr. PENDRAGON. As you have no political influence,
and have never shot a _Tribune_ man, neither New York law nor society
would allow you to commit murder with impunity. I regret, too, to see
that you have been drinking, and would advise you to try a chapter from
one of Professor DE MILLE'S novels, as a mild emetic, before retiring.
After that, two or three sentences from one of Mr. RICHARD GRANT WHITE'S
essays--will ensure sleep to you for the remainder of the night."
Returning the unspeakably thankful pressure of the grateful young man's
hand, the Gospeler goes thoughtfully down stairs, where he is just in
time to answer the excited ring of Mr. BUMSTEAD.
"Dear me, Mr. BUMSTEAD!" is his first exclamation, "what's that you've
got on your head?"
"Perspiration, sir," cries BUMSTEAD, who, in his agitation, is still
ringing the bell. "We've nearly had a murder to-night, and I've come
around to offer you my umbrella for your own protection."
